Collected works of eugen.., p.111
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 111
For some moments he seemed neither to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed, his head bowed, his arms hanging by his side, his face livid as death; whilst from time to time a convulsive sigh heaved his breast. With such a man, as resolute as energetic, such a condition was more alarming than the most violent transports of anger. Madame de Lucenay regarded him with great uneasiness.
“Courage, my dear friend,” she said to him, in a low voice, “for you, — for me, — for this man, — I know what remains for me to do.”
The old man looked steadfastly at her, and then, as if aroused from his stupor by a violent internal commotion, he raised his head, his features assumed a menacing appearance, and, forgetting that his son could hear him, he exclaimed:
“And I, too, for you, — for me, — and for this man, — I know what remains for me to do.”
“Who is there?” inquired Florestan, surprised.
Madame de Lucenay, fearing to find herself in the vicomte’s presence, disappeared by the little door, and descended the secret staircase. Florestan having again asked who was there, and receiving no reply, entered the salon. He found the comte there alone. The old man’s long beard had so greatly altered him, and he was so miserably clad, that his son, who had not seen him for several years, not recognising him at the moment, advanced towards him with a menacing air.
“What are you doing there? Who are you?”
“The husband of that woman!” replied the comte, pointing to the picture of Madame de Saint-Remy.
“My father!” exclaimed Florestan, recoiling in alarm, as he recalled the features of the comte, so long forgotten.
Standing erect, with threatening air, angry look, his forehead scarlet, the comte looked down upon his son, who, with his head bent down, dared not raise his eyes towards him. Still, M. de Saint-Remy, for some motive, made a violent effort to remain calm, and conceal his real feelings and resentment.
“My father!” said Florestan, half choked. “You were there?”
“I was there.”
“You heard, then?”
“All!”
“Ah!” cried the vicomte, in agony, and hiding his face in his hands.
There was a minute’s silence. Florestan, at first as much astonished as annoyed at the unexpected appearance of his father, began to reflect upon what advantage he could derive from this incident.
“All is not lost,” he said to himself; “my father’s presence is a stroke of fate. He knows all; he will not have his name dishonoured. He is not rich, but he must possess more than twenty-five thousand francs. A little skill, and I may leave my duchess at peace, and be saved!” Then, giving to his handsome features an expression of grief and dejection, moistening his eye with the tears of repentance, assuming his most touching tone of voice, he exclaimed, clasping his hands with a gesture of despair:
“Ah, father, I am indeed wretched! After so many years, — to see you — at such a moment! I must appear to you most culpable; but deign to listen to me! I beseech you, allow me, not to justify myself, but to explain to you my conduct! Will you, my father?”
M. de Saint-Remy made no reply; his features remained rigid; but, seating himself, his chin leaning on the palm of his hand, he contemplated the vicomte in silence. Had Florestan known the motives which filled the mind of his father with fury and vengeance, alarmed by the apparent composure of the comte, he would not, doubtless, have tried to dupe him. But, ignorant of the suspicions respecting the legitimacy of his birth, and of his mother’s lapse of virtue, he had no doubt of the success of his deceit, thinking his father, who was very proud of his name, was capable of making any sacrifice rather than allow it to be dishonoured.
“My father,” resumed Florestan, timidly, “allow me to endeavour, not to exculpate myself, but to tell you by what a series of involuntary temptations I have done, in spite of myself, — such — an infamous action.”
The vicomte took his father’s silence for tacit consent, and continued:
“When I had the misfortune to lose my mother — my poor mother! — I was alone, without advice or support. Master of a considerable fortune, used to luxury from my cradle, it became to me a necessity. Ignorant how difficult it is to earn money, I was immeasurably prodigal. Unfortunately, my expenses, foolish as they were, were remarkable for their elegance. By my taste, I eclipsed men ten times richer than myself. This first success intoxicated me, and I became a man of extravagance, as one becomes a man of arms, or a statesman. Yes, I liked luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but I liked it as a painter loves his art. Like every artist, I was jealous of my work, and my work was to me luxury. I sacrificed everything to its perfection. I wished to have it beautiful and complete in everything, from my stable to my drawing-room, from my coat to my house. I wished my life to be the emblem of taste and elegance. In fact, as an artist, I sought the applause of the mob and the admiration of the élite. This success is rare, but I acquired it.”
