So much fatigue of body and mind, so much suffering had almost exhausted my sensibility. I hardly wept for my mother; I shut myself up in her room after they had taken her body away, and there I remained, crushed and despondent, for several months, occupied solely in reviewing the past in all its phases, and never bethinking myself to wonder what I should do in the future. My aunt, who had greeted me very coldly at first, was touched by this mute grief, which her character understood better than the more demonstrative form of tears. She looked after my welfare in silence, and saw to it that I did not allow myself to die of hunger. The melancholy aspect of that house, which I had known so cheerful and bright, was well adapted to my frame of mind. I saw the old furniture, which recalled the numberless trivial events of my childhood. I compared that time, when a scratch on my finger was the most terrible catastrophe that could disturb the tranquillity of my family, with the infamous and blood-stained life I had subsequently led. I saw, on the one hand, my mother at the ball, on the other, the Princess Zagarolo dying of poison in my arms, perhaps by my hand. The music of the violins echoed in my dreams amid the shrieks of the murdered Henryet; and, in the seclusion of the prison, where, during three months of agony, I had seemed to hear a sentence of death each day, I saw coming toward me, amid the glare of candles and the perfume of flowers, my own ghost clad in silver crêpe and covered with jewels. Sometimes, tired out by these confused and terrifying dreams, I walked to the window, raised the curtains and looked out upon that city where I had been so happy and so flattered, and on the trees of that promenade where so much admiration had followed my every step. But I soon noticed the insulting curiosity which my pale face aroused. People stopped under my window or stood in groups talking about me, almost pointing their fingers at me. Then I would step back, drop the curtains, sit down beside my mother's bed and remain there until my aunt came with her silent face and noiseless step, took my arm and led me to the table. Her manner toward me at that crisis of my life, seemed to me most generous and most appropriate to my situation. I would not have listened to words of consolation, I could not have endured reproaches, I should not have put faith in marks of esteem. Silent affection and unobtrusive compassion made more impression on me. That dismal face, which moved noiselessly about me like a ghost, like a reminder of the past, was the only face that neither disturbed nor terrified me. Sometimes I took her dry hands and held them to my lips for several minutes, without giving vent to a sigh. She never replied to that caress, but stood patiently, and did not withdraw her hands from my kisses; that was much.
I no longer thought of Leoni except as a ghastly memory which I sought with all my strength to banish. The thought of returning to him made me shudder as the sight of an execution would have done. I had not energy enough remaining to love him or hate him. He did not write to me and I was hardly aware of it, I had counted so little on his letters. One day there came one which told me of new disasters. A will of the Princess Zagarolo had been found, bearing a later date than ours. One of her servants, in whom she had confidence, had had the will in his custody ever since the day of its date. She had made it at the time that Leoni had neglected her to take care of me, and she was doubtful as to our relationship. Afterward, when she became reconciled to us, she had intended to destroy it; but, as she was subject to innumerable whims, she had kept both wills, so that she might at any time decide which she would leave in force. Leoni knew where his was kept; but the existence of the other was known only to Vincenzo, the princess's man of confidence; and he was under instructions to burn it at a sign from her. She did not anticipate, poor creature, such a sudden and violent death. Vincenzo, whom Leoni had laden with benefactions, and who was altogether devoted to him at that time, having moreover no knowledge of the princess's final intentions, kept the will without saying a word, and allowed us to produce ours. He might have enriched himself by threatening us or selling his secret to the heirs-at-law; but he was not a dishonest man nor a wicked one. He allowed us to enjoy the inheritance, demanding no higher wages than he had previously received. But, when I had left Leoni, he became dissatisfied; for Leoni was brutal with his servants, and I retained them in his service only by my indulgence. One day Leoni forgot himself so far as to strike the old man, who at once pulled the will from his pocket and told him that he was going to take it to the princess's cousins. Threats, entreaties, offers of money, all were powerless to appease his anger. The marquis appeared on the scene and attempted to obtain possession of the fatal paper by force; but Vincenzo, who was a remarkably powerful man for his years, knocked him down, struck him, threatened to throw Leoni through the window if he attacked him, and hurried away to publish the document that avenged him. Leoni was at once dispossessed, and ordered to restore all that he had expended of the property, that is to say, three fourths of it. As he was unable to comply, he tried to fly, but in vain. He was put into prison, and it was from the prison that he wrote to me, not all the details which I have given you and which I learned afterward, but a few words in which he depicted the horror of his position. If I did not go to his aid, he might languish all his life in the most horrible captivity, for he no longer had the means to procure the comforts with which we had been able to surround ourselves at the time of our former confinement. His friends had abandoned him and perhaps were glad to be rid of him. He was absolutely without resources, in a damp cell, where he was already very ill with fever. His jewels, even his linen had been sold; he had almost nothing to protect him from the cold.
