Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 967
With an impulse of modesty, Adrienne closed her nightdress over her bosom, and hastily drew back, still more afflicted than angry at what she considered a guilty attempt on the part of Djalma. Cruelly hurt and offended, she was about to reproach him with his conduct, when she perceived the dagger, which he had thrown down upon the ermine carpet. At sight of this weapon, and the expression of fear and stupor which petrified the features of Djalma, who remained kneeling, motionless, with his body thrown back, hands stretched out, his eyes fixed and wildly staring Adrienne, no longer dreading an amorous surprise, was seized with an indescribable terror, and, instead of flying from the prince, advanced several steps towards him, and said, in an agitated voice, whilst she pointed to the kandjiar, “My friend, why are you here? what ails you? why this dagger?”
Djalma made no answer. At first, the presence of Adrienne seemed to him a vision, which he attributed to the excitement of his brain, already (it might be) under the influence of the poison. But when the soft voice sounded in his ears — when his heart bounded with the species of electric shock, which he always felt when he met the gaze of that woman so ardently beloved — when he had contemplated for an instant that adorable face, so fresh and fair, in spite of its expression of deep uneasiness — Djalma understood that he was not the sport of a dream, but that Mdlle. de Cardoville was really before his eyes.
Then, as he began fully to grasp the thought that Adrienne was not dead, though he could not at all explain the prodigy of her resurrection, the Hindoo’s countenance was transfigured, the pale gold of his complexion became warm and red, his eyes (tarnished by tears of remorse) shone with new radiance, and his features, so lately contracted with terror and despair, expressed all the phases of the most ecstatic joy. Advancing, still on his knees, towards Adrienne, he lifted up to her his trembling hands, and, too deeply affected to pronounce a word, he gazed on her with so much amazement, love, adoration, gratitude, that the young lady, fascinated by those inexplicable looks, remained mute also, motionless also, and felt, by the precipitate beating of her heart, and by the shudder which ran through her frame, that there was here some dreadful mystery to be unfolded.
At last, Djalma, clasping his hands together, exclaimed with an accent impossible to describe, “Thou art not dead!”
“Dead!” repeated the young lady, in amazement.
“It was not thou, really not thou, whom I killed? God is kind and just!”
And as he pronounced these words with intense joy, the unfortunate youth forgot the victim whom he had sacrificed in error.
More and more alarmed, and again glancing at the dagger en which she now perceived marks of blood — a terrible evidence, in confirmation of the words of Djalma — Mdlle. de Cardoville exclaimed, “You have killed some one, Djalma! Oh! what does he say? It is dreadful!”
“You are alive — I see you — you are here,” said Djalma, in a voice trembling with rapture. “You are here — beautiful! pure! for it was not you! Oh, no! had it been you, the steel would have turned back upon myself.”
“You have killed some one?” cried the young lady, beside her with this unforeseen revelation, and clasping her hands in horror. “Why? whom did you kill?”
“I do not know. A woman that was like you — a man that I thought your lover — it was an illusion, a frightful dream — you are alive — you are here!”
And the oriental wept for joy.
“A dream? but no, it is not a dream. There is blood upon that dagger!” cried the young lady, as she pointed wildly to the kandjiar. “I tell you there is blood upon it!”
“Yes. I threw it down just now, when I took the poison from it, thinking that I had killed you.”
“The poison!” exclaimed Adrienne, and her teeth chattered convulsively. “What poison?”
“I thought I had killed you, and I came here to die.”
“To die? Oh! wherefore? who is to die?” cried the young lady, almost in delirium.
“I,” replied Djalma, with inexpressible tenderness, “I thought I had killed you — and I took poison.”
“You!” exclaimed Adrienne, becoming pale as death. “You!”
“Yes.”
“Oh! it is not true!” said the young lady, shaking her head.
“Look!” said the Asiatic. Mechanically, he turned towards the bed — towards the little ivory table, on which sparkled the crystal phial.
With a sudden movement, swifter than thought, swifter, it may be, than the will, Adrienne rushed to the table, seized the phial, and applied it eagerly to her lips.