As he spake, Florestan’s features gradually lost their hypocritical assumption, and his eyes kindled with enthusiasm. He looked in his father’s face, and, thinking it was somewhat softened, continued:
“Oracle and regulator of the world, my praise or blame were law: I was quoted, copied, boasted of, admired, and that by the best circle in Paris, which is to say in Europe — in the world. The women participated in the general enthusiasm, and the loveliest contended for the pleasure of being invited to certain fêtes which I gave, and everywhere wonder was expressed at the incomparable elegance and taste displayed at these fêtes, which millionaires could not equal. In fine, I was the monarch of fashion. This word will tell you all, my father, if you comprehend it.”
“I do comprehend it, and I am sure that at the galleys you will invent some refined elegance in your fashion of wearing your chain that will become the mode in your gang, and will be called à la Saint-Remy,” said the old man, with cutting irony, adding, “and Saint-Remy, — that is my name!” And again he was silent.
Florestan had need of all his self-control to conceal the wound which this bitter sarcasm inflicted. He continued in a more humble tone:
“Alas! Father, it is not from pride that I revive the recollection of my success, for, I repeat to you, it is that success which has undone me. Sought, envied, and flattered, not by interested parasites, but by persons much superior in position to myself, I no longer calculated my fortune must be expended in a few years; that I did not heed. Could I renounce this favourite, dazzling life, in which pleasures succeeded pleasures, every kind of intoxication to every kind of enchantment? Ah, if you knew, father, what it is to be hailed as the hero of the day, to hear the murmur which greets your entrance into the salon, to hear the women say, ‘That is he! There he is!’ — oh, if you knew—”
“I know,” said the old man, without moving from his attitude,— “I know. Yes, the other day, in a public place, there was a crowd; suddenly a murmur was heard, like that which greets you when you enter some place; then the women’s eyes were all turned eagerly on a very handsome young man, just as they are turned towards you, and they pointed him out to one another, saying, ‘That’s he! There he is!’ just as if they were directing attention to you.”
“And this man, my father?”
“Was a forger they were conveying to gaol.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Florestan, with concentrated rage. Then affecting the deepest affliction, he added, “My father, you are pitiless, — what shall I then say to you? I do not seek to deny my errors, I only desire to explain to you the fatal infatuation which has caused them. Well, then, even if you should overwhelm me still with your bitterest sarcasms, I will endeavour to go through with this confession, — I will endeavour to make you comprehend this feverish excitement which has destroyed me, because then, perchance, you may pity me, — yes, for there is pity for a madman, and I was mad! Shutting my eyes, I abandoned myself to the dazzling whirl into which I was drawn, and drew with me the most charming women, the most delightful men. How could I check myself? As easily say to the poet who exhausts himself, and whose genius preys upon his health, ‘Pause in the midst of the inspiration which urges you!’ No! He could not — I could not, abdicate the royalty which I exercised, and return shamed, ruined, and mocked at, into the unknown mob, giving this triumph to those who envied me, and whom, until then, I had defied, controlled, overpowered! No! No! I could not, voluntarily, at least.
“Then came the fatal day, when, for the first time, money failed me. I was surprised as much as if such a moment never could have arrived. Yet I had still my horses, my carriages, the furniture of this house. When my debts were paid there would, perhaps, still remain to me about sixty thousand francs. What could I do in such misery? It was then, father, that I made my first step in the path of disgrace; until this time I was honourable, — I had only spent what belonged to me, but then I began to incur debts which I had no chance of paying. I sold all I had to two of my domestics in order to pay my debt to them, and to be enabled to continue for six months longer, in spite of my creditors, to enjoy the luxury which intoxicated me.
