CHAPTER IV.
AVOID TEMPTATION!
It is night. Profound silence reigns in the pavilion inhabited by Jacques Ferrand, interrupted only at intervals by gusts of wind and the dashing of rain, which falls in torrents. These melancholy sounds seemed to render still more complete the solitude of this abode. In a sleeping-room in the first floor, very nicely and newly furnished, and covered with a thick carpet, a young female is standing up before a fireplace, in which there is a cheerful blaze. It is strange, but in the centre of the door, carefully bolted, and which is opposite to the bed, is a small glass door, five or six inches square, which opens from the outside. A small reflecting lamp casts a half shadow in this chamber, hung with garnet-coloured paper; the curtains of the bed and the window, as well as the cover of the large sofa, are of silk and woollen damask of the same colour. We are precise in the details of this demi-luxury so recently imported into the notary's residence, because it announces a complete revolution in the habits of Jacques Ferrand, who, until now, was of the most sordid avarice, and of Spartan disregard (especially as it concerned others) to everything that respected comfortable existence. It is on this garnet-coloured ground that was shadowed forth the figure of Cecily, which we will now attempt to paint.
Tall and graceful, the creole was in the full flower of her age. Her spreading shoulders and hips made her waist appear so singularly small that it seemed as if it could be easily spanned. As simple as it was coquettish, her Alsatian costume was of singular taste, somewhat theatrical,—but for that reason more capable of producing the effect she desired. Her bodice, of black cassimere, half open on her full bosom, was very long-waisted, with tight sleeves, plain back, and slightly embroidered with purple wool down the seams, perfected by a row of small cut silver buttons. A short petticoat, of orange merino, which seemed of vast fullness, descended little lower than the knee; her stockings were of scarlet, with blue clocks, as we see them in the drawings of the old Flemish painters, who so complacently show us the garters of their robust heroines.
No artist ever drew more perfect legs than were those of Cecily: symmetrical and slim beneath the swelling calf, they terminated in a small foot, quite at ease, and yet restrained in a small slipper of black morocco, with silver buckles. Cecily was looking into the glass over the mantelpiece. The slope of her bodice displayed her elegant and dimpled neck of dazzling but not transparent whiteness.
Taking off her cap of cherry-coloured velvet to replace it with a kerchief, she displayed her thick, magnificent head of hair, of lustrous black, which, divided over her brows, and naturally curling, came down only to the necklace of Venus, which unites the neck and shoulders.
It is necessary to know the inimitable taste with which the Creoles twist around their heads their kerchiefs of bright hues, to have an idea of the graceful head-dress of Cecily, and the piquant contrast of this variegated covering of purple, blue, and orange, with the black silky tresses, which, escaping from beneath the tight fold of the nightkerchief, surrounded her pale but round and firm cheeks. With her two arms raised above her head, she proceeded with the ends of her fingers, as slender as spindles of ivory, to arrange a large rosette, placed very low on the left side, almost over the ear.
Cecily's features were such as once seen it is impossible ever to forget. A bold forehead, somewhat projecting, surmounts her face, which was a perfect oval; her pearly white complexion, the satiny freshness of the camelia leaf slightly touched by a sun-ray; her eyes, of almost disproportionate size, have a singular expression, for their irises, extremely large, black, and brilliant, hardly allow the blue transparency of the orbits, at the two extremities of the lids, fringed with long lashes, to be visible; her chin is very distinctly prominent; her nose, straight and thin, ends in two delicate nostrils, which dilate on the least emotion; her mouth, insolent and amorous, is of bright purple.
We must imagine this colourless countenance, with its bright black glance, its two red, pulpy, and humid lips, which glisten like wet coral. Such was Cecily. Her infamous instincts, at first repressed by her real attachment for David, not being developed till she reached Europe, civilisation and the influence of northern climates had tempered their violence.
We have already said that Cecily had scarcely reached Germany, when, first seduced by a man of desperately depraved habits, she, unknown to David, who loved her with equal idolatry and blindness, exercised and turned to account, for a considerable time, all her seductive powers; but soon the scandal of her adventures was raised abroad, and such exposures ensued that she was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment.
To all this let there be joined a plastic, adroit, insinuating mind, an intelligence so wonderful that in a year she spoke French and German with perfect ease, sometimes even with natural eloquence; then add a corrupted heart worthy of the courtesan queen of ancient Rome, an audacity and courage proof against everything, instincts of diabolical wickedness, and then we may understand the new servant of Jacques Ferrand, the resolute being who had dared to venture into the wolf's den.
Yes, strange anomaly! On learning from M. de Graün the inciting and platonic part she was to play with the notary, and what avenging ends were to be derived from her seductions, Cecily had promised to go through the character with love, or, rather, terrible hatred against Jacques Ferrand, being sincerely indignant at the recital of the infamous violence he had exercised against Louise,—a recital necessary to be unfolded to the creole, to put her on her guard against the hypocritical attempts of this monster. A few retrospective words as to this latter are indispensable.
When Cecily was presented by Madame Pipelet as an orphan over whom she did not desire to maintain any right, any control, the notary was, perhaps, less smitten by the beauty of the creole than fascinated by her irresistible look,—a look which, at the first interview, disturbed the reason of Jacques Ferrand.
We have already said, in reference to the insensate boldness of some of his words when conversing with Madame de Lucenay, that this man, usually so completely master of himself, so calm, so cunning, so subtle, forgot the cold calculations of his deep dissimulation when the demon of desire darkened his better sense.
