AT BORDIGHERA
As M. Joyeuse had told the Juge d'Instruction, Paul de Gery returnedfrom Tunis after three weeks' absence. Three interminable weeks spentin struggling among intrigues, and traps secretly laid by the powerfulhatred of the Hemerlingues--in wandering from hall to hall, fromministry to ministry through the immense palace of the Bardo, whichgathered within one enclosure, bristling with culverins, all thedepartments of the State, as much under the master's eye as his stablesand harem. On his arrival, Paul had learned that the Chamber of Justicewas preparing secretly Jansoulet's trial--a derisive trial, lostbeforehand; and the closed offices of the Nabob on the Marine Quay, theseals on his strong boxes, his ships moored to the Goulette, a guardround his palace, seemed to speak of a sort of civil death, of adisputed succession of which the spoils would not long remain to beshared.
There was not a defender, nor a friend, in this voracious crowd; theFrench colony itself appeared satisfied with the fall of a courtier whohad so long monopolized the roads to favour. To attempt to snatch thisprey from the Bey, excepting by a striking triumph at the Assembly, wasnot to be thought of. All that de Gery could hope for was to save someshreds of his fortune, and this only if he hurried, for he was expectingday by day to learn of his friend's complete ruin.
He set himself to work, therefore, hurried on his business withan activity which nothing could discourage, neither Orientaldiscursiveness--that refined fair-spoken politeness, under which ishidden ferocity--nor coolly indifferent smiles, nor averted looks,invoking divine fatalism when human lies fail. The self-possession ofthis southerner, in whom was condensed, as it were, all the exuberanceof his compatriots, served him as well as his perfect knowledge ofFrench law, of which the Code of Tunis is only a disfigured copy.
By his diplomacy and discretion, in spite of the intrigues ofHemerlingue's son--who was very influential at the Bardo--he succeededin withdrawing from confiscation the money lent by the Nabob somemonths before, and to snatch ten millions out of fifteen from Mohammed'srapacity. The very morning of the day on which the money was to be paidover, he received from Paris the news of the unseating of Jansoulet. Hehurried at once to the Palace to arrive there before the news, and onhis return with the ten millions in bills on Marseilles secure in hispocket-book, he passed young Hemerlingue's carriage, with his threemules at full gallop. The thin owl's face was radiant. De Geryunderstood that if he remained many hours at Tunis his bills ran therisk of being confiscated, so took his place at once on an Italianpacket which was sailing next morning for Genoa, passed the night onboard, and was only easy in his mind when he saw far behind him whiteTunis with her gulf and the rocks of Cape Carthage spread out beforeher. On entering Genoa, the steamer while making for the quay passednear a great yacht with the Tunisian flag flying. De Gery felt greatlyexcited, and for a moment believed that she had come in pursuit of him,and that on landing he might be seized by the Italian police like acommon thief. But the yacht was swinging peacefully at anchor, hersailors cleaning the deck or repainting the red siren of her figurehead,as if they were expecting someone of importance. Paul had not thecuriosity to ask who this personage was. He crossed the marble city, andreturned by the coast railway from Genoa to Marseilles--that marvellousroute where one passes suddenly from the blackness of the tunnels to thedazzling light of the blue sea.
At Savona the train stopped, and the passengers were told that theycould go no farther, as one of the little bridges over the torrentswhich rush from the mountains to the sea had been broken during thenight. They must wait for the engineer and the break-down gang, alreadysummoned by telegraph; wait perhaps a half day. It was early morning.The Italian town was waking in one of those veiled dawns which forecastgreat heat for the day. While the dispersed travellers took refuge inthe hotels, installed themselves in the _cafes_, and others visited thetown, de Gery, chafing at the delay, tried to think of some means ofsaving these few hours. He thought of poor Jansoulet, to whom the moneyhe was bringing might save honour and life, of his dear Aline, her whoseremembrance had not quitted him a single day of his journey, no morethan the portrait which she had given him. Then he was inspired to hireone of those four-horse _calesinos_ which run from Genoa to Nice, alongthe Italian Corniche--an adorable trip which foreigners, lovers, andwinners at Monaco often enjoy. The driver guaranteed that he would beat Nice early; and even if he arrived no earlier than the train, hisimpatient spirit felt the comfort of movement, of feeling at each turnof the wheel the distance from his desire decrease.