“To supply my play debts and extravagant outlay I first borrowed of the Jews, then, to pay the Jews, of my friends, then, to pay my friends, of my mistresses. These resources exhausted, there was another period of my life; from an honest man I became a gambler, but, as yet, I was not criminal — I still hesitated — I desired to take a violent resolution. I had proved in several duels that I did not fear death. I determined to kill myself!”
“Ah! Bah! Really?” said the comte, with fierce irony.
“You do not believe me, father?”
“It was too soon or too late!” replied the old man, still unmoved, and in the same attitude.
Florestan, believing that he had moved his father by speaking to him of his project for committing suicide, thought it necessary to increase the effect by a coup de théâtre. He opened a drawer, took from it a small bottle of greenish glass, and said to the comte, depositing it on the table:
“An Italian quack sold me this poison.”
“And was this poison for yourself?” said the old man, still having his chin in the palm of his hand.
Florestan understood the force of the remark, his features expressed real indignation; for this time he spoke the truth. One day he took it into his head to kill himself, — an ephemeral fancy! Persons of his stamp are usually too cowardly to make up their minds calmly, and without witnesses, to the death which they face as a point of honour in a duel. He therefore exclaimed, with an accent of truth:
“I have fallen very low, but not so low as that. It was for myself that I reserved this poison.”
“And then were afraid of it?” asked the comte, without changing his posture.
“I confess I recoiled before this trying extremity, — nothing was yet desperate. The persons to whom I owed money were rich and could wait. At my age, and with my connections, I hoped for a moment, if not to repair my fortunes, at least to acquire for myself an honourable position, an independence which would have supplied my present situation. Many of my friends, perhaps less qualified than myself, had made rapid progress in diplomacy. I had ambition. I had but to make it known, and I was attached to the legation to Gerolstein. Unfortunately, a few days after this nomination, a gaming debt, contracted with a man who detested me, placed me in a cruel dilemma. I had exhausted my last resources. A fatal idea flashed across my mind. Believing that I was assured of impunity, I committed an infamous action. You see, my father, I conceal nothing from you. I avow the ignominy of my conduct, — I do not seek to extenuate anything. Two alternatives are now before me, and I am equally inclined to either. The one is to kill myself, and leave your name dishonoured; for if I do not pay this very day the twenty-five thousand francs, the accusation is made, and all is made public, and, dead or alive, I am disgraced. The second is to throw myself into your arms, father, to say to you, ‘Save your son, — save your name from infamy;’ and I swear to you to depart for Africa to-morrow, and die a soldier’s death, or return to you completely restored in reputation. What I say to you, father, is true, — in face of the extremity which overwhelms me, I have no other resource. Decide: shall I die covered with shame, or, thanks to you, live to repair my fault? These are not the threats of a young man. I am twenty-five; I bear your name, and I have sufficient courage either to kill myself, or to become a soldier; for I will not go to the galleys.”
Was about to embrace his father.
Etching by Marcel after the drawing by Frank T. Merrill.
The comte rose from his seat, saying:
“I do not desire to have my name dishonoured.”
“Oh, my father!” exclaimed the vicomte, with warmth, and was about to embrace his father, when the old man, repressing his enthusiasm, said:
“You are expected until three o’clock at the man’s house who has the forged bill?”
“Yes, father, and it is now two o’clock.”
“Let us go into your cabinet; give me writing materials.”
“They are here, father.”
The comte sat down and wrote, with a firm hand:
“I undertake to pay this evening, at ten o’clock, the twenty-five thousand francs which my son owes.
“Comte de Saint-Remy.”
“Your creditor merely wants his money; my guarantee will obtain a further delay. Let him go to M. Dupont, the banker, at No. 7 in the Rue Richelieu, and he will assure him of the validity of this promise.”
“Oh, my father! How can I ever—”
“Expect me this evening; at ten o’clock I will bring the money. Let your creditor be here.”
“Yes, father, and the day after I will set out for Africa. You shall see that I am not ungrateful! Then, perhaps, when I am again restored to honour you will accept my thanks?”