Besides, he had no cause to distrust the protégée of Madame Pipelet. After her conversation with Alfred's spouse, Madame Séraphin had proposed to Jacques Ferrand a young girl, almost destitute, to replace Louise, and he had eagerly accepted the offer, in the hopes of taking advantage of the isolated and precarious position of his new servant. Moreover, far from being predisposed to mistrust, Jacques Ferrand found, in the march of events, fresh motives for security.
All succeeded to his utmost wishes. The death of Madame Séraphin released him from a dangerous accomplice; the death of Fleur-de-Marie (he believed her dead) delivered him from a living proof of one of his earliest crimes. Finally, thanks to the death of the Chouette, and the unexpected murder of the Countess Macgregor (whose life was despaired of), he no longer had these two women to fear, whose disclosures and attacks might have been most disastrous to him.
The disposition, habits, and former life of Jacques Ferrand known and displayed, the exciting beauty of the creole admitted, as we have endeavoured to paint her, together with other facts we shall detail as we proceed, will account, we presume, for the sudden passion, the unbridled desire of the notary for this seductive and dangerous creature. Then we must add, that if women of Cecily's stamp inspire nothing but repugnance and disgust to men endued with tender and elevated sentiments, with delicate and pure tastes, they exercise a sudden action, a magic omnipotence, over men of brutal sensuality like Jacques Ferrand. Thus a just, an avenging fatality, brought the creole into contact with the notary, and a terrible expiation was beginning for him. A fierce passion had urged him on to persecute, with pitiless malice, an indigent and honest family, and to spread amongst them misery, madness, and death. This passion was now to be the formidable chastisement of this great culprit.
Although Jacques Ferrand was never to have his desires realised, the creole took care not to deprive him of all hope; but the vague and distant prospects she held out were so coloured by caprices that they were an additional torture, and more completely enslaved him.
If we are astonished that a man of such vigour and audacity had not recourse to stratagem or violence to triumph over the calculating resistance of Cecily, we forget that Cecily was not a second Louise. Besides, the day after her presentation to the notary, she had played quite another part from that by aid of which she had been introduced to her master, for he had not been the dupe of his servant two days.
Forewarned of the fate of Louise by the Baron de Graün, and knowing besides by what abominable means she had become the prey of the notary, the creole, on entering this solitary house, had taken excellent precautions for passing her first night there in perfect security. The evening of her arrival, being alone with Jacques Ferrand, he, in order not to alarm her, pretended scarcely to look at her, and rudely ordered her to bed. She told him, naïvely, that she was afraid of thieves in the night, but that she was resolute, and capable of defending herself; at the same time drawing from her large woollen pelisse a small but exceedingly keen stiletto, the sight of which set the notary thinking.
Believing that Cecily was afraid of robbers only, he showed her to the late chamber of Louise; after having examined it, Cecily said, trembling, she would sleep in a chair, because the door had neither lock nor bolt. Jacques Ferrand, unwilling to compromise himself by rousing Cecily's suspicions, promised a bolt should be fixed. The creole did not go to bed.
In the morning the notary sent to her to show her how to set about her work. He had promised himself to preserve for the first few days a hypocritical reserve with respect to his new servant, in order to inspire her with confidence; but smitten by her beauty, which by daylight was even more striking, blinded, maddened by his desires, which already got the better of him, he stammered out some compliments as to the figure and beauty of Cecily. She, with keen sagacity, had judged that, from her first interview with the notary, he was completely caught in her spells; at the confession he made of his flame, she thought it policy to cast aside at once her feigned timidity, and, as we have said, to change her mask. The creole suddenly assumed a bold air. Jacques Ferrand again complimented her beauty and her graceful figure.
"Look at me well!" said Cecily to him, in a bold tone. "Although I am dressed as an Alsatian peasant, do I look like a servant?"
"What do you mean?" cried Jacques Ferrand.
"Look at this hand, does it appear accustomed to hard labour?" and she presented a white, delicate hand, with long and slender fingers, with nails as rosy and polished as agate, but whose root, slightly browned, betrayed the creole blood. "And this foot, is it that of a servant?" and she protruded a beautiful small foot, coquettishly shod, which the notary had not before remarked, and from which he only removed his eyes to gaze on Cecily with amazement. "I told my Aunt Pipelet what story I chose; she knew nothing of my former life, and believes me reduced to my present condition through the death of my parents, and takes me for a servant,—but you, I hope, have too much sagacity to show her error, dear master."
"Who, then, are you?" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more surprised at her language.
"That is my secret. For reasons best known to myself I was obliged to quit Germany in this attire. I wished to remain concealed in Paris for some time, being as secluded as possible. My aunt, supposing me reduced to misery, proposed to me your service, telling me of the solitary life which I must of compulsion lead in your house, informing me that I should never have leave to quit it. I accepted the offer unhesitatingly,—without knowing it my aunt had anticipated my most earnest desire. Who would think of looking for and finding me here?"
"And what have you done to compel you to seek concealment?"
"Agreeable sins, perhaps; but that is, also, my secret."
"And what are your intentions, mademoiselle?"
"What they always have been. But for your significant compliments as to my shape and beauty, perhaps I should not have confessed so much to you; although, no doubt, your clear-sightedness would, sooner or later, have induced my confession. Now listen to me, my dear master. I have for the moment accepted the condition—or, rather, the character—of a servant; circumstances compelled me. I have courage enough to sustain the character to the end, and will risk all the consequences. I will serve you with zeal, activity, and respect, in order to retain my situation, that is to say, a sure and unknown asylum. But on the least word of gallantry, the least liberty you take with me, I will leave you,—not from prudery, there is nothing of the prude about me, I fancy." And she darted a look at the notary which had full effect. "No, I am no prude!" she continued, with a provoking smile, which displayed her teeth of dazzling whiteness. "Indeed, no, when I love, I do love! But be discreet, and you will see that your unworthy servant has no desire but honestly to discharge her duty as a servant.
