Collected works of eugen.., p.621
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 621
“Mlle. Antonine,” said Frantz quickly, in a low voice, “some one is looking at us.”
“This evening,” murmured a sweet voice, in reply.
And the little straw hat disappeared as by enchantment, as the young girl jumped from a bench she had mounted on the other side of the wall. But as compensation, no doubt, for this abrupt retreat, a beautiful rose fell at the feet of Frantz, who picked it up and passionately pressed it to his lips, then, hiding the flower in his waistcoat, the young man disappeared in a thicket instead of continuing his promenade in the long walk. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which these incidents transpired, and the instantaneous disappearance of the little straw hat, M. Pascal had seen distinctly the exquisite loveliness of the young girl’s face, and Frantz also, as he kissed the rose which fell at his feet.
The hard and saturnine features of M. Pascal took on a strange and gloomy expression, where one could read violent anger mingled with jealousy, pain, and hatred. For some moments, his physiognomy, almost terrifying in its malevolence, betrayed the man, who, accustomed to see all bend before him, is capable of sentiments and actions of diabolical wickedness when an unforeseen obstacle contradicts his iron will.
“She! she! here in this garden near the Élysée!” exclaimed he, with concentrated rage. “What is she doing there? Triple fool that I am! she comes here to coquet with this puny, blond youth. Perhaps she lives in the next hôtel. Misery! misery! to find out the place where she dwells after having done everything in vain to discover it since this damned pretty face of fifteen struck my eyes, and made me a fool, — I, who believed myself dead to these sudden and frantic caprices, compared to which what are called violent passions of the heart are ice. I have met this little girl three times, and feel myself, as in my young days, capable of anything in order to possess her. How jealousy irritates and devours me this moment! Misery! it is stupid, it is silly, but oh, how I suffer!”
As he uttered these words, M. Pascal’s face expressed malicious and ferocious grief; then shaking his fist at the side of the wall where the little straw hat had disappeared, he muttered, in a voice of concentrated rage:
“You shall pay for it. Go, little girl, and whatever it may cost me, you shall belong to me.”
And sitting with his elbows on the balustrade, unable to detach his angry glances from the spot where he had seen Frantz speak to the young girl, M. Pascal presented a picture of fury and despair, when one of the doors of the parlour softly opened, and the archduke entered.
The prince, evidently, felt so sure that he would meet his expected visitor face to face, that, beforehand, instead of his usual cold arrogance, he had assumed a most agreeable expression, entering the room with a smile upon his lips.
But M. Pascal, leaning half way out of the window, had not heard the door open, and, never suspecting the presence of the prince, he remained seated, his back to the Royal Highness, and his elbows on the sill of the window.
A physiognomist witnessing this silent scene would have found in it a curious study of the reaction of feeling in the countenance of the prince.
At the sight of M. Pascal leaning out of the window, wearing a summer greatcoat, and violating all propriety by keeping his hat on his head, the archduke stopped short; his assumed smile vanished from his lips, and, taking a prouder attitude than ordinary, he stiffened himself in his handsome uniform, turned purple with anger, knit his eyebrows, while his eyes flashed with indignation. But soon reflection, doubtless, appeasing this inner storm, the features of the prince took on an expression of resignation as bitter as it was sad, and he bowed his head, as if he submitted to a fatal necessity.
Stifling a sigh of offended pride as he threw a glance of vindictive contempt on Pascal at the window, the prince again assumed, as we have said, his smile of affability, and walked toward the casement, coughing loud enough to announce his presence, and spare himself the last humiliation of touching the shoulder of our familiar visitor in order to attract his attention.
At the sonorous “hum-hum!” of his Royal Highness, M. Pascal turned around suddenly. The gloomy expression of his face was succeeded by a sort of cruel and malicious satisfaction, as if the occasion had furnished a victim upon whom he could vent his suppressed wrath.
M. Pascal approached the prince, saluted him in a free and easy manner, and holding his hat in one hand, while the other was plunged deep in his pocket, he said:
“A thousand pardons, monseigneur, really I did not know you were there.”
“I am persuaded of that, M. Pascal,” replied the prince, with ill-disguised haughtiness.
Then he added:
“Please follow me into my study, sir. I have some official news to communicate to you.”
And he walked toward his study, when M. Pascal, with apparent calmness, for this man had a wonderful control over himself when it was necessary, said:
“Monseigneur, will you permit me one question?”
“Speak, sir,” replied the prince, stopping and turning to his visitor, with surprise.
“Monseigneur, who is that young man of twenty at the most, with long blond hair, who promenades in the walk which can be seen from this window? Who is he, monseigneur?”
“You mean, no doubt, monsieur, my godson, Count Frantz de Neuberg.”
“Ah, this young man is your godson, monseigneur? I congratulate you sincerely, — one could not see a prettier boy.”
“Is he not?” replied the prince, sensible of this praise, even in the mouth of Pascal. “Has he not a charming face?”