I started at once. As I had never intended to settle definitively in Brussels, and as naught but the indolence of grief had delayed me there for half a year, I had converted almost all of my inheritance into cash; I had often thought of using it to found a hospital for penitent girls, and to become a nun therein. At other times I had thought of depositing it in the Bank of France, and purchasing an inalienable annuity for Leoni, which would keep him from want and villainy forever. I should have retained for myself only a modest annuity, and have buried myself alone in the Swiss valley where the memory of my happiness would assist me to endure the horror of solitude. When I learned the new disaster that had befallen Leoni, I felt that my love and anxiety for him sprang into life, more intense than ever. I sent all my fortune to a banking house at Milan. I reserved only a sufficient amount to double the pension which my father had bequeathed to my aunt. That amount was represented, to her great satisfaction, by the house in which we lived and in which she had passed half of her life. I abandoned it to her and set out to join Leoni. She did not ask me where I was going; she knew only too well; she did not try to detain me, she did not thank me, she simply pressed my hand; but when I turned to look back, I saw rolling slowly down her wrinkled cheek the first tear I had ever known her to shed.
[XXII]
I found Leoni in a horrible condition, haggard, pale as death and almost mad. It was the first time that want and suffering had really taken hold of him. Hitherto he had simply seen his wealth vanish little by little, while seeking and finding means to replenish it. His disasters in that respect had been great; but card-sharping and chance had never left him long battling with the privations of poverty. His mental power had always remained intact, but it was overcome when physical strength abandoned him. I found him in a state of nervous excitement which resembled madness. I gave securities for his debt. It was easy for me to furnish proofs of my responsibility, for I had them upon me. So I entered his prison only to set him free. His joy was so intense that he could not endure it, and he had to be carried, unconscious, to a carriage.
I took him to Florence and surrounded him with all the comforts I could procure. When all his debts were paid, I had very little left. I devoted all my energies to making him forget the sufferings of his prison. His robust body was soon cured, but his mind remained diseased. The terrors of darkness and the agony of despair had made a profound impression upon that active, enterprising man, accustomed to the enjoyments of wealth, or to the excitement of the adventurer's life. Inaction had shattered him. He had become subject to childish terrors, to terrible outbreaks of violence; he could not endure the slightest annoyance; and the most horrible thing was that he vented his wrath on me for all the annoyances that I could not spare him. He had lost that will power which enabled him to face without fear the most precarious prospects for the future. He was terrified now at the thought of poverty and asked me every day what resources I should have when my present means were exhausted. I was appalled myself at the thought of the destitution which was impending. The time came at last. I began to paint pictures on screens, snuff-boxes and other small articles of Spa wood. When I had worked ten hours, my earnings amounted to eight or ten francs. That would have been enough for my needs; but for Leoni it was utter poverty. He longed for a hundred impossible things; he complained bitterly, savagely, because he was not richer. He often reproached me for having paid his debts and for not having fled with him and with my money too. To calm him, I was obliged to convince him that it would have been impossible for me to get him out of prison and commit that piece of rascality. He would stand at the windows and swear horribly at the rich people driving by in their carriages. He would point to his shabby clothes and say with an accent that I cannot possibly imitate: "Can't you help me to obtain a better coat? Won't you do it?" He finally told me so often that I could rescue him from his distress, and that it was cruel and selfish of me to leave him in that condition, that I thought that he was mad and no longer tried to argue with him on the subject. I held my peace whenever he recurred to it, and concealed my tears, which served only to irritate him. He thought that I understood his abominable hints and called my silence inhuman indifference and stupid obstinacy. Several times he struck me savagely and would have killed me if some one had not come to my assistance. It is true that when these paroxysms had passed, he threw himself at my feet and implored me with tears in his eyes to forgive him. But I avoided these scenes of reconciliation so far as I could, for the emotion caused a fresh shock to his nerves and provoked a return of the outbreaks. At last this irritability ceased and gave place to a sort of dull, stupid despair which was even more horrible. He would gaze at me with a gloomy expression, and seemed to nourish a secret aversion for me and projects of revenge. Sometimes I woke in the middle of the night and saw him standing by my bed, his face wearing a sinister expression; at such times I thought that he meant to kill me, and I shrieked with fear. But he would simply shrug his shoulders and return to his bed with a stupid laugh.
In spite of everything I loved him still, not as he was, but because of what he had been and might become again. There were times when I had hopes that a blessed revolution was taking place in him, and that he would come forth from that crisis a new man, cleansed of all his evil inclinations. He seemed no longer to think of satisfying them, nor did he express regret or desire for anything whatsoever. I could not imagine the subject of the long meditations by which he seemed to be absorbed. Most of the time his eyes were fixed upon me with such a strange expression that I was afraid of him. I dared not speak to him, but I asked his forgiveness by imploring glances. Then I would imagine that his own glance melted and that his breast rose with an imperceptible sigh; he would turn his head away as if he wished to conceal or stifle his emotion, and would fall to musing again. At such times I flattered myself that he was engaged in making salutary reflections concerning the past, and that he would soon open his heart to tell me that he had conceived a hatred of vice and a love of virtue.
My hopes grew fainter when the Marquis de —— reappeared on the scene. He never entered my apartments, because he knew the horror I had of him; but he would pass under the windows and call Leoni, or come to my door and knock in a peculiar way to let him know that he was there. Then Leoni would go out with him and remain away a long while. One day I saw them pass and repass several times; the Vicomte de Chalm was with them.
"Leoni is lost," I thought, "and I too; some fresh crime will soon be committed under my eyes."
That evening Leoni came home late; and, as he left his companions at the street door, I heard him say these words: