Books: Serge Panine, v1
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Georges Ohnet >> Serge Panine, v1
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The mistress did not allow Cayrol to finish his sentence; she rang the
bell and asked for her daughter. This time, Cayrol prudently took the
opportunity of disappearing. He had opened fire; it was for Micheline to
decide the result of the battle. The banker awaited the issue of the
interview between mother and daughter in the next room. Through the door
he heard the irritated tones of Madame Desvarennes, to which Micheline
answered softly and slowly. The mother threatened and stormed. Coldly
and quietly the daughter received the attack. The tussle lasted about an
hour, when the door reopened and Madame Desvarennes appeared, pale and
still trembling, but calmed. Micheline, wiping her beautiful eyes, still
wet with tears, regained her apartment.
"Well," said Cayrol timidly, seeing the mistress standing silent and
absorbed before him; "I see with pleasure that you are less agitated.
Did Mademoiselle Micheline give you good reasons?"
"Good reasons!" cried Madame Desvarennes with a violent gesture, last
flash of the late storm. "She cried, that's all. And you know when she
cries I no longer know what I do or say! She breaks my heart with her
tears. And she knows it. Ah! it is a great misfortune to love children
too much!"
This energetic woman was conquered, and yet understood that she was wrong
to allow herself to be conquered. She fell into a deep reverie, and
forgot that Cayrol was present. She thought of the future which she had
planned for Micheline, and which the latter carelessly destroyed in an
instant.
Pierre, now an orphan, would have been a real son to the mistress.
He would have lived in her house, and have surrounded her old age with
care and affection. And then, he was so full of ability that he could
not help attaining a brilliant position. She would have helped him,
and would have rejoiced in his success. And all this scaffolding was
overturned because this Panine had crossed Micheline's path. A foreign
adventurer, prince perhaps, but who could tell? Lies are easily told
when the proofs of the lie have to be sought beyond the frontiers.
And it was her daughter who was going to fall in love with an insipid fop
who only coveted her millions. That she should see such a man enter her
family, steal Micheline's love from her, and rummage her strongbox! In a
moment she vowed mortal hatred against Panine, and resolved to do all she
could to prevent the longed-for marriage with her daughter.
She was disturbed in her meditation by Cayrol's voice. He wished to take
an answer to the Prince. What must he say to him?
"You will let him know," said Madame Desvarennes, "that he must refrain
from seeking opportunities of meeting my daughter. If he be a gentleman,
he will understand that his presence, even in Paris, is disagreeable to
me. I ask him to go away for three weeks. After that time he may come
back, and I agree to give him an answer."
"You promise me that you will not be vexed with me for having undertaken
this errand?"
"I promise on one condition. It is, that not a word which has passed
here this morning shall be repeated to any one. Nobody must suspect the
proposal that you have just made to me."
Cayrol swore to hold his tongue, and he kept his word. Prince Panine
left that same night for England.
Madame Desvarennes was a woman of quick resolution. She took a sheet of
paper, a pen, and in her large handwriting wrote the following lines
addressed to Pierre:
"If you do not wish to find Micheline married on your return, come back
without a moment's delay."
She sent this ominous letter to the young man, who was then in Tripoli.
That done, she returned to her business as if nothing had happened. Her
placid face did not once betray the anguish of her heart during those
three weeks.
The term fixed by Madame Desvarennes with the Prince had expired that
morning. And the severity with which the mistress had received the
Minister of War's Financial Secretary was a symptom of the agitation in
which the necessity of coming to a decision placed Micheline's mother.
Every morning for the last week she had expected Pierre to arrive. What
with having to give an answer to the Prince as she had promised, and the
longing to see him whom she loved as a son, she felt sick at heart and
utterly cast down. She thought of asking the Prince for a respite. It
was for that reason she was glad to see Cayrol.
The latter, therefore, had arrived opportunely. He looked as if he
brought startling news. By a glance he drew Madame Desvarennes's
attention to Marechal and seemed to say:
"I must be alone with you; send him away."
The mistress understood, and with a decided gesture said:
"You can speak before Marechal; he knows all my affairs as well as I do
myself."
"Even the matter that brings me here?" replied Cayrol, with surprise.
"Even that. It was necessary for me to have some one to whom I could
speak, or else my heart would have burst! Come, do your errand. The
Prince?"
"A lot it has to do with the Prince," exclaimed Cayrol, in a huff.
"Pierre has arrived!"
Madame Desvarennes rose abruptly. A rush of blood rose to her face, her
eyes brightened, and her lips opened with a smile.