"Now you have my secret, or, at least, a portion of it. But should you, by any chance, desire to act as a gentleman, should you find me too handsome to serve you, should you like to change parts, and become my slave, be it so! Frankly speaking, I should prefer it, and had rather you should feel paternally disposed towards me. That would not prevent you from saying that you found me charming; this will be the recompense of your devotion and discretion."
"The only one? The only one?" stammered Jacques Ferrand.
"The only one, unless solitude make me mad,—which is impossible, for you will keep me company. Come, make up your mind,—no ambiguity. I either serve you, or you shall serve me; if not, I leave your house, and beg my aunt to find me another place. All this may, perhaps, appear strange to you; but if you take me for an adventuress, without any means of existence, you are wrong. In order that my aunt should be my accomplice without knowing it, I have made her believe that I was so poor that I could not purchase any other garments than those I now wear. I have, however, as you see, a tolerably well filled purse; on this side gold, on the other diamonds" (and Cecily displayed before the notary's eyes a long, red silk purse, filled with gold, and through the meshes of which he could also see several sparkling gems). "Unfortunately all the money in the world could not purchase for me a retreat so secure as your house,—so isolated, from the very solitude in which you live. Accept, then, one or other of my offers, and you will do me a kindness. You see I place myself almost at your discretion; for to say to you, I conceal myself, is to say to you I am sought for. But I am sure you will not betray me, even if you could."
This romantic confidence, this sudden change of character, completely upset all Jacques Ferrand's ideas. Who was this woman? Why did she conceal herself? Was it chance alone that had brought her to him? If she came with some secret aim, what could it be? Amongst all the ideas which this singular adventure gave rise to in the notary's mind, the real motive of the creole's presence did not occur to him. He had not, or, rather, he believed he had no other enemies than the victims of his licentiousness and his cupidity, and all these were in such miserable circumstances that he could not suspect them capable of spreading any net for him, of which Cecily should be the bait.
And then, moreover, what could be the motive of any such snare? No, the sudden transformation of Cecily inspired Jacques Ferrand with one fear only—he believed that this woman did not tell the truth, and was, perhaps, an adventuress, who, thinking him rich, had introduced herself into his house to wheedle and get money from him, and, perhaps, induce him to marry her. But although his avarice at once revolted at this idea, he perceived (and trembled) that his suspicions and reflections were too late, for he might by one word have calmed his distrust by sending away this woman from his house,—but this word he could not say.
These thoughts hardly occupied him a moment, so fascinated had he become. He already loved, after his own fashion, and the idea of being separated from this enchanting creature seemed impossible; and he felt also a jealousy, which made him say to himself, "So long as she is immured in my house, she can have no other lover." The boldness of her language, the wantonness of her look, the freedom of her manner, all revealed that she was not (as she had said) a prude. This conviction, giving vague hopes to the notary, still more assured Cecily's empire. In a word, Jacques Ferrand's passion choking the calm voice of reason, he blindly resigned himself to all that might result.
It was agreed that Cecily should only be the servant in appearance; thus there would be no scandal. Besides, in order the more completely to render his guest at her ease, he was not to engage any other servant, but make up his mind to wait on her and on himself. The meals were brought from a neighbouring tavern, the porter swept out and attended to the office, and he paid for his clerks' breakfast. Then the notary would furnish at once an apartment on the first floor, as Cecily wished. She desired to pay for it, but he refused, and spent two thousand francs (80l.). This was enormous generosity, and proved the unheard-of violence of his passion.
Then began the terrible life of this miserable wretch. Enclosed in the impenetrable solitude of this house, inaccessible to all, more and more under the galling yoke of his mad love, careless of penetrating the secret of this singular woman; from a master he was made a slave,—he was Cecily's valet, served her at meal-times, and took care of her apartment. Forewarned by the baron that Louise had been overcome by a narcotic, the creole drank only pure water, eating only of dishes with which it was impossible to tamper. She had selected the apartment she was to occupy, assuring herself that there was there no concealed entrance. Besides, Jacques Ferrand soon discovered that Cecily was not a woman whom he could assail with impunity; she was vigorous, agile, and dangerously armed; thus a frenzied delirium alone could have incited him to attempt force, and she was quite protected from this peril.
Yet, that she might not weary and utterly repulse the notary's passion, the creole seemed sometimes touched by his assiduities, and flattered by the control which she exercised over him. And, perceiving that he hoped, by dint of proofs of devotion and self-denial, he should contrive to make her overlook his age and ugliness, she amused herself with telling him that, if she ever could love him, how excessive that love would be. With this Jacques Ferrand's reason wandered, and he would frequently walk in his garden at night absorbed in his own reflections. Sometimes he gazed for hours into the bedroom of the creole; for she had allowed a small window to be made in the door, which she frequently and intentionally left open. Absorbed, lost, wandering, indifferent to his most important interests, or the preservation of his reputation as an austere, serious, and pious man,—a reputation usurped, it is true, but, at the same time, acquired after long years of dissimulation and chicanery,—he amazed his clerks by his aberration of mind, offended his clients by his refusals to receive them, and abruptly refused the visits of the priests, who, deceived by his hypocrisy, had been until then his warmest champions.
