The first work! That is what _Revolte_ was to Andre--the first work, always too copious and diffuse, into which the author tosses first of all a whole lifetime of ideas and opinions, pressing for utterance like water against the edge of a dam, and which is often the richest, if not the best, of an author"s productions. As for the fate that awaited it, no one could say what it might be; and the uncertainty that hovered about the reading of the drama added to his emotion the emotion of each of his auditors, the white-robed hopes of Mademoiselle elise, M.
Joyeuse"s fanciful hallucinations and the more positive desires of Aline, who was already in antic.i.p.ation installing her sister in the nest, rocked by the winds but envied by the mult.i.tude, of an artist"s household!
Ah! if one of those pleasure-seekers circling the lake for the hundredth time, overwhelmed by the monotony of his habit, had chanced to put aside the branches, how surprised he would have been at that picture! But would he have suspected all the pa.s.sion and dreams and poetry and hope that were contained in that little nook of verdure hardly larger than the denticulated shadow of a fern on the moss?
"You were right, I did not know the Bois," said Paul in an undertone to Aline, as she leaned on his arm.
They were following a narrow sheltered path, and as they talked they walked very rapidly, far in advance of the others. But it was not Pere Kontzen"s terrace nor his crisp fritters that attracted them. No, the n.o.ble verses they had heard had carried them to a great height, and they had not yet descended. They walked straight on toward the ever-receding end of the path, which broadened at its extremity into a luminous glory, a dust of sunbeams, as if all the sunshine of that lovely day awaited them at the edge of the woods. Paul had never felt so happy. The light arm resting on his, the childlike step by which his own was guided, would have made life as sweet and pleasant to him as that walk upon the mossy carpet of a green path. He would have told the young girl as much, in words as simple as his feelings, had he not feared to alarm Aline"s confidence, caused doubtless by the feeling which she knew that he entertained for another, and which seemed to forbid any thought of love between them.
Suddenly, directly in front of them, a group of equestrians stood out against the bright background, at first vague and indistinct, then taking shape as a man and woman beautifully mounted and turning into the mysterious path among the shafts of gold, the leafy shadows, the myriad specks of light with which the ground was dotted, which they displaced as they cantered forward, and which ran in fanciful designs from the horses" b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the Amazon"s veil. They rode slowly, capriciously, and the two young people, who had stepped into the bushes, could see perfectly as they pa.s.sed quite near to them, with a creaking of new leather, a jangling of bits tossed proudly and white with foam as after a wild gallop, two superb horses bearing a human couple compelled to ride close together by the narrowing of the path; he supporting with one arm the flexible form moulded into a waist of dark cloth, she, with her hand on her companion"s shoulder and her little head, in profile--hidden beneath the tulle of her half-fallen veil--resting tenderly thereon.
That amorous entwining, cradled by the impatience of the steeds, restive under the restraint imposed upon their fiery spirits, that kiss, causing the reins to become entangled, that pa.s.sion riding through the woods in hunting costume, in broad daylight, with such contempt of public opinion, would have sufficed to betray the duke and Felicia, even though the haughty and fascinating appearance of the Amazon, and the high-bred ease of her companion, his pallid cheeks slightly flushed by the exercise and Jenkins" miraculous pearls, had not already led to their recognition.
It was not an extraordinary thing to meet Mora in the Bois on Sunday.
He, like his master, loved to show himself to the Parisians, to keep his popularity alive in all public places; and then the d.u.c.h.ess never accompanied him on that day, and he could draw rein without restraint at the little chalet of Saint-James, known to all Paris, whose pink turrets peering out among the trees school-boys pointed out to one another with whispered comments. But only a madwoman, a shameless creature like that Felicia, would advertise herself thus, destroy her reputation forever.
The sound of hoofs and of rustling bushes dying away in the distance, bent weeds standing erect, branches thrust aside resuming their places--that was all that remained of the apparition.
"Did you see?" Paul was the first to ask.
She had seen and she had understood, despite her virtuous innocence, for a blush overspread her features, caused by the shame we feel for the sins of those we love.
"Poor Felicia!" she whispered, pitying not only the poor abandoned creature who had pa.s.sed before them, but him as well whom that fall from grace was certain to strike full in the heart. The truth is that Paul de Gery was in no wise surprised by that meeting, which confirmed some previous suspicions and the instinctive repulsion he had felt for the seductive creature at their dinner-party some days before. But it seemed sweet to him to be pitied by Aline, to feel her sympathy in the increased tenderness of her voice, in the arm that leaned more heavily upon his. Like children who play at being ill for the joy of being petted by their mothers, he allowed the comforter to do her utmost to soothe his disappointment, to talk to him of his brothers, of the Nabob, and of the impending journey to Tunis, a beautiful country, so it was said. "You must write to us often, and write long letters about the interesting things you see and about the place you live in. For we can see those who are far away from us better when we can form an idea of their surroundings."--Chatting thus, they reached the end of the shady path, at a vast clearing where the tumult of the Bois was in full blast, carriages and equestrians alternating, and the crowd tramping in a fleecy dust which gave it, at that distance, the appearance of a disorderly flock of sheep. Paul slackened his pace, emboldened by that last moment of solitude.