"At last!" she cried. "But where is he? How did you hear of his
return?"
"Ah! faith, it was just by chance. I was shooting yesterday at
Fontainebleau, and I returned this morning by the express. On arriving
at Paris, I alighted on the platform, and there I found myself face to
face with a tall young man with a long beard, who, seeing me pass, called
out, 'Ah, Cayrol!' It was Pierre. I only recognized him by his voice.
He is much changed; with his beard, and his complexion bronzed like an
African."
"What did he say to you?"
"Nothing. He pressed my hand. He looked at me for a moment with
glistening eyes. There was something on his lips which he longed to ask,
yet did not; but I guessed it. I was afraid of giving way to tenderness,
that might have ended in my saying something foolish, so I left him."
"How long ago is that?"
"About an hour ago. I only just ran home before coming on here. There I
found Panine waiting for me. He insisted upon accompanying me. I hope
you won't blame him?"
Madame Desvarennes frowned.
"I will not see him just now," she said, looking at Cayrol with a
resolute air. "Where did you leave him?"
"In the garden, where I found the young ladies."
As if to verify the banker's words, a merry peal of laughter was heard
through the half-open window. It was Micheline, who, with returning
gayety, was making up for the three weeks' sadness she had experienced
during Panine's absence.
Madame Desvarennes went to the window, and looked into the garden.
Seated on the lawn, in large bamboo chairs, the young girls were
listening to a story the Prince was telling. The morning was bright and
mild; the sun shining through Micheline's silk sunshade lit up her fair
head. Before her, Serge, bending his tall figure, was speaking with
animation. Micheline's eyes were softly fixed on him. Reclining in her
armchair, she allowed herself to be carried away with his conversation,
and thoroughly enjoyed his society, of which she had been deprived for
the last three weeks. Beside her, Jeanne, silently watching the Prince,
was mechanically nibbling, with her white teeth, a bunch of carnations
which she held in her hands. A painful thought contracted Mademoiselle
de Cernay's brow, and her pale lips on the red flowers seemed to be
drinking blood.
The mistress slowly turned away from this scene. A shadow had crossed
her brow, which had, for a moment, become serene again at the
announcement of Pierre's arrival. She remained silent for a little
while, as if considering; then coming to a resolution, and turning to
Cayrol, she said:
"Where is Pierre staying?"
"At the Hotel du Louvre," replied the banker.
"Well, I'm going there."
Madame Desvarennes rang the bell violently.
"My bonnet, my cloak, and the carriage," she said, and with a friendly
nod to the two men, she went out quickly.
Micheline was still laughing in the garden. Marechal and Cayrol looked
at each other. Cayrol was the first to speak.
"The mistress told you all about the matter then? How is it you never
spoke to me about it?"
"Should I have been worthy of Madame Desvarennes's confidence had I
spoken of what she wished to keep secret?"
"To me?"
"Especially to you. The attitude which you have taken forbade my
speaking. You favor Prince Panine?"
"And you; you are on Pierre Delarue's side?"
"I take no side. I am only a subordinate, you know; I do not count."
"Do not attempt to deceive me. Your influence over the mistress is
great. The confidence she has in you is a conclusive proof. Important
events are about to take place here. Pierre has certainly returned to
claim his right as betrothed, and Mademoiselle Micheline loves Prince
Serge. Out of this a serious conflict will take place in the house.
There will be a battle. And as the parties in question are about equal
in strength, I am seeking adherents for my candidate. I own, in all
humility, I am on love's side. The Prince is beloved by Mademoiselle
Desvarennes, and I serve him. Micheline will be grateful, and will do me
a turn with Mademoiselle de Cernay. As to you, let me give you a little
advice. If Madame Desvarennes consults you, speak well of Panine. When
the Prince is master here, your position will be all the better for it."
Marechal had listened to Cayrol without anything betraying the impression
his words created. He looked at the banker in a peculiar manner, which
caused him to feel uncomfortable, and made him lower his eyes.
