Chapter 11

The full sail made a sort of tent, and isolated us completely from our companions. Louise, with only a narrow canvas shaking in the wind between her and her chaperon, feeling no cause for uneasiness, was less reserved; a third party is often useful in the beginning of a love idyl. The most prudish woman in the world will grant slight favors when sure they cannot be abused.

Our boat glided through the water, leaving a fringe of silver in its wake. Louise had taken off her glove, and, leaning over the side, let the water flow in crystal cascades through her ivory fingers; her dress, which she gathered round her from the too free gambols of the wind, sculptured her beauty by a closer embrace. A few little wild flowers scattered their restless leaves over her bonnet, the straw of which, lit up by a bright sun-ray, shed around her a sort of halo. I sat at her feet, embracing her with my glance; bathing her in magnetic influences; surrounding her with an atmosphere of love! I called to my assistance all the powers of my mind and heart to make her love me and promise to be mine!

Softly I whispered to myself: "Come to my succor, secret forces of nature, spring, youth, delicate perfumes, bright rays! Let soft zephyrs play around her pure brow; flowers of love, intoxicate her with your searching odors; let the god of day mingle his golden beams with the purple of her veins; let all living, breathing things whisper in her ear that she is beautiful, only twenty, that I am young and that I love her!" Are poetical tirades and romantic declarations absolutely necessary to make a lovely woman rest her blushing brow upon a young man's shoulder?

My burning gaze fascinated her; she sat motionless under my glance. I felt my hope sparkle in my eyes; her eyelids slowly drooped; her arms sank at her side; her will succumbed to mine; aware of her growing weakness, she made a final effort, covered her eyes with her hand, and remained several minutes in that attitude in order to recover from the radiations of my will.

When she had, in a measure, recovered her self-possession, she turned her head towards the river-bank and called my attention to the charming effect of a cottage embosomed in trees, from which rickety steps, moss-grown and picturesquely studded with flowers, led down to the river. One of Isabey's delicious water-colors, dropped here without his signature. Louise--for art, no matter how humble, always expands the mind--has a taste for the beauties of nature, wanting in nearly her whole sex. A flower-stand filled with roses best pleases the majority of women, who cultivate a love of flowers in order to provoke anacreontic and obsolete comparisons from their antiquated admirers.

The banks of the Seine are truly enchanting. The graceful hills are studded with trees and waving corn-fields; here and there a rock peeps picturesquely forth; cottages and distant châteaux are betrayed by their glittering slate roofs; islets as wild as those of the South Sea rise on the bosom of the waters like verdure-clad rafts, and no Captain Cook has ever mentioned these Otaheites a half-day's journey from Paris.

Louise intelligently and feelingly admired the shading of the foliage, the water rippled by a slight breeze, the rapid flight of the kingfisher, the languid swaying to and fro of the water-lily, the little forget-me-nots opening their timid blue eyes to the morning sun, and all the thousand and one beauties dotted along the river's bank. I let her steep her soul in nature's loveliness, which could only teach her to love.

In about four hours we reached the Andelys, and after a light lunch of fresh eggs, cream, strawberries and cherries, we began the ascent to the fortress of the brave king Richard.

Alfred got along famously with Madame Taverneau, having completely dazzled her by an account of his high social acquaintance. During the voyage he had repeated more names than can be found in the Royal Almanac. The good post-mistress listened with respectful deference, delighted at finding herself in company with such a highly connected individual. Alfred, who is not accustomed, among us, to benevolent listeners, gave himself up to the delight of being able to talk without fear of interruption from jests and ironical puns. They had charmed each other.

The stronghold of Richard Coeur-de-Lion recalls, by its situation and architecture, the castles of the Rhine. The stone-work is so confounded with the rock that it is impossible to say where nature's work ends or man's work begins.