On a fine morning in June, when one is young and in love, it is adelicious intoxication to tear behind four horses over the whiteCorniche road. To the left, a hundred feet below, the sea sparkling withfoam, from the rounded rocks of the shore to those vapoury distanceswhere the blue of the waves and of the heavens mingle; red or whitesails are scattered over it like wings, steamers leaving behind themtheir trail of smoke; and on the sands, fishermen no larger than birds,in their anchored boats like nests. Then the road descends, follows arapid declivity along the rocks and sharp promontories. The fresh windfrom the waves shakes the little harness bells; while on the right, onthe side of the mountain, the rows of pine-trees, the green oaks withroots capriciously leaving the arid soil, and olive-trees growing ontheir terraces, up to a wide and white pebbly ravine, bordered withgrass, marking the passage of the waters. This is really a dried-upwater-course, which the loaded mules ascend with firm foot among theshingle, and a washer-woman stoops near a microscopic pond--the fewdrops that remained of the great inundation of winter. From time to timeone crosses the street of some village, or little town rather, grownrusty through too much sun, of historic age, the houses closely packedand joined by dark arcades--a network of vaulted courts which clamberthe hillside with glimpses of the upper daylight, here and there lettingone see crowds of children with aureoles of hair, baskets of brilliantfruit, a woman coming down the road, her water-pot on her head and herdistaff on her arm. Then at a corner of the street, the blue sparkle ofthe waves and the immensity of nature.
But as the day advanced, the sun rising in the heavens spread overthe sea--now escaped from its mists, still with the transparenceof quartz--thousands of rays striking the water like arrow-heads, adazzling sight made doubly so by the whiteness of the rocks and ofthe soil, by a veritable African sirocco which raised the dust ina whirlwind on the road. They were coming to the hottest and mostsheltered places of the Corniche--a true exotic temperature, scatteringdates, cactus, and aloes. Seeing these thin trunks, this fantasticvegetation in the white hot air, feeling the blinding dust crackle underthe wheels like snow, de Gery, his eyes half closed, dreaming in thisleaden noon, thought he was once more on that fatiguing road from Tunisto the Bardo, in a singular medley of Levantine carriages with brilliantliveries, of long-necked camels, of caparisoned mules, of young donkeys,of Arabs in rags, of half-naked negroes, of officials in full-dress withtheir guard of honour. Should he find there, where the road ran throughthe gardens of palm-trees, the strange and colossal architecture of theBey's palace, its barred windows with closed lattices, its marble gates,its balconies in carved wood painted in bright colours?--It was not theBardo, but the lovely country of Bordighera, divided, like all thoseon the coast, into two parts--the sea town lying on the shore; and theupper town, joined to it by a forest of motionless palm-trees, withupright stem and falling crown--like green rockets, springing into theblue with their thousand feathers.
The insupportable heat, the overtired horses, forced the traveller tostop for a couple of hours at one of those great hotels which line theroad, and bring every November into this little town, so marvellouslysheltered, the luxurious life and cosmopolitan animation of anaristocratic wintering place. But at this time of year there was no onein the sea town of Bordighera but fishermen, invisible at this hour. Thevillas and hotels seemed dead, their blinds and shutters closed.They took Paul through long, cool, and silent passages to a greatdrawing-room facing north, which seemed to be part of the suites letfor the season, whose doors comm
unicated with the other rooms. Whitecurtains, a carpet, the comfort demanded by the English even whentravelling, and outside the windows, which the hotel-keeper openedwide to tempt the traveller to a longer stay, a splendid view of themountain. An astonishing quiet reigned in this great deserted inn, withneither manager, nor cook, nor waiters--the whole staff coming onlyin the winter--and given up for domestic needs to a local spoil-sauce,expert at a _stoffato_, a _risotto_; also to two stablemen, who clothedthemselves at meal-time with the dress-coat and white tie of office.Happily, de Gery was only going to remain there for an hour or two, torest his eyes from the overpowering light, his head from the dolorousgrip of the sun.
From the divan where he lay, the admirable landscape, diversified withlight and trembling leaves, seemed to descend to his window by stagesof different greens, where scattered villas shone white, and amongthem that of Maurice Trott, the banker, recognisable by its capriciousarchitecture and the height of its palms.
