After she came out of her faint, Madame de Bergenheim remained for a long time in a dazed condition, and did not realize, save in a confused manner, her real position. She saw vaguely, at her first glance, the curtains of the bed upon which she lay, and thought that she had awakened from an ordinary sleep. Little by little, her thoughts became clearer, and she saw that she was fully dressed, also that her room seemed brighter than it usually was with only her night-lamp lighted. She noticed between the half-open curtains a gigantic form reflected almost to the ceiling opposite her bed. She sat up and distinctly saw a man sitting in the corner by the fireplace. Frozen with terror, she fell back upon her pillow as she recognized her husband. Then she remembered everything, even the slightest details of the scene in the small parlor. She felt ready to faint again when she heard Christian’s steps upon the carpet, although he walked with great precaution.
The Baron looked at her a moment, and then, opening the bed-curtains, he said:
“You can not pass the night thus, it is nearly three o’clock. You must go to bed as usual.”
Clemence shivered at these words, whose accent, however, was not hard. She obeyed mechanically; but she had hardly risen when she was obliged to recline upon the bed, for her trembling limbs would not support her.
“Do not be afraid of me,” said Bergenheim, drawing back a few steps; “my presence should not frighten you. I only wish that people should know that I have passed the night in your chamber, for it is possible that my return may arouse suspicion. You know that our love is only a comedy played for the benefit of our servants.”
There was such affected lightness in these remarks that the young woman was cut to the very quick. She had expected an explosion of anger, but not this calm contempt. Her revolted pride gave her courage.
“I do not deserve to be treated thus,” said she; “do not condemn me without a hearing.”
“I ask nothing of you,” replied Christian, who seated himself again beside the mantel; “undress yourself, and go to sleep if it is possible for you to do so. It is not necessary for Justine to make any comments tomorrow about your day clothes not having been removed.”
Instead of obeying him, she went toward him and tried to remain standing in order to speak to him, but her emotion was so intense that it took away her strength and she was obliged to sit down.
“You treat me too cruelly, Christian,” said she, when she had succeeded to recover her voice. “I am not guilty; at least, not so much as you think I am—” said she, drooping her head.
He looked at her attentively for a moment, and then replied, in a voice which did not betray the slightest emotion:
“You must know that my greatest desire is to be persuaded of this by you. I know that too often appearances are deceitful; perhaps you will be able to explain to me what took place last evening; I am still inclined to believe your word. Swear to me that you do not love Monsieur de Gerfaut.”
“I swear it!” said she, in a weak voice, and without raising her eyes.
He went to the bed and took down a little silver crucifix which was hanging above it.
“Swear it to me upon this crucifix,” said he, presenting it to his wife.
She tried in vain to raise her hand, which seemed fastened to the arm of her chair.
“I swear it!” she stammered a second time, while her face became as pale as death.
A savage laugh escaped Christian’s lips. He put the crucifix in its place again without saying a word, then he opened the secret panel and, taking out the casket, placed it upon the table before his wife. She made a movement as if to seize it, but her courage failed her.
“You have perjured yourself to your husband and to God!” said Bergenheim slowly. “Do you know what kind of woman you are?”
Clemence remained for some time powerless to reply; her respiration was so painful that each breath seemed like suffocation; her head, after rolling about on the back of the chair, fell upon her breast, like a blade of grass broken and bruised by the rain.
“If you have read those letters,” she murmured, when she had strength enough to speak, “you must know that I am not as unworthy as you think. I am very guilty—but I still have a right to be forgiven.”
Christian, at this moment, had he been gifted with the intelligence which fathoms the mysteries of the heart, might have renewed the bonds which were so near being broken; he could at least have stopped Clemence upon a dangerous path and saved her from a most irreparable fall. But his nature was too unrefined for him to see the degrees which separate weakness from vice, and the intoxication of a loving heart from the depravity of a corrupt character. With the obstinacy of narrow-minded people, he had been looking at the whole thing in its worst light, and for several hours already he had decided upon his wife’s guilt in his own mind; this served now as a foundation for his stern conduct. His features remained perfectly impassive as he listened to Clemence’s words of justification, which she uttered in a weak, broken voice.
“I know that I merit your hatred-but if you could know how much I suffer, you would surely forgive me—You left me in Paris very young, inexperienced; I ought to have fought against this feeling better than I did, but I used up in this struggle all the strength that I had—You can see how pale and changed I have become within the past year. I have aged several years in those few months; I am not yet what you call a—a lost woman. He ought to have told you that—”
“Oh, he has! of course he has,” replied Christian with bitter irony. “Oh, you have in him a loyal cavalier!”
