CHAPTER XXIV.
AT BORDIGHERA.
As M. Joyeuse had informed the examining magistrate, Paul de Gery was onhis way home from Tunis after an absence of three weeks. Threeinterminable weeks, passed in struggling amid a network of intrigues, ofplots cunningly devised by the powerful enmity of the Hemerlingues,wandering from office to office, from department to department, throughthat vast _residence_ on the Bardo, where all the different departmentsof the State are collected in the same frowning enclosure, bristlingwith culverins, under the immediate supervision of the master, like hisstables and his harem. Immediately on his arrival Paul had learned thatthe Chamber of Justice was beginning to hear the Jansoulet case insecret,--a mockery of a trial, lost beforehand; and the Nabob's closedcounting-rooms on the Marine Quay, the seals placed upon his cash boxes,his vessels lying at anchor in the harbor of Goletta, the guard of_chaouchs_ around his palaces, already denoted a species of civil death,an intestacy as to which there would soon be nothing left to do butdivide the spoils.
Not a champion, not a friend in that greedy pack; even the Frankishcolony seemed not displeased at the downfall of a courtier who had solong obstructed all the roads to favor by occupying them himself. It wasabsolutely hopeless to think of rescuing that victim from the bey'sclutches in the absence of a signal triumph in the Chamber of Deputies.All that de Gery could hope to do was to save a few spars from thewreck, and even that required haste, for he expected from day to day tobe advised of his friend's complete discomfiture.
He took the field, therefore, and went about his operations with anactivity which nothing could abate, neither Oriental cajolery, thatrefined honey-sweet courtesy beneath which lurk savage ferocity anddissolute morals, nor the hypocritically indifferent smiles, nor thedemure airs, the folded arms which invoke divine fatalism when humanfalsehood fails of its object. The _sang-froid_ of that cool-headedlittle Southerner, in whom all the exuberant qualities of his countrymenwere condensed, stood him in at least as good stead as his perfectfamiliarity with the French law, of which the Code of Tunis is simply adisfigured copy.
By adroit manoeuvring and circumspection, and in spite of theintrigues of Hemerlingue _fils_, who had great influence at the Bardo,he succeeded in exempting from confiscation the money loaned by theNabob a few months before, and in extorting ten millions out of fifteenfrom the rapacious Mohammed. On the morning of the very day when thatsum was to be paid over to him he received a despatch from Parisannouncing that the election was annulled. He hurried at once to thepalace, desirous to reach there in advance of the news; and on hisreturn, with his ten millions in drafts on Marseille safely bestowed inhis pocket-book, he passed Hemerlingue's carriage on the road, its threemules tearing along at full speed. The gaunt, owl-like face was radiant.As de Gery realized that if he remained only a few hours longer at Tunishis drafts would be in great danger of being confiscated, he engaged hispassage on an Italian packet that was to sail for Genoa the next day andpassed the night on board, and his mind was not at rest until he saw thewhite terraces of Tunis at the upper end of its bay, and the cliffs ofCape Carthage fading from sight behind him. When they entered the harborof Genoa, the packet, as it ran alongside the wharf, passed close to alarge yacht flying the Tunisian flag among a number of small flags withwhich she was decorated. De Gery was greatly excited, thinking for amoment that he was pursued and that on going ashore he might have ascuffle with the Italian police like a common pickpocket. But no, theyacht was lying quietly at anchor, her crew were scrubbing the deck andrepainting the red mermaid that formed her figurehead as if somepersonage of importance were expected on board. Paul had no curiosity toascertain who that personage might be; he simply rode across the marblecity and returned by the railway which runs from Genoa to Marseille,following the coast; a marvellous road, where you pass from the inkydarkness of tunnels into the dazzling splendor of the blue sea, but sonarrow that accidents are very frequent.
At Savona the train stopped and the passengers were told that they couldgo no farther, as one of the small bridges across the streams that rushdown from the mountain into the sea had broken down during the night.They must wait for the engineer and workmen who had been summoned bytelegraph, stay there half a day perhaps. It was early morning. TheItalian town was just awaking in one of those hazy dawns which promiseextreme heat during the day. While the passengers scattered, seekingrefuge in hotels or restaurants, or wandering about the town, de Gery,distressed by the delay, tried to find some way of avoiding the loss often hours or more. He thought of poor Jansoulet, whose honor and whoselife might perhaps be saved by the money he was bringing, of his dearAline, the thought of whom had not left him once during his journey, anymore than the portrait she had given him. Suddenly it occurred to him tohire one of the _calesinos_, four-horse vehicles which make the journeyfrom Genoa to Nice along the Italian Corniche, a fascinating drive oftentaken by foreigners, lovers, and gamblers who have been lucky at Monaco.The driver agreed to be at Nice early; but even though he should reachthere no sooner than by waiting for the train, the impatient travellerfelt an immense longing to be relieved of the necessity of pacing thestreets, to know that the space between him and his desire decreasedwith every revolution of the wheels.
Ah! on a lovely June morning, at our friend Paul's age and with one'sheart overflowing with love as his was, to fly along the white Cornicheroad behind four horses, is to feel an intoxication of travel that wordscannot describe. On the left, at a depth of a hundred feet, lies the seaflecked with foam, from the little round bays along the shore to thehazy horizon where the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky melttogether; red or white sails, like birds with a single wing spread tothe breeze, the slender silhouettes of steamers with a little smoketrailing behind like a farewell, and along the beaches, of which youcatch glimpses as the road winds, fishermen no larger than sea-mews intheir boats, lying at anchor, which look like nests. Then the roaddescends, follows a rapid downward slope along the base of cliffs andheadlands almost perpendicular. The cool breeze from the water reachesyou there, blends with the thousand little bells on the harnesses, whileat the right, on the mountain-side, the pines and green oaks rise tierabove tier, with gnarled roots protruding from the sterile soil, andcultivated olive-trees in terraces, as far as a broad ravine, white androcky, bordered with green plants which tell of the passage of thewaters, the dry bed of a torrent up which toil laden mules, sure oftheir footing among the loose shingle, where a washerwoman stoops besidea microscopic pool, a few drops remaining from the great winterfreshets. From time to time you rumble through the one street of avillage, or rather of a small town of historic antiquity, grown rustywith too much sunshine, the houses crowded closely together andconnected by dark archways, a network of covered lanes which climb thesheer cliff with snatches of light from above, openings like the mouthsof mines affording glimpses of broods of children with curly hair like ahalo about their heads, baskets of luscious fruit, a woman descendingthe rough pavements with a pitcher on her head or a distaff in her hand.Then, at a corner of the street, the blue twinkling of the waves,immensity once more.
But as the day wore on, the sun, mounting higher in the heavens,scattered its beams over the sea just emerging from its mists, heavywith sleep, dazed, motionless, with a quartz-like transparence, andmyriads of rays fell upon the water as if arrow-points had pricked it,making a dazzling reflection, doubled in intensity by the whiteness ofthe cliffs and the soil, by a veritable African sirocco which raised thedust in a spiral column as the carriage passed. They reached thehottest, the most sheltered portions of the Corniche,--a genuinelytropical temperature, where dates, cactus, the aloe, with its tall,candelabra-like branches, grow in the fields. When he saw those slendertrunks, that fantastic vegetation shooting up in the white, hot air,when he felt the blinding dust crunching under the wheels like snow, deGery, his eyes partly closed, half-dreaming in that leaden noondayheat, fancied that he was making once more the tiresome journey fromTunis to the Bardo, which he had made so often in a s
trange medley ofLevantine chariots, brilliant liveries, _meahris_ with long neck andhanging lip, gayly-caparisoned mules, young asses, Arabs in rags,half-naked negroes, great functionaries in full dress, with theirescorts of honor. Should he find yonder, where the road skirts gardensof palm-trees, the curious, colossal architecture of the bey's palace,its close-meshed window gratings, its marble doors, its _moucharabies_cut out of wood and painted in vivid colors? It was not the Bardo, butthe pretty village of Bordighera, divided like all those on the coastinto two parts, the _Marine_ lying along the shore, and the upper town,connected by a forest of statuesque palms with slender stalks anddrooping tops,--veritable rockets of verdure, showing stripes of bluethrough their innumerable regular clefts.
The unendurable heat and the exhaustion of the horses compelled thetraveller to halt for two or three hours at one of the great hotels thatline the road and, from early in November, bring to that wonderfullysheltered little village all the luxurious life and animation of anaristocratic winter resort. But at that time of year the _Marine_ ofBordighera was deserted, save for a few fishermen, who were invisible atthat hour. The villas and hotels seemed dead, all their blinds andshades being closely drawn. The new arrival was led through long, cool,silent passages, to a large salon facing north, evidently a part of oneof the full suites which are generally let for the season, as it wasconnected with other rooms on either side by light doors. Whitecurtains, a carpet, the semi-comfort demanded by the English even whentravelling, and in front of the windows, which the innkeeper threw wideopen as a lure to the visitor, to induce him to make a more extendedhalt, the magnificent view of the mountain. An astonishing calm reignedin that huge, deserted inn, with no steward, no cook, noattendants,--none of the staff arrived until the first cool days,--andgiven over to the care of a native spoil-sauce, an expert in _stoffatos_and _risottos_, and to two stable-boys, who donned the regulation blackcoat, white cravat and pumps at meal hours. Luckily, de Gery proposed toremain there only an hour or two,--long enough to breathe, to rest hiseyes from the glare of burnished silver and to free his heavy head fromthe helmet with the painful chin-strap that the sun had placed upon it.
From the couch on which he lay, the beautiful landscape, terraces oflight, quivering olive-trees, orange-groves of darker hue, their leavesgleaming as if wet in the moving rays, seemed to come down to his windowin tiers of verdure of different shades, amid which the scattered villasstood forth in dazzling whiteness, among them Maurice Trott, thebanker's, recognizable by the capricious richness of its architectureand the height of its palm-trees. The Levantine's palace, whose gardensextended to the very windows of the hotel, had sheltered for severalmonths past an artistic celebrity, the sculptor Brehat, who was dying ofconsumption and owed the prolongation of his life to that princelyhospitality. This proximity of a famous moribund, of which the landlordwas very proud and which he would have been glad to charge in hisbill,--the name of Brehat, which de Gery had so often heard mentionedwith admiration in Felicia Ruys' studio, led his thoughts back to thelovely face with the pure outlines, which he had seen for the last timein the Bois de Boulogne, leaning upon Mora's shoulder. What had becomeof the unfortunate girl when that support had failed her? Would thelesson profit her in the future? And, by a strange coincidence, while hewas thinking thus of Felicia, a great white grey-hound went friskingalong a tree-lined avenue in the sloping garden before him. One wouldhave said that it was Kadour himself,--the same short hair, the samefierce, slender red jaws. Paul, at his open window, was assailed in aninstant by all sorts of visions, sweet and depressing. Perhaps thesuperb scenery before him, the lofty mountain up which a blue shadow wasrunning, tarrying in all the inequalities of the ground, assisted thevagabondage of his thought. Under the orange and lemon trees, set out instraight lines for cultivation, stretched vast fields of violets inclose, regular clusters, traversed by little irrigating canals, whosewalls of white stone made sharp breaks in the luxuriant verdure.
An exquisite odor arose, of violets fermented in the sun, a hot boudoirperfume, enervating, weakening, which called up before de Gery's eyesfeminine visions, Aline, Felicia, gliding across the enchantedlandscape, in that blue-tinted atmosphere, that elysian light whichseemed to be the visible perfume of such a multitude of flowers in fullbloom. A sound of doors closing made him open his eyes. Some one hadentered the adjoining room. He heard a dress brushing against the thinpartition, the turning of leaves in a book in which the reader seemed tofeel no absorbing interest; for he was startled by a long sigh ending ina yawn. Was he still asleep, still dreaming? Had he not heard the cry ofthe "jackal in the desert," so thoroughly in harmony with the heavy,scorching temperature without? No. Nothing more. He dozed again; andthis time all the confused images that haunted him took definite shapein a dream, a very lovely dream.
He was taking his wedding journey with Aline. A fascinating bride shewas. Bright eyes, overflowing with love and faith, which knew only him,looked at none but him. In that same hotel parlor, on the other side ofthe centre table, the sweet girl was sitting in a white _neglige_morning costume which smelt of violets and of the dainty lace of thetrousseau. One of those wedding-journey breakfasts, served immediatelyafter rising, in sight of the blue sea and the clear sky which tingewith azure the glass from which you drink, the eyes into which you gaze,the future, life and the vast expanse of space. Oh! what superbweather, what a divine, youth-renewing light, and how happy they were!
And suddenly, amid their kisses, their intoxicating bliss, Aline becamesad. Her lovely eyes were dimmed with tears. "Felicia is there," shesaid, "you will not love me any more." And he laughed at her:"Felicia,--here? What an idea!" "Yes, yes, she is there." Trembling, shepointed to the adjoining room, where he heard Felicia's voice, mingledwith fierce barking. "Here, Kadour! Here, Kadour!" the low,concentrated, indignant voice of one who seeks to remain concealed andsuddenly finds that she is discovered.
Awakened with a start, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in theempty room, beside a table at which no one else was sitting, his lovelydream flown away through the window to the great hillside which filledthe whole field of vision and seemed to stoop toward the house. But hereally heard the barking of a dog in the adjoining room and repeatedblows on the door.
"Open the door. It is I--Jenkins."
Paul sat up on his couch in speechless amazement. Jenkins in that house?How could that be? To whom was he talking? What voice was about to replyto him? There was no reply. A light step walked to the door and the boltwas nervously drawn back.
"At last I have found you," said the Irishman, entering the room.
And in truth, if he had not taken pains to announce himself, Paul,hearing it through the partition, would never have attributed thatbrutal, hoarse, savage tone to the oily-mannered doctor.
"At last I have found you, after eight days of searching, of rushingfrantically from Genoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa. I knew that youhadn't gone, as the yacht was still in the roads. And I was on the pointof investigating all the hotels along the shore when I rememberedBrehat. I thought that you would want to stop and see him as you passed.So I came here. It was he who told me that you were at this house."
To whom was he speaking? What extraordinary obstinacy the person showedin not replying! At last a rich, melancholy voice, which Paul knew well,made the heavy resonant air of the hot afternoon vibrate in its turn.
"Well! yes, Jenkins, here I am. What of it, pray?"
Paul could see through the wall the disdainful, drooping mouth, curledin disgust.
"I have come to prevent you from going, from perpetrating this folly."
"What folly? I have work to do in Tunis. I must go there."
"Why, you can't think of such a thing, my dear child."
"Oh! enough of your paternal airs, Jenkins. I know what is hiddenunderneath. Pray talk to me as you did just now. I prefer you as thebulldog, rather than as the fawning cur. I'm less afraid of you."
"Very good! I tell you that you must be mad to go to that country all
alone, young and lovely as you are."
"Why, am I not always alone? Would you have me take Constance, at herage?"
"What about me?"
"You?" She emphasized the word with a most satirical laugh. "And Paris?and your patients? Deprive Paris of its Cagliostro! No, indeed, never!"
"I am thoroughly resolved, however, to follow you wherever you go," saidJenkins, with decision.
There was a moment's pause. Paul wondered if it were very dignified inhim to listen to this discussion, which seemed pregnant with terribledisclosures. But, in addition to his fatigue, an unconquerable curiosityglued him to his place. It seemed to him that the engrossing enigma bywhich he had been so long puzzled and disturbed, to which his mind stillheld by the end of its veil of mystery, was about to speak at last, toreveal itself, to disclose the woman, sorrowful or perverse, hiddenbeneath the shell of the worldly artist. So he remained perfectly still,holding his breath, but with no need to listen closely; for the others,believing themselves alone in the hotel, allowed their passions andtheir voices to rise without restraint.
"After all, what do you want of me?"
"I want you."
"Jenkins!"
"Yes, yes, I know; you have forbidden me ever to utter such words beforeyou; but others than I have said them to you and more too--"
Two nervous steps brought her nearer to the apostle, placed thebreathless contempt of her retort close to his broad sensual face.
"And if that were true, villain! If I were unable to defend myselfagainst disgust and ennui, if I did lose my pride, is it for you tomention it? As if you were not the cause of it, as if you had notwithered and saddened my life forever."
And three swift, burning words revealed to the horrified Paul de Gerythe shocking scene of that assault disguised by loving guardianship,against which the girl's spirit and mind and dreams had had to struggleso long, and which had left her the incurable depression of prematuresorrow, a loathing for life almost before it had begun, and that curl atthe corner of the lip like the visible wreck of a smile.
"I loved you,--I love you. Passion carries everything before it,"Jenkins replied in a hollow voice.
"Very well, love me, if it amuses you. For my part, I hate you, not onlybecause of the injury you have done me and all the beliefs and laudableenthusiasms that you killed in me, but because you represent what arethe most execrable and hideous things under the sun to me, hypocrisy andfalsehood. Yes, in that worldly masquerade, that mass of falsepretences, of grimaces, of cowardly, indecent conventions which havesickened me so thoroughly that I am running away, exiling myself inorder to avoid seeing them, that I prefer to them the galleys, thegutter, or to walk the street as a prostitute, your mask, O sublimeJenkins, is the one that inspires the greatest horror in me. You havecomplicated our French hypocrisy, which consists mainly in smiles andcourtesies, with your effusive English handshakes, your cordial anddemonstrative loyalty. Everybody is taken in by it. People speak of'honest Jenkins,' 'excellent, worthy Jenkins.' But I know you, my man,and for all your fine motto, so insolently displayed on your envelopes,on your seal, your cuff-buttons, your hat-buckles and the panels of yourcarriages, I always see the knave that you are, showing everywherearound the edges of your disguise."
Her voice hissed between her clenched teeth with an indescribably savageintonation; and Paul expected some frantic outburst on the part ofJenkins, rebelling against such a storm of insults. But no. Thatexhibition of hatred and contempt on the part of the woman he lovedevidently caused him more sorrow than anger; for he answered low, in atone of heart-broken gentleness:--
"Ah! you are cruel. If you knew how you hurt me! Hypocrite, yes, it istrue; but a man isn't born that way, he becomes so perforce, in face ofthe harsh vicissitudes of life. When you have the wind against you andwant to go ahead, you tack. I tacked. Charge it to my miserablebeginnings, to an unsuccessful entrance on the stage, and agree at leastthat one thing in me has never lied: my passion! Nothing has succeededin repelling it, neither your contempt, nor your insults, nor all thatI read in your eyes, which have never once smiled on me in all theseyears. And it is my passion which gives me strength, even after what Ihave just heard, to tell you why I am here. Listen. You informed me oneday that you needed a husband, some one to watch over you while you wereat work, to relieve poor, worn-out Crenmitz from sentry duty. Those wereyour own words, which tore my heart then because I was not free. Noweverything is changed. Will you marry me, Felicia?"
"What about your wife?" cried the girl, while Paul asked himself thesame question.
"My wife is dead."
"Dead? Madame Jenkins? Is that true?"
"You never knew the one to whom I refer. The other was not my wife. WhenI met her, I was already married, in Ireland. Years ago. A horriblemarriage, entered into with a rope around my neck. My dear, attwenty-five this alternative was presented to me: imprisonment for debtor Miss Strang, a pimply-faced, gouty old maid, the sister of amoney-lender who had advanced me five hundred francs to pay for mymedical studies. I preferred the jail; but weeks and months of itexhausted my courage and I married Miss Strang, who brought me as herdowry--my note of hand. You can imagine what my life was between thosetwo monsters who adored each other. A jealous, sterile wife. The brotherspying upon me, following me everywhere. I might have fled. But onething detained me. The money-lender was said to be enormously rich. Iproposed at all events to secure the profits of my cowardice. You see, Itell you everything. However, I was well punished. Old Strang diedinsolvent; he was a gambler, and had ruined himself without saying aword. Thereupon I placed my wife's rheumatism in an asylum and came toFrance. I had to begin life anew, to struggle with poverty once more.But I had on my side experience, hatred and contempt for mankind, andfreedom, for I did not suspect that the horrible ball and chain of thatinfernal union would continue to impede my steps at a distance. Luckilyit's all over, and I am free at last."
"Yes, Jenkins, free. But why doesn't it occur to you to marry the poorcreature who has shared your life so long, humble and devoted to you aswe have all seen her?"
