The Mysteries Of Paris Volume V Part 10

"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; circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 a.s.sured Cecily's empire. In a word, Jacques Ferrand's pa.s.sion 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 (80_l._). This was enormous generosity, and proved the unheard-of violence of his pa.s.sion.

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, a.s.suring herself that there was there no concealed entrance. Besides, Jacques Ferrand soon discovered that Cecily was not a woman whom he could a.s.sail 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 pa.s.sion, the creole seemed sometimes touched by his a.s.siduities, 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 gla.s.s. 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 s.h.a.green, 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 s.h.i.+lling 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 anima vita_,--that is to say, on the unfortunate house-dog, which, slightly p.r.i.c.ked 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 coa.r.s.e.

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 fas.h.i.+on; and, I must confess, a young and handsome man would be incapable of these outrageous pa.s.sions. 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 pa.s.sion, 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 pa.s.sion,--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."