We have said that Cecily was dressing her head before her glass. At a slight noise in the corridor she turned her head towards the door. In spite of the noise she had heard, Cecily continued her night toilet tranquilly. She drew from her corsage, where it was placed almost like a busk, a stiletto five or six inches long, enclosed in a case of black shagreen, having a small ebony handle, with silver threads,—a plain handle, but very fit for use; it was not a mere weapon for show. Cecily took the dagger from its scabbard with excessive precaution, and laid it on the marble mantelpiece. The blade, of finest temper and Damascus steel, was triangular, with keen edges; and the point, as sharp as a needle, would have pierced a shilling without turning the edge. Impregnated with a subtle and rapid poison, the slightest puncture of this poniard was mortal. Jacques Ferrand having one day alluded to the danger of this weapon, the creole made in his presence an experiment, in animâ vita,—that is to say, on the unfortunate house-dog, which, slightly pricked on the nose, fell and died in horrible convulsions. The stiletto placed on the mantelpiece, Cecily took off her black bodice, and was then, with her shoulders, neck, and arms denuded, like a lady in her ball-dress. Like most of the creole women, she wore, instead of stays, another bodice of stout linen, which fitted her figure very closely; her orange-coloured petticoat, remaining attached to this sort of white spencer, with short sleeves, and cut very low, formed a costume less precise than the other, and harmonised wonderfully with the scarlet stocking, and the coloured handkerchief, so coquettishly arranged around the creole's head. Nothing could be more perfect, more beautifully defined, than the graceful contour of her arms and shoulders. A heavy sigh aroused Cecily's attention. She smiled, as she twisted around her finger one of her curling tresses, which had escaped from beneath her head-dress.
"Cecily! Cecily!" murmured a voice, which was plaintive though coarse. And through the wicket was visible the pale and flat face of Jacques Ferrand.
Cecily, silent until then, began to hum a creole air; the words of this melody were sweet and expressive. Although repressed, the full contra-alto of Cecily was heard above the noise of the torrents of the rain and gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old house to its very foundation.
"Cecily! Cecily!" repeated Jacques Ferrand, in a tone of supplication.
The creole paused suddenly and turned her head around quickly, as if, for the first time, she then heard the notary's voice; and going towards the door,—
"What, dear master (she called him so in derision), you there?" she said, with a slight foreign accent, which gave additional charm to her full and sarcastic voice.
"Oh, how beautiful you are!" murmured the notary.
"You think so?" said Cecily. "Doesn't my head-dress become me?"
"I think you handsomer every day."
"Only see how white my arm is."
"Monster, begone! Begone!" shouted Jacques Ferrand, furious.
Cecily burst into a loud fit of laughter.
"No, no, it is too much to suffer! Oh, if I were not afraid of death!" said the notary, gloomily. "But to die is to renounce you altogether, and you are so beautiful! I would rather, then, suffer—and look at you."
"Look at me? Why, that's what the wicket was made for; and so we can thus chat, like two friends in our solitude, which really is not irksome to me, you are such a good master! What a dangerous confession I make through the door!"
"Will you never open this door? You see how submissive I am; this evening I might have tried to enter into your chamber with you, but I did not do so."
"You are submissive for two reasons: in the first place, because you know that, having, from the necessity of my wandering life, always had the precaution to carry a stiletto, I can manage with a strong hand this inestimable jewel, whose tooth is sharper than a viper's; and you know, too, that, from the day in which I have to complain of you, I will quit this roof for ever, leaving you a thousand times more enamoured than ever,—since you have so greatly honoured your unworthy servant as to say that you are enamoured of her."
"My servant? It is I who am your slave,—your mocked, derided, despised slave!"
"That's true enough."
"And yet it does not move you?"
"It amuses me; the days, and especially the nights, are so long!"
"Accursed creature!"
"But, seriously, you look so perfectly wretched, your features have so sensibly altered, that I am quite flattered at it. It is a poor triumph, but you are the only one here."
"To hear that, and me consume in impotent rage!"
"Have you really any understanding? Why, I never said anything more tender."
"Jeer at me,—jeer at me!"
"I do not jeer. I never before saw a man of your age in love after your fashion; and, I must confess, a young and handsome man would be incapable of these outrageous passions. An Adonis admires himself as much as he admires us; he likes us, and we choose to notice him,—nothing more simple. He has a claim to our love, but is hardly grateful; but to show favour to a man like you, my master dear, would be to take him from earth to heaven, to fulfil his wildest dreams, his most insensate hopes. For if some being were to say to you, 'You love Cecily to distraction, if I chose she should be yours next minute,' you would suppose such a being endued with supernatural power, shouldn't you, master dear?"
"Yes! Ah, yes!"
"Well, if you could convince me more satisfactorily of your passion, I might, perchance, have the whimsical fancy to enact this supernatural part myself in your favour. Do you comprehend?"
"I comprehend that you are still fooling me,—that you are still pitiless."
"Perhaps,—for solitude creates so many singular fancies."
Until this moment Cecily's accent had been sarcastic, but she pronounced these last words with a serious, reflecting tone, and accompanied them with a look which made the notary start.
"Silence! Do not look at me thus,—you will drive me mad! I would rather you denied me,—at least, I could then hate you,—drive you from my house!" cried Jacques Ferrand, who again gave himself up to a vain hope. "Yes, for I should then hope nothing from you. But, misery! Misery! I know you well enough now to hope, in spite of myself, that one day I might, from your very hate or proud caprice, obtain what I shall never owe to your love. You bid me convince you of my passion,—do you not see how unhappy I am? I will do all I can to please you. You desire to, be concealed from all eyes, and from all eyes I conceal you, perchance at the risk of compromising myself most seriously; for, indeed, I know not who you are. I respect your secret,—I never speak to you of it. I have interrogated you as to your past life, and you have given me no answer."