“That is what I have just been observing at my leisure, monseigneur.”
“And Count Frantz has not only a charming face,” added the prince; “he has fine qualities of heart and great bravery.”
“I am enchanted, monseigneur, to know that you have such an accomplished godson. Has he been in Paris long?”
“He arrived with me.”
“And he will depart with you, monseigneur, for it must be painful for you to be separated from this amiable young man?”
“Yes, monsieur, I hope to take Count Frantz with me back to Germany.”
“A thousand pardons, monseigneur, for my indiscreet curiosity, but your godson is one of those persons in whom one is interested in spite of himself. Now, I am at your service.”
“Then follow me, if you please, monsieur.”
Pascal nodded his head in assent, and, walking side by side with the archduke, he reached the door of the study with him, then, stopping with a gesture of deference, which was only another impertinence, he bowed slightly, and said to the prince, as if his Highness had hesitated to enter first:
“After you, monseigneur, after you.”
The prince understood the insolence, but swallowed it, and entered his study, making a sign to Pascal to follow him.
The latter, although unaccustomed to the ceremonial of the court, had too much penetration not to comprehend the import of his acts and words. He had not only the consciousness of his insolence, instigated by his recent and suppressed resentment, but this insolence he had actually studied and calculated, and even in his interview had considered the question of addressing his Royal Highness as monsieur, simply; but, by a refinement of intelligent impertinence, he thought the ceremonious appellation of monseigneur would render his familiarities still more disagreeable to the dignity and good breeding of the prince.
Let us turn back to an analysis of the character of Pascal, — a character less eccentric, perhaps, than it appears at first to be. Let us say, simply, that for ten years of his life this man, born in a humble and precarious position, had as a day-labourer and drudge submitted to the most painful humiliations, the most insolent domination, and the most outrageous contempt. Thus, bitter and implacable hatreds were massed together in his soul, and the day when, in his turn, he became powerful, he abandoned himself without scruple and without remorse to the fierce joy of reprisal, and it gave him little concern if his revenge fell upon an innocent head.
The archduke, instead of a superior mind, possessed a long, practical acquaintance with men, acquired in the exercise of supreme authority in the military hierarchy of his country; besides, in his second interview with M. Pascal, — at which interview we have assisted, — he had understood the significance of the studied insolence of this person, and when, as he entered his study with him, he saw him, without invitation, seat himself familiarly in the armchair just occupied by a prime minister, whom he found full of courtesy and deference, the prince felt a new and cruel oppression of the heart.
The penetrating glance of Pascal surprised the expression of this feeling on the face of the archduke, and he said to himself, with triumphant disdain: “Here is a prince born on the steps of a throne, a cousin, at least, of all the kings of Europe, a generalissimo of an army of a hundred thousand soldiers, here he is in all the glory of his battle uniform, adorned with all the insignia of honour and war. This highness, this man, despises me in his pride of a sovereign race. He hates me because he has need of me, and knows well that he must humiliate himself; nevertheless, this man, in spite of his contempt, in spite of his hatred, I hold in my power, and I intend to make him feel it keenly, for to-day my heart is steeped in gall.”
CHAPTER III.
M. PASCAL, HAVING seated himself in the gilded armchair on the side of the table opposite the prince, first seized a mother-of-pearl paper-cutter that he found under his hand, and, whirling it incessantly, said:
“Monseigneur, if it is agreeable to you, let us talk of business, for at a certain hour I must be in the Faubourg St. Marceau, at the house of a manufacturer, who is one of my friends.”
“I wish to inform you, monsieur,” replied the prince, restraining himself with difficulty, “that I have already postponed until to-morrow other audiences that should have taken place to-day, that I might devote all my time to you.”
“That is very kind of you, monseigneur, but let us come to the point.”
The prince took up from the table a long sheet of official paper, and, handing it to M. Pascal, said to him:
“This note will prove to you, monsieur, that all the parties interested in the transfer that is proposed to me not only authorise me formally to accept it, but willingly offer their pledges, and even protect all the accidents of my acceptance.”
M. Pascal, without moving from his armchair, extended his hand from one side of the table to the other, to receive the note, and, taking it, said:
“There was absolutely nothing to be done without this security.”
And he began to read slowly, nibbling the while the mother-of-pearl knife, which he did not surrender for a moment.
The prince fixed an anxious, penetrating glance on Pascal, trying to divine, from the expression of his face, if his visitor had confidence in the security offered.
At the end of a few moments, M. Pascal discontinued his reading, saying between his teeth, with an offended air, as if he were talking to himself:
“Ho! ho! This Article 7 does not suit me at all, — not at all!”
“Explain yourself, monsieur,” said the prince, seriously annoyed.
“However,” continued M. Pascal, taking up his reading again, without replying to the archduke, and pretending to be talking to himself, “this Article 7 is corrected by Article 8, — yes, — and, in fact, it is quite good, — it is very good.”