We climbed, Louise and I, in spite of the steep ascent, the loose stones, over the ramparts fallen to decay, the brushwood and all sorts of obstacles, to the foot of the mass of towers built one within another, which form the donjon-keep. Louise was obliged more than once, in scrambling up the rocks, to give me her hand and lean upon my shoulder. Even when the way was less rugged, she did not put aside her unconstrained and confiding manner; her timid and intense reserve began to soften a little.

Madame Taverneau, who is not a sylph, hung with all her weight to Alfred's arm, and what surprises me is that she did not pull it off.

We made our way through the under-brush, masses of rubbish and crumbling walls, to the platform of the massive keep, from whence we saw, besides the superb view, far away in the distance, Madame Taverneau's yellow shawl, shining through the foliage like a huge beetle.

At this height, so far above the world, intoxicated by the fresh air, her cheek dyed a deeper red, her hair loosened from its severe fastenings, Louise was dazzlingly and radiantly beautiful; her bonnet had fallen off and was only held by the ribbon strings; a handful of daisies escaped from her careless grasp.

"What a pity," said I, "that I have not a familiar spirit at my service! We should soon see the stones replaced, the towers rise from the grass where they have slept so long, and raise their heads in the sunlight; the drawbridge slide on its hinges, and men-at-arms in dazzling cuirasses pass and repass behind the battlements. You should sit beside me as my chatelaine, in the great hall, under a canopy emblazoned with armorial bearings, the centre of a brilliant retinue of ladies in waiting, archers and varlets. You should be the dove of this kite's nest!"

This fancy made her smile, and she replied: "Instead of amusing yourself in rebuilding the past, look at the magnificent scene stretched out before you."

In fact, the sky was gorgeous; the sun was sinking behind the horizon, in a hamlet of clouds, ruined and abandoned to the fury of the names of sunset; the darkened hills were shrouded in violet tints; through the light mists of the valley the river shone at intervals like the polished surface of a Damascus blade. The blue smoke ascended from the chimneys of the village of Andelys, nestling at the foot of the mountain; the silvery tones of the bells ringing the Angelus came to us on the evening breeze; Venus shone soft and pure in the western sky. Madame Taverneau had not yet joined us; Alfred's fascinations had made her forget her companion.

Louise, uneasy at being so long separated from her chaperon, leaned over the edge of the battlement. A stone, which only needed the weight of a tired swallow to dislodge it, rolled from Under Louise's foot, who, terribly frightened, threw herself in my arms. I held her for a moment pressed to my heart. She was very pale; her head was thrown back, the dizziness of lofty heights had taken possession of her.

"Do not let me fall; my head whirls!"

"Fear not," I replied; "I am holding you, and the spirit of the gulf shall not have you."

"Ouf! What an insane idea, to climb like cats over this old pile of stones!" cried Alfred, who had finally arrived, dragging after him Madame Taverneau, who with her shawl looked like a poppy in a corn-field. We left the tower and gained our boat. Louise threw me a tearful and grateful glance, and seated herself by Madame Taverneau. A tug-boat passed us; we hailed it; it threw us a rope, and in a few hours we were at Pont de l'Arche.

This is a faithful account of our expedition; it is nothing, and yet a great deal. It is sufficient to show me that I possess some influence over Louise; that my look fascinates her, my voice affects her, my touch agitates her; for one moment I held her trembling against my heart; she did not repulse me. It is true that by a little feminine Jesuitism, common enough, she might ascribe all this to vertigo, a sort of vertigo common to youth and love, which has turned more heads than all the precipices of Mount Blanc!

What a strange creature is Louise! An inexplicable mixture of acute intelligence and virgin modesty, displaying at the same time an ignorance and information never imagined. These piquant contrasts make me admire her all the more. The day after to-morrow Madame Taverneau is going on business to Rouen. Louise will be alone, and I intend to repeat the donjon scene, with improvements and deprived of the inopportune appearance of Madame Taverneau's yellow shawl and the luckless Alfred's green hunting-dress. What delicious dreams will visit me to-night in my hammock at Richeport!