“You owe me nothing. I have said that my name shall not be dishonoured again; nor shall it be,” said M. de Saint-Remy, in reply, taking up his cane, and moving towards the door.
“My father, at least shake hands with me!” said Florestan.
“Here this evening at ten o’clock,” said the comte, refusing his hand.
“Saved!” exclaimed Florestan, joyously,— “saved!” Then he continued, after a moment’s reflection: “Saved — almost — no matter — it is always so. Perhaps this evening I shall tell him of the other thing. He is in the vein, and will not allow a first sacrifice to become useless for lack of a second. Yet why should I tell him? Who will ever know it? Yet, if nothing should be discovered, I shall keep the money he will give me to pay this last debt. I had some work to move him. The bitterness of his sarcasms made me suspicious of his good resolution; but my threat of suicide, the fear of seeing his name dishonoured, decided him. That was the way to hit him. No doubt he is not so poor as he appears to be. But his arrival was indeed a godsend. Now, then, for the man of law!”
He rang the bell, and M. Boyer appeared.
“How was it that you did not inform me that my father was here? Really, this is most negligent.”
“Twice I endeavoured to address your lordship when you came in by the garden gate with M. Badinot, but your lordship made me a sign with your hand not to interrupt you. I did not venture to insist. I should be very much grieved if your lordship should impute negligence to me.”
“Very well. Desire Edwards to harness Orion or Ploughboy in the cabriolet immediately.”
M. Boyer made a respectful bow. As he was about to quit the room, some one knocked. He looked at the vicomte with an inquiring air.
“Come in!” said Florestan.
A second valet de chambre appeared, bearing in his hand a small silver-gilt waiter. M. Boyer took hold of the waiter with a kind of jealous haste, and presented it to the vicomte, who took from it a thick packet, sealed with black wax.
The two servants withdrew discreetly.
Florestan broke open the envelope. It contained twenty-five thousand francs in treasury bills, but not a word of writing.
“Decidedly,” he exclaimed, in a joyful tone, “the day is propitious! Saved this time, and at this moment completely saved! I will run to the jeweller; and yet,” he added, “perhaps — no — let us wait — he cannot have any suspicion of me. Twenty-five thousand francs is a pleasant sum to have by one! Pardieu! I was a fool ever to doubt the luck of my star; at the moment when it seemed most obscure, has it not burst forth more brilliant than ever? But where does this money come from? The writing of the address is unknown to me. Let me examine the seal, — the cipher. Yes, yes, I cannot mistake; an N and an L, — it is Clotilde! How could she know? And not a word, — that’s strange! How very opportune, though! Ah, mon Dieu! now I remember. I had an appointment with her this morning. That Badinot’s threats drove it out of my head. I forgot Clotilde. After having waited for me down-stairs, no doubt she went away; and this is, unquestionably, a delicate way of making me understand that she fears I may forget her through some pecuniary embarrassment. Yes, it is an indirect reproach that I have not applied to her as usual. Good Clotilde! Always the same, — generous as a queen! What a pity I was ever driven to ask her, — her still so handsome! I sometimes regret it, but I only did it in a direful extremity, and on sheer compulsion.”
“Your lordship’s cabriolet is at the door,” said M. Boyer, on entering the room.
“Who brought this letter?” Florestan inquired.
“I do not know, my lord.”
“Well, I will ask below. But tell me, was there no one in the ground floor?” asked the vicomte, looking significantly at Boyer.
“There is no one there now, my lord.”
“I was not mistaken,” thought Florestan; “Clotilde waited for me, and is now gone.”
“If your lordship would have the goodness to grant me two minutes,” said Boyer.
“Speak, but be quick!”
“Edwards and myself have learnt that the Duc de Montbrison is desirous of forming an establishment. If your lordship would but just be so kind to propose your own ready furnished, with the stable in first-rate order, it would be a most admirable opportunity for Edwards and myself to get the whole off our hands, and, perhaps, for your lordship a good reason for disposing of them.”
