The Mysteries Of Paris Volume V Part 11

"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 pa.s.sion 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 partic.i.p.ates, 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 impa.s.sioned 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 pa.s.sion."

"Pa.s.sion! 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 n.o.ble 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, pa.s.sed through the small gla.s.s 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 impa.s.sioned 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 impa.s.sioned 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.