Djalma had hitherto remained on his knees; but he now uttered a terrible cry, made one spring to the drinker’s side, and dragged away the phial, which seemed almost glued to her mouth.
“No matter! I have swallowed as much as you,” said Adrienne, with an air of gloomy triumph.
For an instant, there followed an awful silence. Adrienne and Djalma gazed upon each other, mute, motionless, horror-struck. The young lady was the first to break this mournful silence, and said in a tone which she tried to make calm and steady, “Well! what is there extraordinary in this? You have killed, and death most expiate your crime. It is just. I will not survive you. That also is natural enough. Why look at me thus? This poison has a sharp taste — does it act quickly! Tell me, my Djalma!”
The prince did not answer. Shuddering through all his frame, he looked down upon his hands. Faringhea had told the truth; a slight violet tint appeared already beneath the nails. Death was approaching, slowly, almost insensibly, but not the less certain. Overwhelmed with despair at the thought that Adrienne, too, was about to die, Djalma felt his courage fail him. He uttered a long groan, and hid his face in his hands. His knees shook under him, and he felt down upon the bed, near which he was standing.
“Already?” cried the young lady in horror, as she threw herself on her knees at Djalma’s feet. “Death already? Do you hide your face from me?”
In her fright, she pulled his hands from before his face. That face was bathed in tears.
“No, not yet,” murmured he, through his sobs. “The poison is slow.”
“Really!” cried Adrienne, with ineffable joy. Then, kissing the hands of Djalma, she added tenderly, “If the poison is slow, why do you weep?”
“For you! for you!” said the Indian, in a heart-rending tone.
“Think not of me,” replied Adrienne, resolutely. “You have killed, and we must expiate the crime. I know not what has taken place; but I swear by our love that you did not do evil for evil’s sake. There is some horrible mystery in all this.”
“On a pretence which I felt bound to believe,” replied Djalma, speaking quickly, and panting for breath, “Faringhea led me to a certain house. Once there, he told me that you had betrayed me. I did not believe him, but I know not what strange dizziness seized upon me — and then, through a half-obscurity, I saw you—”
“Me!”
“No — not you — but a woman resembling you, dressed like you, so that I believed the illusion — and then there came a man — and you flew to meet him — and I — mad with rage — stabbed her, stabbed him, saw them fall — and so came here to die. And now I find you only to cause your death. Oh, misery! misery! that you should die through me!”
And Djalma, this man of formidable energy, began again to weep with the weakness of a child. At sight of this deep, touching, passionate despair, Adrienne, with that admirable courage which women alone possess in love, thought only of consoling Djalma. By an effort of superhuman passion, as the prince revealed to her this infernal plot, the lady’s countenance became so splendid with an expression of love and happiness, that the East Indian looked at her in amazement, fearing for an instant that he must have lost his reason.
“No more tears, my adored!” cried the young lady, exultingly. “No more tears — but only smiles of joy and love! Our cruel enemies shall not triumph!”
“What do you say?”
“They wished to make us miserable. We pity them. Our felicity shall be the envy of the world!”
“Adrienne — bethink you—”
“Oh! I have all my senses about me. Listen to me, my adored! I now understand it all. Falling into a snare, which these wretches spread for you, you have committed murder. Now, in this country, murder leads to infamy, or the scaffold — and to-morrow — to-night, perhaps — you would be thrown into prison. But our enemies have said: ‘A man like Prince Djalma does not wait for infamy — he kills himself. A woman like Adrienne de Cardoville does not survive the disgrace or death of her lover — she prefers to die.’”
“Therefore a frightful death awaits them both,” said the black-robed men; “and that immense inheritance, which we covet—’”
“And for you — so young, so beautiful so innocent — death is frightful, and these monsters triumph!” cried Djalma. “They have spoken the truth!”
“They have lied!” answered Adrienne. “Our death shall be celestial. This poison is slow — and I adore you, my Djalma!”