"Do you know what I am thinking?" he said, taking Aline"s hand; "that any one would enjoy being unhappy for the sake of being comforted by you. But, precious as your sympathy is to me, I cannot allow you to expend your emotion upon an imaginary grief. No, my heart is not broken, but, on the contrary, more alive, more vigorous than before. And if I should tell you what miracle has preserved it, what talisman--"
He placed before her eyes a little oval frame surrounding a profile without shading, a simple pencil sketch in which she recognized herself, surprised to find that she was so pretty, as if reflected in the magic mirror of Love. Tears came to her eyes, although she knew not why,--an open spring whose pulsing flood caused her chaste heart to beat fast.
"This portrait belongs to me. It was made for me. But now, as I am on the point of going away, I am a.s.sailed by a scruple. I prefer not to keep it except from your own hands. So take it, and if you find a worthier friend, one who loves you with a deeper, truer love than mine, I authorize you to give it to him."
She had recovered from her confusion, and replied, looking de Gery in the face with affectionate gravity:
"If I listened to nothing but my heart, I should not hesitate to answer you; for, if you love me as you say you do, I am sure that I love you no less. But I am not free, I am not alone in life,--look!"
She pointed to her father and sisters who were motioning to them in the distance and hurrying to overtake them.
"Even so! And I?" said Paul eagerly. "Have I not the same duties, the same burdens? We are like two widowed heads of families. Will you not love mine as dearly as I love yours?"
"Do you mean it? Is it true? You will let me stay with them? I shall be Aline to you and still be Grandmamma to all our children? Oh! then,"
said the dear creature, beaming with joy and radiance, "then here is my picture, I give it to you. And, with it, all my heart, and forever."
XVIII.
THE JENKINS PEARLS.
About a week after his adventure with Moessard,--a new complication in his sadly muddled affairs,--Jansoulet, on leaving the Chamber one Thursday, ordered his coachman to drive him to the hotel de Mora. He had not been there since the fracas on Rue Royale, and the idea of appearing before the duke caused something of the same panicky sensation beneath his tough epidermis that a schoolboy feels on being summoned before the master after a scuffle in the cla.s.s-room. However, it was necessary to submit to the embarra.s.sment of that first interview. It was currently reported in the committee rooms that Le Merquier had completed his report, a masterpiece of logic and ferocity, recommending that Jansoulet be unseated, and that he was certain to carry his point off-hand unless Mora, whose power in the a.s.sembly was so great, should himself issue contrary orders. A serious crisis, as will be seen, and one that caused his cheeks to burn with fever as he studied the expression of his features and his courtier-like smiles in the bevelled mirrors of his coupe, striving to prepare an adroit entry into the presence,--one of his masterstrokes of amiable impudence which had served him so well with Ahmed and thus far with the French statesman,--the whole accompanied by a rapid beating of the heart and the shivering sensation between the shoulders which precedes decisive steps, even when taken in a carriage with gilded panels.
When he reached the mansion on the river bank, he was greatly surprised to see that the footman on the quay, as on the days of great receptions, ordered the carriages to turn into Rue de Lille in order to leave one gateway free for exit. He said to himself, a little disturbed in mind: "What is going on?" Perhaps a concert given by the d.u.c.h.ess, a charity bazaar, or some festivity from which Mora had left him out because of the scandal caused by his last adventure. And his anxiety augmented when, after crossing the court of honor amid the tumult of slamming carriage-doors and a constant, dull rumbling on the gravel, he had ascended the steps and found himself in the vast reception-room filled to overflowing with a great throng who were allowed to pa.s.s none of the inner doors, but whose anxious steps centred about the table of the servant in attendance, where all the famous names of aristocratic Paris were being inscribed. It seemed as if a sudden blast of disaster had pa.s.sed through the house, swept away something of its superb tranquillity and allowed unrest and danger to creep into its well-being.
"What a misfortune!"
"Ah! yes, it is terrible."
"And so sudden!"
The people around him exchanged such phrases as they met. A thought pa.s.sed swiftly through Jansoulet"s mind.
"Is the duke ill?" he asked a servant.
"Ah! monsieur. He is dying. He cannot live through the night."