“You do not believe me, then! you do not believe me!” she continued, wringing her hands in despair; “but read these letters, the last ones. See whether one writes like this to a woman who is entirely lost—”
She tried to take the package which her husband held; instead of giving the letters to her, he lighted them at the candle and then threw them into the fireplace. Clemence uttered a cry and darted forward to save them, but Christian’s iron hand seized her and pushed her back into her chair.
“I understand how much you care for this correspondence,” said he, in a more excited tone, “but you are more loving than prudent. Let me destroy one witness which accuses you. Do you know that I have already killed a man on account of these letters?”
“Killed!” exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, whom this word drove almost to madness, for she could not understand its real meaning and applied it to her lover. “Well, then, kill me too, for I lied when I said that I repented. I do not repent! I am guilty! I deceived you! I love him and I abhor you; I love him! kill me!”
She fell upon her knees before him and dragged herself along the floor, striking her head upon it as if she wished to break it. Christian raised her and seated her in the chair, in spite of her resistance. She struggled in her husband’s arms, and the only words which she uttered were: “I love him! kill me! I love him! kill me!”
Her grief was so intense that Bergenheim really pitied her.
“You did not understand me,” he said, “he is not the man I killed.”
She became motionless, dumb. He left her then, from a feeling of compassion, and returned to his seat. They remained for some time seated in this way, one on each side of the fireplace; he, with his head leaning against the mantel; she, crouched in her chair with her face concealed behind her hands; only the striking of the clock interrupted this silence and lulled their gloomy thoughts with its monotonous vibrations.
A sharp, quick sound against one of the windows interrupted this sad scene. Clemence arose suddenly as if she had received a galvanic shock; her frightened eyes met her husband’s. He made an imperious gesture with his hand as if to order silence, and both listened attentively and anxiously.
The same noise was heard a second time. A rattling against the blinds was followed by a dry, metallic sound, evidently caused by the contact of some body against the window.
“It is some signal,” said Christian in a low voice, as he looked at his wife. “You probably know what it means.”
“I do not, I swear to you,” replied Clemence, her heart throbbing with a new emotion.
“I will tell you, then; he is there and he has something to say to you. Rise and open the window.”
“Open the window?” said she, with a frightened look.
“Do what I tell you. Do you wish him to pass the night under your window, so that the servants may see him?”
At this command, spoken in a severe tone, she arose. Noticing that their shadows might be seen from the outside when the curtains were drawn, Bergenheim changed the candles to another place. Clemence walked slowly toward the window; she had hardly opened it, when a purse fell upon the floor.
“Close it now,” said the Baron. While his wife was quietly obeying, he picked up the purse, and opening it, took the following note from it:
“I have ruined you—you for whom I would gladly have died! But of what use are regrets and despair now? And my blood will not wipe away your tears. Our position is so frightful that I tremble so speak of it. I ought to tell you the truth, however, horrible as it may be. Do not curse me, Clemence; do not impute to me this fatality, which obliges me thus to torture you. In a few hours I shall have expiated the wrongs of my love, or you yourself may be free. Free! pardon me for using this word; I know it is an odious one to you, but I am too troubled to find another. Whatever happens, I am about to put within your reach the only aid which it is possible for me to offer you; it will at least give you a choice of unhappiness. If you never see me again, to live with him will be a torture beyond your strength, perhaps, for you love me. I do not know how to express my thoughts, and I dare not offer you advice or entreat you. All that I feel is the necessity of telling you that my whole life belongs to you, that I am yours until death; but I hardly dare have the courage to lay at your feet the offering of a destiny already so sad, and which may soon be stained with blood. A fatal necessity sometimes imposes actions which public opinion condemns, but the heart excuses, for it alone understands them. Do not be angry at what you are about to read; never did words like these come out of a more desolate heart. During the whole day a post-chaise will wait for you at the rear of the Montigny plateau; a fire lighted upon the rock which you can see from your room will notify you of its presence. In a short time it can reach the Rhine. A person devoted to you will accompany you to Munich, to the house of one of my relatives, whose character and position will assure you sufficient protection from all tyranny. There, at least, you will be permitted to weep. That is all that I can do for you. My heart is broken when I think of the powerlessness of my love. They say that when one crushes the scorpion which has wounded him, he is cured; even my death will not repair the wrong that I have done you; it will only be one grief the more. Can you understand how desperate is the feeling which I experience now? For months past, to be loved by you has been the sole desire of my heart, and now I must repent ever having attained it. Out of pity for you, I ought to wish that you did love me with a love as perishable as my life, so that a remembrance of me would leave you in peace. All this is so sad that I have not the courage to continue. Adieu, Clemence! Once more, one last time, I must say: I love you! and yet, I dare not. I feel unworthy to speak to you thus, for my love has become a disastrous gift. Did I not ruin you? The only word that seems to be permissible is the one that even a murderer dares to address to his God: pardon me!”