"Well, then, I was very wrong. I'll give you a mark of blind confidence, oh, master, dear! And so, listen."
"Another bitter jest, no doubt."
"No, a serious tale. You ought, at least, to know the life of her to whom you afford such generous hospitality." Then Cecily continued, in a tone of hypocritical and lachrymose earnestness, "Daughter of a brave soldier, brother of my Aunt Pipelet, I received an education, beyond my condition. I was seduced, and then abandoned, by a rich young gentleman; then, to escape the anger of my father, whose notions of honour were most strict, I fled my native country." Then bursting into a loud fit of laughter, Cecily added, "Now I hope that's what you call a very pretty and particularly probable tale, for it has been very often told. Amuse your curiosity with that until you get hold of some other story more interesting."
"I was certain it was some cruel jest," said the notary, with concentrated rage; "nothing touches you,—nothing. What must I do? Tell me. I serve you like the lowest footboy, for you I neglect my dearest interests,—I no longer know what I do. I am a subject of astonishment and derision to my own clerks; my clients hesitate any longer to entrust me with their affairs; I have severed my connection with some religious persons whom I knew intimately. I dare not think of what the world will say of my change of demeanour and habits. But you do not know,—no, you do not know the fatal consequences my mad passion for you may entail on me. Yet I give you ample proof of my devotion. Will you have more? Speak! Is it gold you would have? They think me richer than I am, but I—"
"What could I do with your gold?" asked Cecily, interrupting the notary, and shrugging her shoulders; "living in this chamber, what is the use of gold? Your invention is at fault."
"It is no fault of mine if you are a prisoner. Is this chamber displeasing to you? Will you have one more splendid? Speak! Order!"
"Once more, what is the use? What is the use? Oh, if I might here expect a beloved one, full of the love he inspires and participates, I would have gold, silks, flowers, perfumes, all the wonders of luxury; nothing could be too sumptuous, too enchanting to enshrine my love," said Cecily, with an impassioned voice.
"Well, these wonders of luxury, say but a word, and—"
"What's the use? What's the use? Why make a frame for which there is no picture? And the adored one! Where is he,—where is he, master, dear?"
"True," exclaimed the notary, with bitterness, "I am old, I am ugly, I can only inspire disgust and aversion. She overwhelms me with contempt, jests at me,—and yet I have not the resolution, the power to send her away. I have only the resolution to suffer!"
"Oh, silly old mourner! And what an absurd elderly gentleman, with his sufferings!" cried Cecily, in a contemptuous and sarcastic tone; "he only knows how to groan, to despair,—and yet he has been for ten days shut up alone with a young woman in a lone house."
"But this woman scorns me,—this woman is armed,—this woman is shut up!" groaned the notary, furiously.
"Well, conquer her scorn, make the dagger fall from her hands, compel her to open the door which separates her from yourself! But not by brute force, that would be useless."
"How, then?"
"By the strength of your passion."
"Passion! And can I inspire it?"
"Why, you are nothing but a lawyer, affecting piety,—I really pity you. Is it for me to teach you your part? You are ugly,—be terrible, and one may forget your ugliness. You are old,—be energetic, and one may forget your age. You are repulsive,—become menacing. Since you cannot be the noble steed that neighs proudly in the midst of his harem, do not become the stupid camel that bends the knee and offers his back; be the tiger! The old tiger, that roars in the midst of carnage, still excites admiration; his tigress responds to him from the deepest recesses of the desert."
At this language, which was not deficient in a sort of natural and hardy eloquence, Jacques Ferrand shuddered; struck by the expression, wild and almost fierce, which Cecily's features displayed, as, with her bosom palpitating, her nostrils open, her mouth defying, she fastened on him her large and brilliant black eyes. Never had she seemed to him more fascinating, or more resplendently beautiful than at this moment.
"Speak,—speak again!" he exclaimed, with excitement. "For now you speak in earnest. Oh, if I could—"
"One can do what one wishes," replied Cecily, sternly.
"But—"
"But I tell you, old as you are, if I were in your place I would undertake to engage the affections of a young and handsome woman, and once having achieved this result, what had been against me would turn to my advantage. What pride, what triumph to say to oneself, I have made my age and ugliness forgotten! The love that is shown me I do not owe to pity, but to my spirit, my courage, and my skill. Yes, and now if there were here some handsome young fellows, brilliant with grace and attractions, the lovely woman, whom I have subdued by proofs of a resistless and unbounded devotion, would not deign to cast a look at them. No; for she would know that these elegant effeminates would fear to compromise the tie of their cravat, or a curl of their hair, in obedience to her caprices; whilst if she cast her handkerchief in the midst of flames, on a signal from her her old tiger would rush into the furnace with a roar of ecstasy."
"Yes, I would do it! Try! Try!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more excited.
Cecily continued drawing nearer to the aperture, and fixing on Jacques Ferrand a steadfast and penetrating look.
"For this woman would well know," continued the creole, "that she would have some exorbitant caprice to satisfy,—that these dandies would look at their money, if they had any, or, if they had not, at some other low consideration, whilst her old tiger—"
"Would consider nothing,—nothing, I tell you. Fortune,—honour,—he—he—would sacrifice all!"
"Really?" said Cecily, putting her lovely fingers on the bony fingers of Jacques Ferrand, whose clutched hands, passed through the small glass door, were clasping the top of the ledge. "Would not this woman be ardently loved?" added Cecily. "If she had an enemy, and with a gesture pointed him out to her old tiger, and said to him, Strike—"
"And he would strike!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, attempting to press Cecily's fingers with his parched lips.