The Levantine house, whose gardens came up to the windows of the hotel,had sheltered for some months an artistic celebrity, the sculptorBrehat, who was dying of consumption, and owed the prolonging of hisexistence to this princely hospitality. The neighbourhood of this dyingcelebrity--of which the hotel-keeper was proud, and which he would haveliked to charge in the bill--the name of Brehat, which de Gery had sooften heard pronounced with admiration in Felicia Ruys's studio, broughtback his thoughts to the beautiful face, with its pure lines, which hehad last seen in the Bois de Boulogue, leaning on Mora's shoulder. Whathad become of this unfortunate girl when this prop had failed her?Would this lesson be of use to her in the future? And, by a strangecoincidence, while he was thinking thus of Felicia, a great whitegreyhound was bounding up an alley of green trees on the slopes of theneighbouring garden. It was like Kadour--the same short hair, the samemouth, red, fierce, and delicate. Paul, before his open window, wasassailed in a moment by all sorts of visions, sad or charming. Perhapsthe beauty of the scene before his eyes made his thoughts wander. Underthe orange-trees and lemon-trees in rows, laden with their goldenfruit, stretched immense fields of violets in regular and packed beds,separated by little irrigation canals, whose white stone cut up theexuberant verdure.
An exquisite ordour of violets dried in the sun was rising--a hotboudoir scent, enervating, enfeebling, which called up for de Geryfeminine visions--Aline, Felicia--permeating the fairy-like landscape,in this blue-charged atmosphere, this heavenly day, which one might havecalled the perfume become visible of so many open flowers. The creakingof a door made him open his eyes. Some one had just gone into the nextroom. He heard the rustle of a dress against the thin partition, a leafturned in a book which could not be very interesting, for a long sighturning into a yawn made him start. Was he still sleeping, dreaming? Hadhe not heard the cry of the "jackal in the desert," so much in keepingwith the burning temperature out of doors? No--nothing more. He fellasleep again, and this time all the confused images which pursued himfixed themselves in a dream--a very pleasant dream.
He was on his honeymoon with Aline. She was a delicious wife, her cleareyes full of love and faith, which only knew, only looked at him. Inthis very room, on the other side of the partition, she was sitting inwhite morning dress, which smelt of violets and of the fine lace of hertrousseau. They were having breakfast--one of those solitary breakfastsof a honeymoon, served in their bedroom, opposite the blue sea, and theclear sky, which tinge with azure the glass in which one drinks, theeyes where one sees one's self, the future--life--the distant horizon.Oh! how good it was; what a divine youth-giving light; how happy theywere!
And all at once, in the delight of their kisses, Aline became sad. Hereyes filled with tears. She said to him: "Felicia is there. You willlove me no longer." And he laughed, "Felicia here? What an idea!" "Yes,yes; she is there." Trembling she pointed to the next room, fromwhich came angry barks, and the voice of Felicia: "Here, Kadour! Here,Kadour!" the low, concentrated, furious voice of some one who is hidingand suddenly discovered.
Wide awake, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in his empty room,before an empty table, his dream, fled through the window to the greathillside. But he heard very distinctly in the next room the bark of adog, and hurried knocks on the door.
"Open the door! It is I--it is Jenkins."
Paul sat up on his divan, stupefied. Jenkins here? How was that? To whomwas he speaking? What voice was going to answer him? No one answered. Alight step went to the door, and the lock creaked nervously.
"Here you are at last," said the Irishman, entering.
And truly if he had not taken care to announce himself, Paul wouldnever have taken this brutal, violent, hoarse voice heard through thepartition for the doctor's with his sugary manners.
"At last I have found you after a week of searching, of mad rushing fromGenoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa. I knew that you had not gone, becausethe yacht was in the harbour, and I was going to inspect all the inns onthe coast, when I remembered Brehat. I have just come from him. It washe who told me you were here."
But to whom was he speaking? Who was so singularly obstinate? At last abeautiful, sad voice, which Paul well knew, made the hot afternoon airvibrate.
"Well, yes, Jenkins, here I am. What is the matter?"
Through the wall Paul could see the disdainful mouth, turned down withdisgust.
"I have come to prevent you from going--from doing this foolish thing."
"What foolish thing? I have some work at Tunis. I must go there."
"But you don't think, my dear child, that--"
"Oh, enough of your fatherly airs, Jenkins. We know what lies underneathit. Speak to me as you did just now. I prefer the bull-dog to thespaniel. I fear it less."