If the roof of the palace had fallen in upon his head, it would not have crushed him more completely. He saw red b.u.t.terflies whirling around before his eyes, then staggered and fell upon the velvet-covered bench beside the great cage of monkeys, who, over-excited by all the turmoil, clung in a bunch to the bars, hanging by their tails or by their little long-thumbed hands, and in their frightened inquisitiveness a.s.sailed with the most extravagant grimaces of their race the stout bewildered man, who sat staring at the floor and repeating to himself aloud: "I am lost! I am lost!"
The duke was dying. He had been taken suddenly ill on Sunday while returning from the Bois. He had felt an intolerable burning sensation which seemed to outline, as with a red-hot iron, the whole internal structure of his body, alternating with chills and numbness and long periods of drowsiness. Jenkins, being summoned at once, prescribed some sedative remedies. The next day the pains returned, more intense than before, and followed by the same icy torpor, also intensified, as if life were leaving him by fierce leaps and bounds, uprooted. No one in the household was at all disturbed. "The day after Saint-James," callers whispered to one another in the reception-room, and Jenkins" handsome face retained its serenity. He mentioned the duke"s indisposition to but two or three persons in his morning round of visits, and so lightly that no one thought anything of it.
Mora himself, despite his extreme weakness, and although he felt as if his head were absolutely empty, "not an idea behind his forehead," as he expressed it, was very far from suspecting the gravity of his condition.
Not until the third day, when, upon waking in the morning, he saw a slender thread of blood that had flowed from his mouth over his beard and reddened his pillow, did that refined dandy shudder, that fastidious creature who held in horror all forms of human misery, especially disease, and who saw it creeping upon him stealthily with its defilement, its weaknesses and with the self-abandonment which is the first concession to death. Monpavon, entering the room in Jenkins" wake, caught the suddenly perturbed expression of the great n.o.bleman brought face to face with the terrible truth, and was at the same time horrified by the ravages made in a few hours on Mora"s emaciated face, where all the wrinkles belonging to his age, appearing suddenly, mingled with the wrinkles caused by suffering, with the depression of muscles which indicates serious internal lesions. He took Jenkins aside while the fine gentleman"s servants were supplying him with what he required to make his toilet in bed, a whole outfit of silver and crystal in striking contrast with the yellow pallor of the invalid.
"Look you, Jenkins--the duke is very ill."
"I am afraid so," said the Irishman, in an undertone.
"What"s the matter with him?"
"What he apparently wanted, _parbleu_!" exclaimed the other, in a sort of frenzy. "A man can"t be young with impunity at his age. This pa.s.sion of his will cost him dear."
Some evil thought triumphed in him for the moment, but he instantly imposed silence upon it, and, completely transformed, puffing out his cheeks as if his head were filled with water, he sighed profoundly as he pressed the old n.o.bleman"s hands:
"Poor duke! Poor duke! Ah! my friend, I am in despair."
"Have a care, Jenkins," said Monpavon coldly, withdrawing his hands.
"You are a.s.suming a terrible responsibility. What! the duke is as ill as you say, ps--ps--ps. See no one? No consultation?"
The Irishman threw up his arms as if to say: "What"s the use?"
The other insisted. It was absolutely essential that Brisset, Jousselin, Bouchereau, all the great men should be called in.
"But you will frighten him to death."
Monpavon inflated his breast, the old foundered charger"s only pride.
"My dear fellow, if you had seen Mora and myself in the trenches at Constantine--ps--ps--Never lowered our eyes--Don"t know what fear means.
Send word to your confreres, I will undertake to prepare him."
The consultation took place that evening behind closed doors, the duke having demanded that it be kept secret through a curious feeling of shame because of his illness, because of the suffering that dethroned him and reduced him to the level of other men. Like those African kings who conceal themselves in the depths of their palaces to die, he would have liked the world to believe that he had been taken away, transfigured, had become a G.o.d. Then, too, above all, he dreaded the compa.s.sion, the condolence, the emotion with which he knew that his pillow would be surrounded, the tears that would be shed, because he would suspect that they were insincere, and because, if sincere, they would offend him even more by their grimacing ugliness.
He had always detested scenes, exaggerated sentiments, whatever was likely to move him, to disturb the harmonious equilibrium of his life.
Everybody about him was aware of it and the orders were to keep at a distance all the cases of distress, all the despairing appeals that were made to Mora from one end of France to the other, as to one of those houses of refuge in the forest in which a light shines at night and at which all those who have lost their way apply for shelter. Not that he was hard to the unfortunate, perhaps indeed he felt that he was too readily susceptible to pity, which he regarded as an inferior sentiment, a weakness unworthy of the strong, and for the same reason that he denied it to others, dreaded it for himself, lest it impair his courage.