"Really, the old tiger would strike?" said the creole, placing her hand gently on the hand of Jacques Ferrand.
"To possess you," cried the wretch, "I could commit a crime—"
"Ah, master," said Cecily, suddenly, and withdrawing her hand, "go—go,—in my turn I scarcely know you,—you do not seem to me so ugly as you did just now. But go—go!" and she left the aperture abruptly.
The artful creature gave to her gestures and these last words an appearance of truth so perfect, and a look of such surprise, as if angry and disappointed with herself for having for an instant only appeared to forget the ugliness of Jacques Ferrand, that he, transported by frenzied hope, cried, as he clung convulsively to the ledge of the aperture:
"Cecily, come back,—come back! Bid me do what you will, I will be your tiger."
"No, no, master!" said Cecily, still retreating. "And in order to forget you, I will sing a song of my country."
"Cecily, return!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.
"No, no! Later, when I can without danger. But the light of this lamp hurts my eyes,—a soft languor overcomes my senses!" and Cecily extinguished the lamp, took down a guitar, and made up the fire, whose increased blaze then lighted up the whole apartment.
From the narrow window, where he stood motionless, such was the picture that Jacques Ferrand perceived. In the midst of the luminous circle formed by the flickering blaze on the fire Cecily, in a position full of softness and abandonnement, half reclining on a large sofa of garnet damask, held a guitar, on which she ran over several harmonious preludes. The fire-light threw its red tints on the creole, who appeared thus in strong relief. To complete the tableau, the reader must call to mind the mysterious and singular appearance of a room in which the fire from the grate struggles with the deep and large black shadows, which tremble on the ceiling and the walls. The storm without increased, and roared loudly.
Whilst she preludised on her guitar, Cecily fixed her eyes immovably on Jacques Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not take his look from her.
"Now, master mine," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country. We do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative, without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and pastoral, and I am sure, master, it will please you."
And Cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. Some soft and vibrating chords served as accompaniment. This was Cecily's song:
"Flowers—still flowers, everywhere.
My lover is coming—my hope of happiness unnerves me.
Let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer shade.
My lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest flowers.
The brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses will keep them closed.
Come—come—come—come, love! Come—come—come!"
These words, uttered with animation, as if the creole was addressing an unseen lover, were rendered by her the theme of a delicious melody; her charming fingers produced from the guitar, an instrument of no great power, vibrations full of harmony. The impassioned look of Cecily, her half closed, humid eyes fastened on Jacques Ferrand, were full of the expression of expectation. Words of love, delicious music, together conspired at the moment to bereave Jacques Ferrand of his reason; and, half frenzied, he exclaimed:
"Mercy, Cecily, mercy! You will drive me distracted! Oh, be silent, or I die! Oh, that I were mad!"
"Listen to the second couplet, master," said the creole, again touching the chords; and she thus continued her impassioned recitative:
"If my lover were here, and his hand touched my bare shoulder, I should tremble and die.
If he were here, and his curly hair touched my cheek, my pale cheek would become purple—my pale cheek would be on fire.
Soul of my Soul, if thou wert here, my parched lips would not utter a word.
Life of my Life, if thou wert here, I should expiring ask thy pardon.
'Tis sweet to die for and with those we love.
Angel, come—come to my heart—come—come—come!"
If the creole had rendered the first strophe with languid pleasure, she put in her last words all the enthusiasm of antique love; and as if the music had been powerless to express her intense passion, she threw her guitar from her, and, half rising and extending her arms towards the door, where Jacques Ferrand stood, she repeated, in a faltering, dying tone, "Oh, come—come—come!" It would be impossible to depict the electric look with which she accompanied these words. Jacques Ferrand uttered a terrible cry.
"Oh, death! Death to him whom you could thus love!" he cried, shaking the door in a burst of jealousy and furious rage.
Agile as a panther, Cecily was at the door with one bound; and, as if she with difficulty repressed her feigned transports, she said to Jacques Ferrand, in a low, concentrated, palpitating voice:
"Well, then, I will confess I am excited by my song. I did not mean to approach the door again, yet here I am, in spite of myself; for I hear still the words you said just now, 'If you bade me strike, I would strike.' You love me, then?"
"Will you have gold,—all my gold?"
"No, I have enough."
"Have you an enemy? I will kill him."
"I have no enemy."
"Will you be my wife? I'll marry you."
"I am married."
"What would you, then? Oh, what would you?"
"Prove to me that your passion for me is blind,—furious! And that you would sacrifice all to it."
"Ah!—yes—all. But how?"
"I do not know,—but a moment since your eyes fascinated me. If again you give me one of those marks of intense love, which excite the imagination of a woman to madness, I know not of what I should not be capable. Make haste, then, for I am capricious, and to-morrow, perhaps, all the impression will be effaced."
"But what proof can I give you at this moment?" cried the notary.
"You are but a fool, after all!" replied Cecily, retreating from the aperture with an air of disdain. "I was deceived,—I believed you capable of energetic devotion. Goodnight! It's a pity!"
"Cecily, do not leave me! Return! What can I do?"
"I was but too much disposed to listen to you; you will never have such another opportunity."
"But oh, tell me what you would have!" cried the notary, half mad.
"Eh! If you were as passionately in love as you say, you would find means to persuade me. Good night!"
"Cecily."
"I will shut the door, instead of opening it."
"Cecily,—listen! I will give you yet another proof of my devotion."
"What is this proof of your love?" said the creole, who, having approached the mantelpiece to resume her dagger, returned slowly towards the door, lighted by the flame of the hearth. Then, unobserved by the notary, she made sure of the action of an iron chain, which terminated in two small knobs, one of which was screwed into the door, and the other into the door-post.
"Listen!" said Jacques Ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice, "listen! If I place my honour, my fortune, my life, at your mercy,—now, this very instant,—will you then believe I love you?"
"Your honour, your fortune, your life! I do not comprehend you."
"If I confide to you a secret which may bring me to the scaffold, will you then believe me?"
"You a criminal? You do but jest. What, then, of your austere life,—your piety,—your honesty?"
"All—all a lie!"
"You pass for a saint, and yet you boast of these iniquities! No, there is no man so craftily skilful, so fortunately bold, as thus to captivate the confidence and respect of men; that were, indeed, a fearful defiance cast in the teeth of society!"
"I am that man,—I have cast that sarcasm, that defiance, in the face of society!" exclaimed the monster, in a tone of ecstatic pride.
"Jacques! Jacques! Do not speak thus!" said Cecily, with a tone of emotion. "You make me mad!"
"My head for your love,—will you have it so?"
"Ah, this, indeed, is love! Here, take my poniard,—you disarm me!"
Jacques Ferrand took, through the wicket, the dangerous weapon, with due precaution, and flung it from him to a distance in the corridor.
"Cecily, you believe me, then!" he exclaimed with transport.
"Do I believe you?" said the creole, energetically pressing her beautiful fingers on the clasped hands of Jacques Ferrand. "Oh, yes, I do! For now, again, you look as you did a short time since, when my very soul seemed fascinated by your gaze."
"Cecily, you will speak the words of, truth—and truth only—to me?"
"And can you doubt it for a moment? Ah, you will soon have ample proof of my sincerity. But what you are about to tell me is quite true,—is it not?"
"I repeat that you may believe each word I utter."
"So much the better, since you are enabled to prove your passion by the avowal of them."
"And if I tell you all?"
"Then will I, in return, withhold nothing from you; for if, indeed, you have this blind, this courageous confidence in me, Jacques, I will call no more for the ideal lover of my song, but you,—my hero, my tiger! to whom I will sing, 'Come—come—oh, come!'"
As Cecily uttered these words, with an air and voice of seductive tenderness, she drew so close to the wicket that Jacques Ferrand could feel the hot breath of the creole pass over his cheek, while her fresh, full lip lightly touched his coarse, vulgar hand. "Call me your tiger,—your slave,—what you will,—and if after that you but divulge what I entrust to you, my life will be the consequence. Yes, enchantress, a word from you, and I perish on a scaffold. My honour, reputation, nay, my very existence, are henceforward in your hands."
"Your honour?"
"Yes, even so. But listen. About ten years ago I was entrusted with the care of a child, and a sum of money for her use, amounting to two hundred thousand francs; well, I wronged the little creature by spreading a false report of her death, and then appropriated the money to my own purposes."
"It was boldly and cleverly done! Who would ever have believed you capable of such conduct?"
"Again. I had a cashier whom I detested, and I determined upon ruining him one way or other. Well, one evening, under some great emergency, he took from my cash-box a trifling amount of gold, which he paid back the next day; but to wreak my malice on the object of my dislike, I accused him of having stolen a large sum. Of course my testimony was believed, and the wretched man was thrown into prison. Now is not my honour—my very safety—at your will and pleasure? At your word both would be in peril."
"Then you love me, Jacques,—oh, truly, blindly love me! Since you thus surrender to me the most precious secrets of your heart, how plainly does it prove the empire I must have over you! Ah, believe me, I will not be niggardly in repaying you. Stoop that brow, from which have emanated so many infernal schemes, that I may press it with my lips."
"Were the scaffold erected for me," cried the excited notary, "did death stare me in the face, I would not now recall my words. But hearken to what I have still to confess. The child I formerly wronged and forsook has again crossed my path, her reappearance disquieted me, and I have had her murdered."
"Murdered! and by your orders? But how—in what manner?"
"A few days since; it occurred thus: Near the bridge of Asnières, at the Isle du Ravageur, a man named Martial, for a bribe, contrived to sink her in a boat made purposely with a false bottom. Are these particulars sufficient? Will you believe me now?"
"Oh, fiend! demon! You terrify while you fascinate me! In what consists your marvellous power and influence?"
"But listen further, for I have not yet finished my catalogue of crimes. Previously to that a man had entrusted me with one hundred thousand crowns. I contrived to waylay and blow out his brains, making it appear he had fallen by his own hand. Afterwards, when his sister claimed the money entrusted to my charge, I denied all knowledge of it. Now, then, I have proclaimed myself a malefactor, guilty of every crime. Will you not open your door, and admit a lover so ardent, so impatient as myself?"
"Jacques," exclaimed the creole, with much excitement, "I admire,—love,—nay, adore you!"
"Let a thousand deaths come!" cried the notary, in a state of enthusiastic delight impossible to describe, "I will brave them all! Oh, you are right! Were I ever so young, so handsome, or so seducing, I could not hope for joy such as now swells my heart. But delay not, charmer of my soul,—give me the key, or yourself undo the bolts which separate us. I can endure this torturing suspense no longer!"
The creole took from the lock, which she had carefully secured beforehand, the key so ardently prayed for, and, handing it to the notary through the aperture, said, in a languishing tone of utter abandonnement:
"Jacques, my senses seem forsaking me,—my brain is on fire,—I know not what I do or say."