"Well, I tell you that you must be mad to go over there alone, young andbeautiful as you are."
"And am I not always alone? Would you like me to take Constance, at herage?"
"Or me?"
"You!" She pronounced the word with an ironical laugh. "And what aboutParis? And your patients--deprive society of its Cagliostro? Never, onany account."
"I have, however, made up my mind to follow you wherever you go," saidJenkins resolutely.
There was an instant of silence. Paul asked himself if it was worthyof him to listen to this conversation which was full of terriblerevelations. But in spite of his fatigue an invincible curiosity nailedhim to the spot. It seemed to him that the enigma which had so long beenperplexing and troubling him was going to be solved at last, to show thewoman sad or perverse, concealed by the fashionable artist. He remainedthere, still holding his breath, needlessly, however; for the two,believing themselves to be alone in the hotel, let their passions andtheir voices rise without constraint.
"Well, what do you want of me?"
"I want you."
"Jenkins!"
"Yes, yes, I know; you have forbidden me to say such words before you,but other men than I have said them, and nearer still."
"And if it were so, wretch! If I have not been able to protect myselffrom disgust and boredom, if I have lost my pride, is it for you to saya word? As if you were not the cause of it; as if you had not foreversaddened and darkened my life for me!"
And these burning and rapid words revealed to the terrified Paul deGery the horrible meaning of this apparently affectionate guardianship,against which the mind, the thought, the dreams of the young girl hadhad to struggle so long, and which had left her the incurable sadness ofprecocious regret, the heart-break of a life hardly begun.
"I loved you! I love you still! Passion excuses everything," answeredJenkins in a hollow voice.
"Love me, then, if that amuses you. As for me, I hate you not only forthe wrong you have done me, all the beliefs and energy you have killedin me, but because you represent what is most execrable, most hideousunder the sun--hypocrisy and lies. This society masquerade, this heap offalsity, of grimaces, of cowardly and unclean conventions have sickenedme to such an extent, that I am running away exiling myself so as to seethe
m no longer; rather than them I would have the prison, the sewer, thestreets. And yet it is your deceit, O sublime Jenkins, which horrifiesme most. You have mingled our French hypocrisy, all smiles andpoliteness, with your large English shakes of the hand, with yourcordial and demonstrative loyalty. They have all been caught by it. Theysaid, 'The good Jenkins; the worthy, honest Jenkins.' But I--I knew you,and in spite of your fine motto on the envelopes of your letters,on your seal, your sleeve-links, your hat-bands, the doors of yourcarriage, I always saw the rascal you are."
Her voice hissed through her teeth, clinched by an incredible ferocityof expression, and Paul expected some furious revolt of Jenkins under somany insults. But this hate and contempt of the woman he loved must havegiven him more sorrow than anger, for he answered softly, in a tone ofwounded gentleness:
"Oh! you are cruel. If you knew the pain you are giving me! Hypocrite!yes, it is true; but I was not born like that. One is forced into it bythe difficulties of life. When one has the wind against one, and wishesto advance, one tacks. I have tacked. Lay the blame on my miserablebeginnings, my false entry into existence, and agree at least that onething in me has never lied--my passion! Nothing has been able to killit--neither your disdain, nor your abuse, nor all that I have read inyour eyes, which for so many years have not once smiled at me. It isstill my passion which gives me the strength, even after what I havejust heard, to tell you why I am here. Listen! You told me once that youwanted a husband--some one who would watch over you during your work,who would take over some of the duties of the poor Crenmitz. Those wereyour own words, which wounded me then because I was not free. Now allthat is changed. Will you marry me, Felicia?"
"And your wife?" cried the young girl, while Paul was asking himself thesame question.
"My wife is dead."
"Dead? Mme. Jenkins? Is it true?"
"You never knew her of whom I speak. The other was not my wife. WhenI met her I was already married in Ireland--years before. A horribleforced marriage. My dear, when I was twenty-five I was confronted withthis alternative: a debtor's prison or Miss Strang, an ugly and goutyold maid, sister of the usurer who had lent me five hundred pounds topay for my medical studies. I preferred the prison; but after weeks andmonths I came to the end of my courage, and I married Miss Strang, whobrought me for dowry--my note of hand. You can guess what my life wasbetween these two monsters who adored each other. A jealous, impotentwife. The brother spied on me, following me everywhere. I should havegone away, but one thing kept me there. The usurer was said to be veryrich. I wished to have some return for my cowardice. You see, I tell youall. Come now, I have been punished. Old Strang died insolvent; he usedto gamble, had ruined himself without saying a word. Then I put my wifeand her rheumatism in a hospital, and came to France. I had to beginexistence again, more struggles and misery. But I had experience on myside, hatred and contempt for men, and my newly conquered liberty, for Idid not dream that the horrible weight of this cursed union was going tohinder my getting on, at that distance. Happily, it is over--I am free."