My next letter will begin, I hope, with this triumphant line of the Chevalier de Bertin:

"Elle est à moi, divinités du Pinde!"

Good-bye, my dear Roger. I wish you good luck in your search. Since you have once seen Irene, she cannot wear Gyges' ring. You may meet her again; but if you have to make your way through six Boyars, three Moldavians, eleven bronze statues, ten check-sellers, crush a multitude of King Charles spaniels, upset a crowd of fruit-stands, go straight as a bullet towards your beauty; seize her by the tip of her wing, politely but firmly, like a gendarme; for the Prince Roger de Monbert must not be the plaything of a capricious Parisian heiress.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN.

XIV.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES; Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère).

PONT DE L'ARCHE, June 18th 18--.

I have only time to send you a line with the box of ribbons The trunk will go to-morrow by the stage. I would have sent it before, but the children's boots were not done. It is impossible to get anything done now--the storekeepers say they can't get workmen, the workmen say they can't get employment. Blanchard will be in Paris to superintend its packing. If you are not pleased with your things, especially the blue dress and mauve bonnet, I despair of ever satisfying you. I did not take your sashes to Mlle. _Vatelin_. It was Prince de Monbert's fault; in passing along the Boulevards I saw him talking to a gentleman--I turned into Panorama street--he followed me, and to elude him I went into the Chinese store. M. de Monbert remained outside; I bought some tea, and telling the woman I would send for it, went out by the opposite door which opens on Vivienne street. The Prince, who has been away from Paris for ten years, was not aware of this store having two exits, so in this way I escaped him. This hateful prince is also the cause of my returning here. The day after that wretched evening at the Odeon, I went to inquire about my cousin. There I found that Madame de Langeac had left Fontainebleau and gone to Madame de H.'s, where they are having private theatricals. She returns to Paris in ten days, where she begs me to wait for her. I also heard that M. de Monbert had had quite a scene with the porter on the same morning--insisting that he had seen me, and that he would not be put off by lying servants any longer; his language and manner quite shocked the household. The prospect of a visit from him filled me with fright. I returned to my garret--Madame Taverneau was anxiously waiting for my return, and carried me off without giving me anytime for reflection; so I am here once more. Perhaps you think that in this rural seclusion, under the shade of these willows, I ought to find tranquillity? Just the reverse. A new danger threatens me; I escape from a furious prince, to be ensnared by a delirious poet. I went away leaving M. de Meilhan gracious, gallant, but reasonable; I return to find him presuming, passionate, foolish. It makes me think that absence increases my attractiveness, and separation clothes me with new charms.

This devotion is annoying, and I am determined to nip it in the bud; it fills me with a horrible dread that in no way resembles the charming fear I have dreamed of. The young poet takes a serious view of the flattery I bestowed upon him only in order to discover what his friend had written about me; he has persuaded himself that I love him, and I despair of being able to dispel the foolish notion.

I have uselessly assumed the furious air of an angry Minerva, the majestic deportment of the Queen of England opening Parliament, the prudish, affected behavior of a school-mistress on promenade; all this only incites his hopes. If it were love it might be seductive and dangerous, but it is nothing more than magnetism.... You may laugh, but it is surely this and nothing else; he acts as if he were under some spell of fascination; he looks at me in a malevolent way that he thinks irresistible.... But I find it unendurable. I shall end by frankly telling him that in point of magnetism I am no longer free ... "that I love another," as the vaudeville says, and if he asks who is this other, I shall smilingly tell him, "it is the famous disciple of Mesmer, Dr. Dupotet."

Yesterday his foolish behavior was very near causing my death. Alarmed by an embarrassing tête-à-tête in the midst of an old castle we were visiting, I mounted the window-sill in one of the towers to call Madame Taverneau, whom I saw at the foot of the hill; the stone on which I stood gave way, and if M. de Meilhan had not shown great presence of mind and caught me, I would have fallen down a precipice forty feet deep! Instant death would have been the result. Oh! how frightened I was! I tremble yet. My terror was so great that I would have fainted if I had had a little more confidence; but another fear made me recover from this. Fortunately I am going away from here, and this trifling will be over.