The countenance of the prince seemed to brighten, for, earnestly occupied with the powerful interests of which M. Pascal had necessarily become the umpire, he forgot the impertinence and calculated wickedness of this man, who found a savage delight in making his victim pass through all the perplexities of fear and hope.
At the end of a few moments, each one of which brought new anxiety to the prince, M. Pascal exclaimed:
“Impossible, that! impossible! For me everything would be annulled by this first supplementary article. It is a mockery!”
“Monsieur,” cried the prince, “speak more clearly!”
“Pardon me, monseigneur, at that moment I was reading to myself. Well and good, if you wish, I will read for both of us.”
The archduke bowed his head, turned red with suppressed indignation, appeared discouraged, and leaned his head on his hand.
M. Pascal, continuing his perusal of the paper, threw a glance by stealth at the prince, and replied after a few moments, in a more satisfied tone:
“This is a sure, incontestable security.”
Then, as the prince seemed to regain hope, he added:
“Unfortunately, this security is apart from—”
He did not finish, but continued his reading in silence.
Never a solicitor in distress imploring a haughty and unfeeling protector, never a despairing borrower humbly addressing a dishonest and whimsical usurer, never accused seeking to read his pardon or condemnation in the countenance of his judge, experienced the torture felt by the prince while M. Pascal was reading the note which he had examined and which he now laid on the table.
“Well, monsieur,” said the prince, swallowing his impatience, “what do you decide?”
“Monseigneur, will you have the kindness to lend me a pen and some paper?”
The prince pushed an inkstand, a pen, and some paper before M. Pascal, who began a long series of figures, sometimes lifting his eyes to the ceiling, as if to make a calculation in his head, sometimes muttering incomplete sentences, such as —
“No — I am mistaken because — but I was about to forget — it is evident — the balance will be equal if—”
After long expectation on the part of the prince, M. Pascal threw the pen down on the table, plunged both hands in the pockets of his trousers, threw his head back, and shut his eyes, as if making a last mental calculation, then, holding his head up, said in a short, peremptory voice:
“Impossible, monseigneur.”
“What, monsieur!” cried the prince, dismayed. “You assured me in our first interview that the operation was practicable.”
“Practicable, monseigneur, but not accomplished.”
“But this note, monsieur, this note, joined to the securities I have offered you?”
“This note completes, I know, the securities indispensable to such an operation.”
“Then, monsieur, how do you account for your refusal?”
“For particular reasons, monseigneur.”
“But, I ask again, do I not offer all the security desirable?”
“Yes, monseigneur, I will say that I regard the operation not only feasible, but sure and advantageous to one who is willing to undertake it; so, I do not doubt, monseigneur, you can find—”
“Eh! monsieur,” interrupted the prince, “you know that in the present financial crisis, and for other reasons which you understand as well as I, that you are the only person who can undertake this business.”
“The preference of your Royal Highness honours and flatters me infinitely,” said Pascal, with an accent of ironical recognition, “so I doubly regret my inability to meet it.”
The prince perceived the sarcasm, and replied, feigning offence at the want of appreciation his kindness had met:
“You are unjust, monsieur. The proof that I adhered to my agreement with you in this affair is that I have refused to entertain the proposition of the house Durand.”
“I am almost certain that it is a lie,” thought M. Pascal, “but no matter, I will get information about the thing; besides, this house sometimes disturbs and cramps me. Fortunately, thanks to that knave, Marcelange, I have an excellent means of protecting myself from that inconvenience in the future.”
“Another proof that I adhered directly to my personal agreement with you, M. Pascal,” continued the prince, in a deferential tone, “is that I have desired no agent to come between us, certain that we would understand each other as the matter should be understood. Yes,” added the archduke, with a still more insinuating tone, “I hoped that this just homage rendered to your financial intelligence, so universally recognised—”
“Ah, monseigneur.”
“To your character as honourable as it is honoured—”
“Monseigneur, really, you overwhelm me.”
“I hoped, I repeat, my dear M. Pascal, that in coming frankly to you to propose — what? — an operation whose solidity and advantage you recognise, you would appreciate my attitude, since it appeals to the financier as much as to the private citizen. In short, I hoped to assure you, not only by pecuniary advantage, but by especial testimony, of my esteem and gratitude.”
“Monseigneur—”
“I repeat it, my dear M. Pascal, of my gratitude, since, in making a successful speculation, you would render me an immense service, for you cannot know what the results of this loan I solicit from you would be to my dearest family interests.”
“Monseigneur, I am ignorant of—”
“And when I speak to you of family interests,” said the prince, interrupting M. Pascal, whom he hoped to bring back to his views, “when I speak of family interests, it is not enough; an important question of state also attaches to the transfer of the duchy that is offered me, and which I can acquire only through your powerful financial aid. So, in rendering me a personal service, you would be greatly useful to my nation, and you know, my dear M. Pascal, how great empires requite services done to the state.”