"Yes, Jenkins, free. But why do you not make your wife the poor creaturewho has shared your life so long, so humble and devoted as she is?"
"Oh!" said he, with an outburst of sincerity, "between my two prisonsI would prefer the other, where I could be frankly indifferent. But theatrocious comedy of conjugal love, of unwearying happiness, when forso long I had loved you and thought of you alone! There is not such atorture on earth. If I can guess, the poor woman must have uttered a cryof relief and happiness at the separation. It is the only adieu I hopedfor from her."
"But who forced you to such a thing?"
"Paris, society, the world. Married by its opinion, we were held by it."
"And now you are held no longer?"
"Now something comes before all--it is the idea of losing you, of seeingyou no longer. Oh! when I learned of your flight, when I saw the billover your door TO LET, I felt sure that it was all up with poses andgrimaces, that I had nothing else to do but to set out, to run quicklyafter my happiness, which you were taking away. You were leavingParis--I have left it. Everything of yours was being sold; everything ofmine will be sold."
"And she?" said Felicia trembling. "She, the irreproachable companion,the honest woman whom no one has ever suspected, where will she go?What will she do? And it is her place you have just offered me. A stolenplace, think what a hell! Well, and your motto, good Jenkins, virtuousJenkins, what shall we do with it? '_Le bien sans esperance_,' eh!"
At this sneer, cutting his face like a whip, the wretch answeredpanting:
"That will do! Do not sneer at me so. It is too horrible now. Does itnot touch you, then, to be loved as I love you in sacrificing everythingto you--fortune, honour, respect? See, look at me. I have snatched mymask off for you, I have snatched if off before all. And now, see, hereis the hypocrite."
He heard the muffled noise of two knees falling on the floor. Andstammering, distracted with love, weak before her, he begged herto consent to this marriage, to give him the right to follow hereverywhere, to defend her. Then the words failed him, stifled in apassionate sob, so deep, so lacerating that it should have touched anyheart, above all among this splendid impassible scenery in this perfumedheat. But Felicia was not touched. "Let us have done, Jenkins," saidshe brusquely. "What you ask is impossible. We have nothing to hide fromeach other, and after your confidences just now, I wish to make one toyou, which humbles my pride, but your degradation makes you worthy. Iwas Mora's mistress."
Paul knew this. And yet it was so sad to hear this beautiful, pure voiceladen with such a confession, in the midst of the intoxicating air, thathe felt his heart contract.
"I knew it," answered Jenkins in a low voice, "I have the letters youwrote to him."
"My letters?"
"Oh, I will give them to you--here. I know them by heart. I have readand reread them. It is that which hurts one, when one loves. But Ihave suffered other tortures. When I think that it was I--" He stoppedhimself. He choked. "I who had to furnish fuel for your flames, warmthis frozen lover, send him to you ardent and young--Ah! he has devouredmy pearls--I might refuse over and over again, he was always takingthem. At last I was mad. You wish to burn, wretched woman. Well, burn,then!"
Paul rose to his feet in terror. Was he going to hear the confessionof a crime? But the shame of hearing more was not inflicted on him.A violent knocking, this time on his own door, warned him that his_calesino_ was ready.
"Is the French gentleman ready?"
In the next room there was silence, then a whisper.--There had been someone near who had heard them.--Paul de Gery hurried downstairs. He mustget out of this room to escape the weight of so much infamy.
As the post-chaise swayed, he saw among the common white curtains, whichfloat at all the windows in the south, a pale figure with the hair ofa goddess, and great burning eyes fixed on him. But a glance at Aline'sportrait quickly dispelled this disturbing vision, and forever curedof his old love, he travelled until evening through the magic landscapewith the lovely bride of the _dejeuner_, who carried in the folds of hermodest robe and mantle all the violets of Bordighera.