After reading this, the Baron passed the letter to his wife without saying a word, and resumed his sombre attitude.
“You see what he asks of you?” he said, after a rather long pause, as he observed the dazed way in which Madame de Bergenheim’s eyes wandered over this letter.
“My head is bewildered,” she replied, “I do not understand what he says—Why does he speak of death?”
Christian’s lips curled disdainfully as he answered:
“It does not concern you; one does not kill women.”
“They need it not to die,” replied Clemence, who gazed at her husband with wild, haggard eyes.
“Then you are going to fight?” she added, after a moment’s pause.
“Really, have you divined as much?” he replied, with an ironical smile; “it is a wonderful thing how quick is your intelligence! You have spoken the truth. You see, each of us has his part to play. The wife deceives her husband; the husband fights with the lover, and the lover in order to close the comedy in a suitable manner—proposes to run away with the wife, for that is the meaning of his letter, notwithstanding all his oratorical precautions.”
“You are going to fight!” she exclaimed, with the energy of despair. “You are going to fight! And for me—unworthy and miserable creature that I am! What have you done? And is he not free to love? I alone am the guilty one, I alone have offended you, and I alone deserve punishment. Do with me what you will; shut me up in a convent or a cell; bring me poison, I will drink it.”
The Baron burst into sardonic laughter.
“So you are afraid that I shall kill, him?” said he, gazing at her intently, with his arms crossed upon his breast.
“I fear for you, for us all. Do you think that I can live after causing blood to be shed? If there must be a victim, take me—or, at least, begin with me. Have pity! tell me that you will not fight.”
“But think—there is an even chance that you may be set free!” said he.
“Spare me!” she murmured, shivering with horror.
“It is a pity that blood must be shed, is it not?” said Bergenheim, in a mocking tone; “adultery would be pleasant but for that. I am sure that you think me coarse and brutal to look upon your honor as a serious thing, when you do not do so yourself.”
“I entreat you!”
“I am the one who has to entreat you. This astonishes you, does it not?—While I live, I shall protect your reputation in spite of yourself; but if I die, try to guard it yourself. Content yourself with having betrayed me; do not outrage my memory. I am glad now that we have no children, for I should fear for them, and should feel obliged to deprive you of their care as much as lay in my power. That is one trouble the less. But as you bear my name, and I can not take it away from you, I beg of you do not drag it in the mire when I shall not be here to wash it for you.”
The young woman fell back upon her seat as if every fibre in her body had been successively torn to pieces.
“You crush me to the earth!” she said, feebly.
“This revolts you,” continued the husband, who seemed to choose the most cutting thrust; “you are young; this is your first error, you are not made for such adventures. But rest assured, one becomes accustomed to everything. A lover always knows how to find the most beautiful phrases with which to console a widow and vanquish her repugnances.”
“You are killing me,” she murmured, falling back almost unconscious in her chair.
Christian leaned over her, and, taking her by the arm, said in a low tone:
“Remember, if I die and he asks you to follow him, you will be an infamous creature if you obey him. He is a man to glory in you; that is easy enough to see. He is a man who would drag you after him—”
“Oh! have pity—I shall die—”
Clemence closed her eyes and her lips twitched convulsively.
The first rays of the morning sun fell upon another scene in the opposite wing of the chateau. Marillac was quietly sleeping the sleep of the just when he was suddenly awakened by a shaking that nearly threw him out of his bed.
“Go to the devil!” he said, angrily, when he succeeded in half opening his heavy eyes, and recognized Gerfaut standing beside his bed.
“Get up!” said the latter, taking him by the arm to give more force to his command.
The artist covered himself with the clothes up to his chin.
“Are you walking in your sleep or insane?” asked Marillac, “or do you want me to go to work?” he added, as he saw that his friend had some papers in his hand. “You know very well I never have any ideas when fasting, and that I am stupid until noon.”
“Get up at once!” said Gerfaut, “I must have a talk with you.”
There was something so serious and urgent in Gerfaut’s accent as he said these words, that the artist got up at once and hurriedly dressed himself.
“What is the matter?” he asked, as he put on his dressing-gown, “you look as if the affairs of the nation rested upon you.”
“Put on your coat and boots,” said Octave, “you must go to La Fauconnerie. They are used to seeing you go out early in the morning for your appointments with Reine, and therefore—”
“It is to this shepherdess you would send me!” interrupted the artist, as he began to undress himself; “in that case I will go to bed again. Enough of that!”
“I am to fight with Bergenheim at nine o’clock!” said Gerfaut, in a low voice.
“Stupendous!” exclaimed Marillac, as he jumped back a few steps, and then stood as motionless as a statue. Without wasting any time in unnecessary explanations, his friend gave him a brief account of the night’s events.
“Now,” said he, “I need you; can I count upon your friendship?”
“In life and in death!” exclaimed Marillac, and he pressed his hand with the emotion that the bravest of men feel at the approach of a danger which threatens one who is dear to them.
“Here,” said Gerfaut, as he handed him the papers in his hand, “is a letter for you in which you will find my instructions in full; they will serve you as a guide, according to circumstances. This sealed paper will be deposited by you in the office of the public prosecutor at Nancy, under certain circumstances which my note explains. Finally, this is my will. I have no very near relative; I have made you my heir.
“Listen to me! I do not know a more honest man than you, that is the reason why I select you. First, this legacy is a trust. I speak to you now in case of events which probably will never happen, but which I ought to prepare for. I do not know what effect this may have upon Clemence’s fate; her aunt, who is very austere, may quarrel with her and deprive her of her rights; her personal fortune is not very large, I believe, and I know nothing about her marriage settlement. She may thus be entirely at her husband’s mercy, and that is what I will not allow. My fortune is therefore a trust that you will hold to be placed at her disposal at any time. I hope that she loves me enough not to refuse this service of me.”
“Well and good!” said Marillac; “I will admit that the thought of inheriting from you choked me like a noose around my neck.”
“I beg of you to accept for yourself my copyrights as author. You can not refuse that,” said Gerfaut, with a half smile; “this legacy belongs to the domain of art. To whom should I leave it if not to you, my Patroclus, my faithful collaborator?”
The artist took several agitated turns about his room.
“To think,” he exclaimed, “that I was the one who saved this Bergenheim’s life! If he kills you, I shall never forgive myself. And yet, I told you this would end in some tragic manner.”
“What business had he there? Is it not so? What can I say? We were seeking for a drama; here it is. I am not anxious on my own account, but on hers. Unhappy woman! A duel is a stone that might fall upon a man’s head twenty times a day; it is sufficient for a simpleton if you stare at him, or for an awkward fellow if you tread upon his toes; but on her account—poor angel!—I can not think of it. I need the fullest command of my head and my heart. But it is growing lighter; there is not a moment to lose. Go to the stable; saddle a horse yourself, if there is no servant up; go, as I said, to La Fauconnerie; I have often seen a post-chaise in the tavern courtyard; order it to wait all day at the back of the Montigny plateau. You will find everything explained in detail in the note which I have given you. Here is my purse; I need no money.”
Marillac put the purse in his pocket and the papers in his memorandum-book; he then buttoned up his redingote and put on his travelling cap. His countenance showed a state of exaltation which belied, for the time being, the pacific theories he had expounded a few days before.
“You can depend upon me as upon yourself,” said he with energy. “If this poor woman calls for my aid, I promise you that I will serve her faithfully. I will take her wherever she wishes; to China, if she asks it, and in spite of the whole police force. If Bergenheim kills you and then follows her up, there will be another duel.”
As he said these words, he took his stiletto and a pair of pistols from the mantel and put them in his pocket, after examining the edge of the one and the caps of the others.
“Adieu!” said Gerfaut.
“Adieu!” said the artist, whose extreme agitation contrasted strongly with his friend’s calm. “Rest easy! I will look after her—and I will publish a complete edition—But what an idea—to accept a duel as irregular as this! Have you ever seen him use a gun? He had no right to exact this.”
“Hurry! you must leave before the servants are up.”
“Kiss me, my poor fellow!” said Marillac, with tears in his eyes; “it is not very manly I know, but I can not help it—Oh! these women! I adore them, of course; but just now I am like Nero, I wish that they all had but one head. It is for these little, worthless dolls that we kill each other!”
“You can curse them on your way,” said Gerfaut, who was impatient to see him leave.
“Oh, good gracious, yes! They can flatter themselves this moment that they all inspire me with a deadly hatred.”
“Do not make any noise,” said his friend, as he carefully opened the door.
Marillac pressed his hand for the last time, and went out. When he reached the end of the corridor, he stopped a moment, then went back.
“Above all things,” said he, as he passed his head through the half-open door, “no foolish proceedings. Remember that it is necessary that one of you should fall, and that if you fail; he will not. Take your time—aim—and fire at him as you would at a rabbit.”
After this last piece of advice, he went away; ten minutes after he had left, Gerfaut saw him riding out of the courtyard as fast as Beverley’s four legs would carry him.
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