Yes, certainly I will accompany you to Geneva. Why can't we go as far as Lake Como? What a charming trip to take, and what comfort we will enjoy in my nice carriage! You must know that my travelling-carriage is a wonder; it is being entirely renovated, and directly it is finished, I will jump in it and fly to your arms. Of course you will ask what I am to do with a travelling-carriage--I who have never made but one journey in my life, and that from the Marais to the Faubourg Saint Honoré? I will reply, that I bought this carriage because I had the opportunity; it is a chef-d'oeuvre. There never was a handsomer carriage made in London. It was invented--and you will soon see what a splendid invention it is--for an immensely rich English lady who is always travelling, and who is greatly distressed at having to sell it, but she believes herself pursued by an audacious young lover whom she wishes to get rid of, and as he has always recognised her by her carriage, she parts with it in order to put him off her track. She is an odd sort of woman whom they call Lady Penock; she resembles Levassor in his English rôles; that is to say, she is a caricature. Levassor would not dare to be so ridiculous.

Good-bye, until I see you. When I think that in one month we shall be together again, I forget all my sorrows.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.

XV.

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ MONSIEUR DE MEILHAN, Pont-de-l'Arche (Eure).

PARIS, June 19th 18--.

It is useless to slander the police; we are obliged to resort to them in our dilemmas; the police are everywhere, know everything, and are infallible. Without the police Paris would go to ruin; they are the hidden fortification, the invisible rampart of the capital; its numerous agents are the detached forts. Fouché was the Vauban of this wonderful system, and since Fouché's time, the art has been steadily approaching perfection. There is to-day, in every dark corner of the city an eye that watches over our fifty-four gates, and an ear that hears the pulsations of all the streets, those great arteries of Paris.

The incapacity of my own agents making me despair of discovering anything; I went to the Polyphemus of Jerusalem street, a giant whose ever open eye watches every Ulysses. They told me in the office--Return in three days.

Three centuries that I had to struggle through! How many centuries I have lived during the last month!

The police! Why did not this luminous idea enter my mind before?

At this office of public secrets they said to me: Mlle. de Chateaudun left Paris five days ago. On the 12th she passed the night at Sens; she then took the route to Burgundy; changed horses at Villevallier, and on the 14th stopped at the château of Madame de Lorgeville, seven miles from Avallon.

The particularity of this information startled me. What wonderful clock-work! What secret wheels! What intelligent mechanism! It is the machine of Marly applied to a human river. At Rome a special niche would have been devoted to the goddess of Police.

What a lesson to us! How circumspect it should make us! Our walls are diaphanous, our words are overheard; our steps are watched ... everything said and done reaches by secret informers and invisible threads the central office of Jerusalem street. It is enough to make one tremble!!!

_At the château of Mad. de Lorgeville_!

I walked along repeating this sentence to myself, with a thousand variations: At the château of Mad. de Lorgeville.

After a decennial absence, I know nobody in Paris--I am just as much of a stranger as the ambassador of Siam.... Who knows Mad. de Lorgeville? M. de Balaincourt is the only person in Paris who can give me the desired information--he is a living court calendar. I fly to see M. de Balaincourt.

This oracle answers me thus: Mad. de Lorgeville is a very beautiful woman, between twenty-four and twenty-six years of age. She possesses a magnificent _mezzo-soprano_ voice, and twenty thousand dollars income. She learnt miniature painting from Mad. Mirbel, and took singing lessons from Mad. Damoyeau. Last winter she sang that beautiful duo from Norma, with the Countess Merlin, at a charity concert.

I requested further details.

Madame de Lorgeville is the sister of the handsome Léon de Varèzes.

Oh! ray of light! glimmer of sun through a dark cloud!

The handsome Léon de Varèzes! The ugly idea of troubadour beauty! A fop fashioned by his tailor, and who passes his life looking at his figure reflected in four mirrors as shiny and cold as himself!

