The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6

"Oh, yes, – be violent, eh? What, another infamy? But what can I do? For I love her yet, – love her to madness! I love her and her only! I want but her, – her love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. Ah, at last she must have pity; she is so kind, and she will see how unhappy I am! But no, no! Never! Mine is a case of estrangement which a woman never can surmount. Disgust, – yes, disgust, – I cannot but see it, – disgust! I must convince myself that it is my horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must, – always must!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, in his fearful excitement.

After a moment of gloomy silence, he continued:

"This anonymous attack, which accused the prince and my wife, comes from the hand of an enemy; and yet, but an hour ago, before I saw through it, I suspected him. Him! – to believe him capable of such base treachery! And my wife, too, I included in the same suspicion! Ah, jealousy is incurable! And yet I must not abuse myself. If the prince, who loves me as his best and dearest friend, has made Clémence promise to occupy her mind and heart in charitable works, if he promises her his advice, his support, it is because she requires advice, needs support. And, indeed, lovely and young, and surrounded as she is, and without that love in her heart which protects and even almost excuses her wrongs through mine, which are so atrocious, must she not fall? Another torturing thought! What I have suffered when I thought her guilty, – fallen, – Heaven knows what agony! But, no; the fear is vain! Clémence has sworn never to fail in her duties, and she will keep her promise, – strictly keep it! But at what a price! At what a price! But now, when she turned towards me with affectionate language, what agony did I feel at the sight of her gentle, sad, and resigned smile! How much this return to me must have cost! Poor love! how lovely and affecting she seemed at that moment! For the first time I felt a fierce remorse, for, up to that moment, her haughty coldness had sufficiently avenged her. Oh, wretch! – wretch that I am!"

After a long and sleepless night, spent in bitter reflections, the agitation of M. d'Harville ceased, as if by enchantment. He had come to an unalterable resolution. He awaited daybreak with excessive impatience.

Early in the morning he rang for his valet de chambre.

When old Joseph entered his master's room, to his great surprise he heard him hum a hunting song, – a sign, as rare as certain, that M. d'Harville was in good humour.

"Ah, M. le Marquis," said the faithful old servant, quite affected, "what a charming voice you have! What a pity that you do not sing more frequently!"

"Really, Joseph, have I a charming voice?" said M. d'Harville, smiling.

"If M. le Marquis had a voice as hoarse as a night raven or as harsh as a rattle, I should still think he had a charming voice."

"Be silent, you flatterer!"

"Why, when you sing, M. le Marquis, it is a sign you are happy, and then your voice sounds to me the most beautiful music in the world."

"In that case, Joseph, my old friend, prepare to open your long ears."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"You may enjoy every day the music which you call charming, and of which you seem so fond."

"What! You will be happy every day, M. le Marquis?" exclaimed Joseph, clasping his hands with extreme delight.

"Every day, my old Joseph, happy every day. Yes, no more sorrow, – no more sadness. I can tell you, the only and discreet confidant of my troubles, that I am at the height of happiness. My wife is an angel of goodness, and has asked my forgiveness for her past estrangement, attributing it (can you imagine?) to jealousy."

"To jealousy?"

"Yes, absurd suspicions, excited by anonymous letters."

"How shameful!"

"You understand? Women have so much self-love, – a little more and we should have been separated; but, fortunately, last evening she explained all frankly to me, and I disabused her mind. To tell you her extreme delight would be impossible, for she loves me, – oh, yes, she loves me! The coldness she evinced towards me lay as cruelly on herself as on me, and now, at length, our distressing separation has ended. Only conceive my delight!"

"Can it be true?" cried Joseph, with tears in his eyes. "Can it really be true, M. le Marquis? And now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady's love that you required, or, rather, since her estrangement was your sole misery, as you told me."

"And to whom but you should I have told it, my worthy old Joseph? Do not you possess, also, a still sadder secret? But do not let us say anything more of sorrows now, – it is too bright a time. You see, perhaps, that I have been weeping? It is because this happiness has come over me so suddenly, when I so little anticipated it! How weak I am! – am I not?"

"Well, well, M. le Marquis, you may weep for joy as much as you please, for you have wept long enough for pain; and now see, do not I do as you do? They are right sort of tears, and I would not give them for ten years more of life. I have now but one fear, and that is, not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet of Madame la Marquise the first time I see her."

"Silly old fellow! Why you are as weak as your master. And now I have but one fear."

"And what is that?"

"That this will not last; I am too happy. What now is wanting to me?"

"Nothing, – nothing, M. le Marquis, – absolutely nothing."

"That is why I mistrust such perfect happiness, – too complete."

"Alas! If that is all, why, M. le Marquis – But no, I dare not."

"I understand you. Well, I believe your fears are vain. The change which my happiness causes me is so intense, so complete, that I am almost sure of being nearly cured."

"How?"

"My doctor has told me a hundred times that a violent emotion is frequently sufficient either to bring on or to cure this terrible malady."

"You are right, monsieur, – you are cured, and what a blessing that is! Ah, as you say, M. le Marquis, the marquise is a good angel come down from heaven; and I begin myself to be almost alarmed lest the happiness is too great; but now I think of it, if you only want a small matter just to annoy you, thank God, I have just the very thing!"

"What is it?"

"One of your friends has very luckily had a sword-wound, very slight, to be sure; but that's all the same, it is quite enough for you, as you desire to make a small black spot in your too happy day."

"What do you mean, and of whom do you speak?"

"The Duke de Lucenay."

"Is he wounded?"

"A scratch in the arm. M. the Duke came yesterday to call on you, sir, and told me he should come again this morning, and invite himself to a cup of tea."

"Poor Lucenay! And why did you not tell me this?"

"I could not see you last night, M. le Marquis."

After a moment's reflection, M. d'Harville resumed:

"You are right, this slight regret will, doubtless, satisfy jealous Fate. But an idea has come across me; I should like to get up a bachelors' breakfast this morning of all the friends of M. de Lucenay, to celebrate the fortunate result of his duel; not anticipating such a meeting, he will be delighted."

"A capital idea, M. le Marquis. Vive la joie! Let us make up for lost time. For how many shall I desire the maître d'hôtel to lay covers?"

"For six, in the small winter dining-room."

"And the invitations?"

"I will write them. Let a groom get his horse ready, and take them instantly. It is very early, and he will find everybody at home. Ring."

Joseph rang the bell.

M. d'Harville entered into his cabinet, and wrote the following letter, with no other alteration than the name of each invited guest.

"My dear – : This is a circular, and is also an impromptu. Lucenay is coming to breakfast with me this morning, expecting only a tête-à-tête. Will you join me and several friends, whom I also invite, in giving him an agreeable surprise?