"Oh!" he said with a burst of sincere feeling, "between my two galleys Ibelieve I preferred the other, where I could show my indifference or myhatred without restraint. But the ghastly comedy of conjugal love, ofunwearying happiness, when for so many years I have loved no one butyou, thought of no one but you! There's no such torture on earth. If Ican judge by my own experience, the poor woman must have shouted withrelief and joy when we separated. That is the only farewell greeting Ihoped for from her."
"But who forced you to use such restraint."
"Paris, society, the world. Being married according to public opinion,we were bound by it."
"And now you are no longer so bound?"
"Now there is one thing that overshadows everything else, the thought oflosing you, of seeing you no more. Oh! when I learned of your flight,when I saw the sign: TO LET, on your door, I felt that the time forposes and grimaces had gone by, that there was nothing for me to do butto pack up and rush after my happiness, which you were carrying away.You left Paris, I did the same. Everything in your house was sold;everything in my house is to be sold."
"And she?" rejoined Felicia, with a shudder. "She, the irreproachablecompanion, the virtuous woman whom no one has ever suspected, where willshe go? what will she do? And you have come to propose to me to take herplace? A stolen place, and in what a hell! Aha! And our motto, honestJenkins, virtuous Jenkins, what are we to do with that? 'Do good withouthope,' old man!"
At that sneer, stinging as a blow from a whip, which must have left itsmark in red on his face, the wretch rejoined, gasping for breath:
"Enough, enough; do not mock me so. It is too horrible, after all thathas gone. In God's name doesn't it touch you to be loved as I love you,sacrificing everything to you, wealth, honor, reputation? Come, look atme. However carefully applied my mask may have been, I have torn it offfor you, I have torn it off before all the world. And now, look! here isthe hypocrite!"
> There was a dull sound as of two knees falling upon the floor. And madwith love, stammering, humbling himself before her, he implored her toconsent to marry him, to give him the right to go everywhere with her,to defend her; then words failed him, his voice was choked by apassionate sob, so deep, so heart-rending, that it might well havetouched any heart, especially in presence of that gorgeous scenery lyingimpassive in the perfumed, enervating heat. But Felicia was not moved,and her manner was still haughty as she said brusquely: "Enough of this,Jenkins, what you ask is impossible. We have nothing to conceal fromeach other; and after your confidences of a moment ago, I propose totell you something which it wounds my pride to tell, but which yourpersistence seems to me to deserve. I was Mora's mistress."
Paul was not unprepared for that. And yet that sweet voice burdened withsuch a confession was so sad amid the intoxicating aromas of that lovelyblue atmosphere, that his heart was sorely oppressed, and he had in hismouth the taste of tears left by an unavowed regret.
"I knew it," replied Jenkins in a hollow voice. "I have here the lettersyou wrote him."
"My letters?"
"Oh! I will give them back to you; take them. I know them by heart, bydint of reading and re-reading them. That is the kind of thing thathurts when one is in love. But I have undergone other tortures. When Ithink that it was I--" he paused, he was suffocating--"I who wasdestined to furnish combustion for your flames, to warm that frozenlover, to send him to you, ardent and rejuvenated! Ah! he made away withthe pearls, I tell you. It was of no use for me to say no, he alwayswanted more. At last I went mad. 'You want to burn, villain. Well,burn!'"
* * * * *
Paul sprang to his feet in dismay. Was he about to hear the confessionof a crime?
But he had not to undergo the shame of listening further.
A sharp knock, on his door this time, warned him that the _calesino_ wasready.
"Hallo! Signor Francese."
There was profound silence in the adjoining room, then a hurriedwhispering. There was somebody close by, who was listening tothem!--Paul de Gery rushed downstairs. He longed to be far away fromthat hotel parlor, to escape the haunting memory of the horrors that hadbeen disclosed to him.
As the post-chaise started, he saw, between the cheap white curtainsthat hang at every window in the South, a pale face with the hair of agoddess and great blazing eyes, watching for him to pass. But a glanceat Aline's portrait soon banished that disturbing vision, and, curedforever of his former passion, he travelled until evening through anenchanted country with the pretty bride of the breakfast, who carriedaway in the folds of her modest dress, of her maidenly cloak, all theviolets of Bordighera.
"_The First Night of 'Revolte.'_"]