I pressed M. de Balaincourt's hand and once again plunged into the vortex of Paris.

If the handsome Léon were only hideous I would feel nothing but indifference towards him, but he has more sacred rights to my hatred, as you will see.

Three months ago this handsome Léon made a proposal of marriage to Mlle. de Chateaudun--she refused him. This is evidently a preconcerted plan; or it is a ruse. The handsome Léon had a lady friend well known by everybody but himself, and he has deferred this marriage in order to gild, after the manner of Ruolz, his last days of bachelorhood; meanwhile Mlle. de Chateaudun received her liberty, and during this truce I have played the rôle of suitor. Either of these conjectures is probable--both may be true--one is sufficient to bring about a catastrophe!

This fact is certain, the handsome Léon is at the waters of Ems enjoying his expiring hours of single-blessedness in the society of his painted friend, and his family are keeping Mile. de Chateaudun at the Château de Lorgeville till the season at Ems is over. In a few days the handsome Léon, on pretence of important business, will leave his Dulcinea, and, considering himself freed from an unlawful yoke, will come to the Château de Lorgeville to offer his innocent hand and pure homage to Mile. de Chateaudun. In whatever light the matter is viewed, I am a dupe--a butt! I know well that people say: "_Prince Roger is a good fellow_" With this reputation a man is exposed to all the feline wickedness of human nature, but when once aroused "the good fellow" is transformed, and all turn pale in his presence.

No, I can never forgive a woman who holds before me a picture of bliss, and then dashes it to the ground--she owes me this promised happiness, and if she tries to fly from me I have a right to cry "stop thief."

Ah! Mlle. de Chateaudun, you thought you could break my heart, and leave me nothing to cherish but the phantom of memory! Well! I promise you another ending to your play than you looked for! We will meet again!

Stupid idiot that I was, to think of writing her an apology to vindicate my innocent share of the scene at the Odeon! Vindication well spared! How she would have laughed at my honest candor!... She shall not have an opportunity of laughing! Dear Edgar, in writing these disconsolate lines I have lost the calmness that I had imposed upon myself when I began my letter. I feel that I am devoured by that internal demon that bears a woman's name in the language of love--jealousy! Yes, jealousy fills my soul with bitterness, encircles my brow with a band of iron, and makes me feel a frenzied desire to murder some fellow-being! During my travels I lost the tolerant manners of civilization. I have imbibed the rude cruelty of savages--my jealousy is filled with the storms and fire of the equator.

What do you pale effeminate young men know of jealousy? Is not your professor of jealousy the actor who dashes about on the stage with a paste-board sword?

I have studied the monster under other masters; tigers have taught me how to manage this passion.

Dear Edgar, once night overtook us amidst the ruins of the fort that formerly defended the mouth of the river Caveri in Bengal. It was a dark night illumined by a single star like the lamp of the subterranean temple of Elephanta. But this lone star was sufficient to throw light upon the formidable duel that took place before us upon the sloping bank of the ruined fort.

It was the season of love ... how sweet is the sound of these words!

A tawny monster with black spots, belonging to the fair sex of her noble race, was calmly quenching her thirst in the river Caveri--after she had finished drinking she squatted on her hind feet and stretched her forepaws in front of her breast--sphinx-like--and luxuriously rubbed her head in and out among the soft leaves scattered on the riverside.

At a little distance the two lovers watched--not with their eyes but with their nostrils and ears, and their sharp growl was like the breath of the khamsin passing through the branches of the euphorbium and the nopal. The two monsters gradually reached the paroxysm of amorous rage; they flattened their ears, sharpened their claws, twisted their tails like flexible steel, and emitted sparks of fire from eyes and skin.

During this prelude the tigress stretched herself out with stoical indifference, pretending to take no interest in the scene--as if she were the only animal of her race in the desert. At intervals she would gaze with delight at the reflected image of her grace and beauty in the river Caveri.