She spoke those words in a low voice, trembling with passionate love, and, leaning upon Djalma’s knees, approached so near, that he felt her warm breath upon his cheek. As he felt that breath, and saw the humid flame that darted from the large, swimming eyes of Adrienne, whose half opened lips were becoming of a still deeper and brighter hue, the Indian started — his young blood boiled in his veins — he forgot everything — his despair, and the approach of death, which as yet (as with Adrienne), only showed itself in a kind of feverish ardor. His face, like the young girl’s, became once more splendidly beautiful.
“Oh, my lover! my husband! how beautiful you are!” said Adrienne, with idolatry. “Those eyes — that brow — those lips — how I love them! — How many times has the remembrance of your grace and beauty, coupled with your love, unsettled my reason, and shaken my resolves — even to this moment, when I am wholly yours! — Yes, heaven wills that we should be united. Only this morning, I gave to the apostolic man, that was to bless our union, in thy name and mine, a royal gift — a gift, that will bring joy and peace to the heart of many an unfortunate creature. Then what have we to regret, my beloved? Our immortal souls will pass away in a kiss, and ascend, full of love, to that God who is all love!”
“Adrienne!”
“Djalma!”
The light, transparent curtains fell like a cloud over that nuptial and funereal couch. Yes, funereal; for, two hours after, Adrienne and Djalma breathed their last sigh in a voluptuous agony.
CHAPTER LXVI. A DUEL TO THE DEATH.
ADRIENNE AND DJALMA died on the 30th of May. The following scene took place on the 31st, the eve of the day appointed for the last convocation of the heirs of Marius de Rennepont. The reader will no doubt remember the room occupied by M. Hardy, in the “house of retreat,” in the Rue de Vaugirard — a gloomy and retired apartment, opening on a dreary little garden, planted with yew-trees, and surrounded by high walls. To reach this chamber, it was necessary to cross two vast rooms, the doors of which, once shut, intercepted all noise and communication from without. Bearing this in mind, we may go on with our narrative. For the last three or four days, Father d’Aigrigny occupied this apartment. He had not chosen it, but had been induced to accept it, under most plausible pretexts, given him at the instigation of Rodin. It was about noon. Seated in an arm-chair, by the window opening on the little garden, Father d’Aigrigny held in his hand a newspaper, in which he read as follows, under the head of “Paris:”
“Eleven p.m. — A most horrible and tragical event has just excited the greatest consternation in the quarter of the Rue de Richelieu. A double murder has been committed, on the person of a young man and woman. The girl was killed on the spot, by the stroke of a dagger; hopes are entertained of saving the life of the young man. The crime is attributed to jealousy. The officers of justice are investigating the matter. We shall give full particulars tomorrow.”
When he had read these lines, Father d’Aigrigny threw down the paper and remained in deep thought.
“It is incredible,” said he, with bitter envy, in allusion to Rodin. “He has attained his end. Hardly one of his anticipations has been defeated. This family is annihilated, by the mere play of the passions, good and evil that he has known how to set in motion. He said it would be so. Oh! I must confess,” added Father d’Aigrigny, with a jealous and hateful smile, “that Rodin is a man of rare dissimulation, patience, energy, obstinacy and intelligence. Who would have told a few months ago, when he wrote under my orders, a discreet and humble socius, that he had already conceived the most audacious ambition, and dared to lift his eyes to the Holy See itself? that, thanks to intrigues and corruption, pursued with wondrous ability, these views were not so unreasonable? Nay, that this infernal ambition would soon be realized, were it not that the secret proceedings of this dangerous man have long been as secretly watched? — Ah!” sneered Father d’Aigrigny, with a smile of irony and triumph, “you wish to be a second Sixtus V., do you? And, not content with this audacious pretension, you mean, if successful, to absorb our Company in the Papacy, even as the Sultan has absorbed the Janissaries. Ah! You would make us your stepping-stone to power! And you have thought to humiliate and crush me with your insolent disdain! But patience, patience: the day of retribution approaches. I alone am the depository of our General’s will. Father Caboccini himself does not know that. The fate of Rodin is in my hands. Oh! it will not be what he expects. In this Rennepont affair (which, I must needs confess, he has managed admirably), he thinks to outwit us all, and to work only for himself. But to-morrow—”
Father d’Aigrigny was suddenly disturbed in these agreeable reflections. He heard the door of the next room open, and, as he turned round to see who was coming, the door of the apartment in which he was turned upon its hinges. Father d’Aigrigny started with surprise, and became almost purple. Marshal Simon stood before him. And, behind the marshal, in the shadow of the door, Father d’Aigrigny perceived the cadaverous face of Rodin. The latter cast on him one glance of diabolical delight, and instantly disappeared. The door was again closed, and Father d’Aigrigny and Marshal Simon were left alone together. The father of Rose and Blanche was hardly recognizable. His gray hair had become completely white. His pale, thin face had not been shaved for some days. His hollow eyes were bloodshot and restless, and had in them something wild and haggard. He was wrapped in a large cloak, and his black cravat was tied loosely about his neck. In withdrawing from the apartment, Rodin had (as if by inadvertence) double-locked the door on the outside. When he was alone with the Jesuit, the marshal threw back his cloak from his shoulders, and Father d’Aigrigny could see two naked swords, stuck through a silk handkerchief which served him as a belt.
