The most diverse influences, therefore, combined to bring Madame de Carlsberg again into conflict with her husband at the moment she was passing through a crisis of such profound sorrow that she was incapable of forethought and of self-defence, or even of observation. She often thought about this morning later, and of the whirl of circumstances in which it seemed as though neither Pierre nor Olivier nor herself could be dragged, a rush of circumstances which had carried her away in the first place, and had then reached the two young men. That Chésy had stupidly ruined himself on the Bourse; that Brion was ready to profit by his ruin to seduce poor Yvonne; that this latter woman resembled feature by feature Marsh's dead daughter, and that this identity of physiognomy interested the Nabob of Marionville to such an extent that he was determined upon the most romantic and the most practical form of charity; that Verdier had made a discovery of an immense value to industry, and that Marsh was trying to gain the benefit of this invention by the surest means in giving his niece as a wife to the young scientist; that Andryana and Corancez were waiting for an opportunity to make their astounding secret marriage public,—were only so many facts differing with those concerning her own life, facts which appeared to have never touched her, save indirectly.
And yet each of these stories had some bearing, as though by prearrangement, upon the step that she was about to take, acting on the advice of Corancez. This step itself was to prepare an unexpected dénouement, a terrible dénouement for the moral tragedy in which she had plunged without any hope of ever issuing. This game of events, widely separate from each other, which gives to the believer the soothing certainty of a supreme justice, inflicts on us, on the contrary, an impression of vertigo when, without faith, we notice the astounding unexpectedness of certain encounters. How many times did Ely not ask herself what would have been the future of her passion after the interview of Olivier with Pierre, if she had not gone upon the Jenny that day to render a service to Yvonne, if Marsh had not asked her to bring about a reconciliation between Verdier and Florence, and, finally, if the marriage of Andryana and Corancez had not been announced to the Archduke under conditions that seemed like bravado, and which only increased his exasperation and bitterness.
These are vain hypotheses, but they are felt bitterly by those who give themselves up to the childish work of rebuilding their life in thought. It seems a manifestation of the irresistible nature of fate.
As she approached the Villa Helmholtz, with Andryana's letter in her hand, Ely had not the faintest suspicion of the terrible tragedy drawing near. She was not happy; in fact, joy did not exist for her now that she was separated so cruelly from Pierre. But she felt a bitter satisfaction in her vengeance, a feeling that she was to pay for very dearly.
Hardly had she entered the house when she sent a request to the Prince, who never lunched with her now, to be granted an audience, and she was ushered into the laboratory, which she had only visited about three times. The heir of the Hapsburgs, a big apron wrapped around him and a little cap upon his head, was standing in the scientific workshop before the furnace of a forge, in which he was heating a bar of iron which he held in his acid-eaten hands. A little further away Verdier was arranging some electric batteries. He was dressed like his employer. There was nothing in the entire room, which was lighted from the ceiling, except complicated machines, mysterious instruments and apparatus whose use was unknown to any but the scientists. The two men, thus surprised in the exercise of their profession, had that attentive and reflective physiognomy that experimental science always gives to its followers. It is easy to recognize in it a certain submission to the object, a patience imposed by the necessary duration of a phenomenon, the certainty of the result to be gained by waiting—noble, intellectual virtues created by constant attention to natural law. Nevertheless, in spite of the calmness he displayed in his work, it was plain that care hung over the assistant. The Prince appeared rejuvenated by his gayety, but it was an evil, wicked gayety, which the presence of his wife appeared to render even more cruel. He met her with this sentence, the words being full of hideous allusions:—
"What has given us the honor of your visit to our pandemonium? It is not very gay at the first glance, yet we are happier here than anywhere else. Natural science gives you a sensation that your life does not even know of—a sensation of truth. There cannot be either falsehood or deception in an experiment that has been carefully performed. Is that not so, Verdier?"
"I am happy to hear Your Highness speak in that way," replied the young woman, returning irony for irony. "Since you are so fond of the truth, you will help me, I hope, to secure justice for a person who has been cruelly slandered here, perhaps even to you, Your Highness, and certainly to Monsieur Verdier."
"I don't understand," said the Archduke, whose visage suddenly darkened. "We are not society people, and Monsieur Verdier and I do not permit any one to be calumniated before us. When we believe anything against any one, we have decided proof. Is not that so, Verdier?" and he turned toward his assistant, who did not reply.
The Baroness Ely's words had been as clear to the two men as though she had named Miss Marsh, and Verdier's look revealed how he loved the young American, and what suffering it had caused him to know that he could no longer esteem her. This additional avowal of a hated sentiment was distasteful to the Archduke, and his voice became authoritative, almost brutal, as he went on:—
"Besides, madame, we are very busy. An experiment cannot be kept waiting, and you will oblige me very much if you will speak plainly and not in enigmas."