"You are mine, then, at length, my adorable beauty!" cried he, with a wild shout of savage exultation, and hastily turning the key in the lock. But the firmly bolted door yielded not yet.
"Come, beloved of my heart!" murmured Cecily, in a languid voice; "bless me with your presence,—come!"
"The bolt! The bolt!" gasped out Jacques Ferrand, breathless with his exertions to force open the door.
"But what if you have been deceiving me?" cried the creole, as though a sudden thought had seized her; "if you have only invented the secrets with which you affect to entrust me, to mock at my credulity, to ensnare my confidence?"
The notary appeared thunderstruck with surprise at this fresh expression of doubt, at the very moment when he believed himself upon the point of attaining his wishes; to find a new obstacle arise when he considered success certain drove him almost furious. He rapidly thrust his hand into his breast, opened his waistcoat, impatiently snapped a steel chain, to which was suspended a small red morocco pocketbook, took it, and showing it to Cecily, through the aperture, cried, in a thick, palpitating voice:
"This book contains papers that would bring me to a scaffold; only undo the bolts which deny me entrance to your presence, and this book, with all its precious documents, is yours."
"Oh, then, let us seal the compact!" exclaimed Cecily, as, drawing back the bolt with as much noise as possible with one hand, with the other she seized the pocketbook.
But Jacques Ferrand permitted it not to leave his possession till he felt the door yield to his pressure. But though it partially gave way, it was but to leave an opening about half a foot wide, the solid chain which passed across it above the lock preventing any person's entering as completely as before. At this unexpected obstacle Jacques Ferrand precipitated himself against the door and shook it with desperate fury, while Cecily, with the rapidity of thought, took the pocket-book between her teeth, opened the window, threw a large cloak out into the yard below, and, light and agile as bold and daring, seized a knotted cord previously secured to the balcony, and glided from her chamber on the first floor to the court beneath, descending with the swiftness of an arrow shot from a bow. Then wrapping herself hastily in the mantle, she flew to the porter's lodge, opened the door, drew up the string, ran into the street, and sprang into a hackney-coach, which, ever since Cecily had been with Jacques Ferrand, came regularly every evening, in case of need, by Baron Graün's orders, and took up its station a short distance from the notary's house. Directly she had entered the vehicle it drove off at the topmost speed of the two strong, powerful horses that drew it, and had reached the Boulevards ere Jacques Ferrand had even discovered Cecily's flight.
We will now return to the disappointed wretch. From the situation of the door he was unable to perceive the window by which the creole had contrived to prepare and make good her flight; but concentrating all his powers, by a vigorous application of his brawny shoulders Jacques Ferrand succeeded in forcing out the chain which kept the door from opening.
With furious impatience he rushed into the chamber,—it was empty. The knotted cord was still suspended to the balcony of the window from which he leaned; and then, at the other extremity of the courtyard, he saw by means of the moon, which just then shone out from behind the stormy clouds which had hitherto obscured it, the dim outline of the outer gate swinging to and fro as though left open by some person having hastily passed through. Then did Jacques Ferrand divine the whole of the scheme so successfully laid to entrap him; but a glimmer of hope still remained. Determined and vigorous, he threw his leg over the balcony, let himself down in his turn by the cord, and hastily quitted the house.
The street was quite deserted,—not a creature was to be seen; and the only sound his ear could detect was the distant rumbling of the wheels of the vehicle that bore away the object of his search. The notary, who supposed it to be the carriage of some person whose business or pleasure took them late from home, paid no attention to this circumstance.
There was then no chance of finding Cecily, whose absence was the more disastrous, as she carried with her the positive proof of his crimes. As this fearful certainty came over him, he fell, struck with consternation, on a bench placed against his door, where he long remained, mute, motionless, and as though petrified with horror. His eyes fixed and haggard, his teeth clenched, and his lips covered with foam, tearing his breast, as though unconsciously, till the blood streamed from it, he felt his very brain dizzy with thought, till his ideas were lost in a fathomless abyss.
When he recovered from his stupor he arose and staggered onwards with an unsteady and faltering step, like a person just aroused from a state of complete intoxication. He violently shut the entrance door and returned to the courtyard. The rain had by this time ceased, but the wind still continued strong and gusty, and drove rapidly along the heavy gray clouds which veiled without entirely excluding the brightness of the moon, whose pale and sickly light shone on the house.
Somewhat calmed by the clear freshness of the night air, Jacques Ferrand, as though hoping to find relief from his internal agitation by the rapidity of his movements, plunged into the muddy paths of his garden, walking with quick, hurried steps, and from time to time pressing his clenched hands against his forehead. Heedless of the direction he proceeded in, he at length reached the termination of a walk, adjoining to which was a dilapidated greenhouse.
Suddenly he stumbled heavily against a mass of newly disturbed earth. Mechanically he stooped down to examine the nature of the impediment which presented itself; the deep hole which had been dug, and morsels of torn garments lying by, told him with awful certainty that he stood by the grave dug by poor Louise Morel to receive the remains of her dead infant,—her infant, which was also the child of the heartless, hardened wretch who now stood trembling and conscience-stricken beside this fearful memento of his sensuality and brutal persecution of a poor and helpless girl. And spite of his hardihood, his long course of sin and seared conscience, a deadly tremor shook his frame, he felt an instinctive persuasion that the hour of deep retribution was at hand.
Under other circumstances Jacques Ferrand would have trampled the humble grave beneath his feet without remorse or concern, but now, exhausted by the preceding scene, he felt his usual boldness forsake him, while fear and trembling came upon him. A cold sweat bedewed his brow, his tottering knees refused to support him, and he fell motionless beside the open grave.