Father d’Aigrigny understood it all. He remembered how, a few days before, Rodin had obstinately pressed him to say what he would do if the marshal were to strike him in the face. There could be no doubt that he, who thought to have held the fate of Rodin in his hands, had been brought by the latter into a fearful peril; for he knew that, the two outer rooms being closed, there was no possibility of making himself heard, and that the high walls of the garden only bordered upon some vacant lots. The first thought which occurred to him, one by no means destitute of probability, was that Rodin, either by his agents at Rome, or by his own incredible penetration, had learned that his fate depended on Father d’Aigrigny, and hoped therefore to get rid of him, by delivering him over to the inexorable vengeance of the father of Rose and Blanche. Without speaking a word, the marshal unbound the handkerchief from his waist, laid the two swords upon the table, and, folding his arms upon his breast, advanced slowly towards Father d’Aigrigny. Thus these two men, who through life had pursued each other with implacable hatred, at length met face to face — they, who had fought in hostile armies, and measured swords in single combat, and one of whom now came to seek vengeance for the death of his children. As the marshal approached, Father d’Aigrigny rose from his seat. He wore that day a black cassock, which rendered still more visible the pale hue, which had now succeeded to the sudden flush on his cheek. For a few seconds, the two men stood face to face without speaking. The marshal was terrific in his paternal despair. His calmness, inexorable as fate, was more impressive than the most furious burst of anger.
“My children are dead,” said he at last, in a slow and hollow tone. “I come to kill you.”
“Sir,” cried Father d’Aigrigny, “listen to me. Do not believe—”
“I must kill you,” resumed the marshal, interrupting the Jesuit; “your hate followed my wife into exile, where she perished. You and your accomplices sent my children to certain death. For twenty years you have been my evil genius. I must have your life, and I will have it.”
“My life belongs, first, to God,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, piously, “and then to who likes to take it.”
“We will fight to the death in this room,” said the marshal; “and, as I have to avenge my wife and children, I am tranquil as to the result.”
“Sir,” answered Father d’Aigrigny, coldly, “you forget that my profession forbids me to fight. Once I accepted your challenge — but my position is changed since then.”
“Ah!” said the marshal, with a bitter smile; “you refuse to fight because you are a priest?”
“Yes, sir — because I am a priest.”
“So that, because he is a priest, a wretch like you may commit any crime, any baseness, under shelter of his black gown?”
“I do not understand a word of your accusations. In any case, the law is open,” said Father d’Aigrigny, biting his pale lips, for he felt deeply the insult offered by the marshal; “if you have anything to complain of, appeal to that law, before which all are equal.”
Marshal Simon shrugged his shoulders in angry disdain. “Your crimes escape the law — and, could it even reach you, that would not satisfy my vengeance, after all the evil you have done me, after all you have taken from me,” said the marshal; and, at the memory of his children, his voice slightly trembled; but he soon proceeded, with terrible calmness: “You must feel that I now only live for vengeance. And I must have such revenge as is worth the seeking — I must have your coward’s heart palpitating on the point of my sword. Our last duel was play; this will be earnest — oh! you shall see.”
