"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.