"Perhaps you do not know, Monsieur Cayrol," said the secretary, after a
moment's pause, "how I entered this firm. It is as well in that case to
inform you. Four years ago, I was most wretched. After having sought
fortune ten times without success, I felt myself giving way morally and
physically. There are some beings gifted with energy, who can surmount
all the difficulties of life. You are one of those. As for me, the
struggle exhausted my strength, and I came to grief. It would take too
long to enumerate all the ways of earning my living I tried. Few even
fed me; and I was thinking of putting an end to my miserable existence
when I met Pierre. We had been at college together. I went toward him;
he was on the quay. I dared to stop him. At first he did not recognize
me, I was so haggard, so wretched-looking! But when I spoke, he cried,
'Marechal!' and, without blushing at my tatters, put his arms round my
neck. We were opposite the Belle Jardiniere, the clothiers; he wanted to
rig me out. I remember as if it were but yesterday I said, 'No, nothing,
only find me work!'--'Work, my poor fellow,' he answered, 'but just look
at yourself; who would have confidence to give you any? You look like a
tramp, and when you accosted me a little while ago, I asked myself if you
were not about to steal my watch!' And he laughed gayly, happy at having
found me again, and thinking that he might be of use to me. Seeing that
I would not go into the shop, he took off his overcoat, and put it on my
back to cover my tattered clothes, and there and then he took me to
Madame Desvarennes. Two days later I entered the office. You see the
position I hold, and I owe it to Pierre. He has been more than a friend
to me--a brother. Come! after that, tell me what you would think of me
if I did what you have just asked me?"
Cayrol was confused; he twisted his bristly beard with his fingers.
"Faith, I do not say that your scruples are not right; but, between
ourselves, every step that is taken against the Prince will count for
naught. He will marry Mademoiselle Desvarennes."
"It is possible. In that case, I shall be here to console Pierre and
sympathize with him."
"And in the mean time you are going to do all you can in his favor?"
"I have already had the honor of telling you that I cannot do anything."
"Well, well. One knows what talking means, and you will not change my
idea of your importance. You take the weaker side then; that's superb!"
"It is but strictly honest," said Marechal. "It is true that that
quality has become very rare!"
Cayrol wheeled round on his heels. He took a few steps toward the door,
then, returning to Marechal, held out his hand:
"Without a grudge, eh?"
The secretary allowed his hand to be shaken without answering, and the
banker went out, saying to himself:
"He is without a sou and has prejudices! There's a lad without a
future."
CHAPTER IV
THE RIVALS
On reaching Paris, Pierre Delarue experienced a strange feeling. In his
feverish haste he longed for the swiftness of electricity to bring him
near Micheline. As soon as he arrived in Paris, he regretted having
travelled so fast. He longed to meet his betrothed, yet feared to know
his fate.
He had a sort of presentiment that his reception would destroy his hopes.
And the more he tried to banish these thoughts, the more forcibly they
returned. The thought that Micheline had forgotten her promise made the
blood rush to his face.
Madame Desvarennes's short letter suggested it. That his betrothed was
lost to him he understood, but he would not admit it. How was it
possible that Micheline should forget him? All his childhood passed
before his mind. He remembered the sweet and artless evidences of
affection which the young girl had given him. And yet she no longer
loved him! It was her own mother who said so. After that could he still
hope?
A prey to this deep trouble, Pierre entered Paris. On finding himself
face to face with Cayrol, the young man's first idea was, as Cayrol had
guessed, to cry out, "What's going on? Is all lost to me?" A sort of
anxious modesty kept back the words on his lips. He would not admit that
he doubted. And, then, Cayrol would only have needed to answer that all
was over, and that he could put on mourning for his love. He turned
around, and went out.
The tumult of Paris surprised and stunned him. After spending a year in
the peaceful solitudes of Africa, to find himself amid the cries of
street-sellers, the rolling of carriages, and the incessant movement of
the great city, was too great a contrast to him. Pierre was overcome by
languor; his head seemed too heavy for his body to carry; he mechanically
entered a cab which conveyed him to the Hotel du Louvre. Through the
window, against the glass of which he tried to cool his heated forehead,
he saw pass in procession before his eyes, the Column of July, the church
of St. Paul, the Hotel de Ville in ruins, and the colonnade of the
Louvre.
An absurd idea took possession of him. He remembered that during the
Commune he was nearly killed in the Rue Saint-Antoine by the explosion of
a shell, thrown by the insurgents from the heights of Pere-Lachaise.
He thought that had he died then, Micheline would have wept for him.
Then, as in a nightmare, it seemed to him that this hypothesis was
realized. He saw the church hung with black, he heard the funeral
chants. A catafalque contained his coffin, and slowly his betrothed
came, with a trembling hand, to throw holy water on the cloth which
covered the bier. And a voice said within him:
"You are dead, since Micheline is about to marry another."
He made an effort to banish this importunate idea. He could not succeed.
Thoughts flew through his brain with fearful rapidity. He thought he was
beginning to be seized with brain fever. And this dismal ceremony kept
coming before him with the same chants, the same words repeated, and the
same faces appearing. The houses seemed to fly before his vacant eyes.
To stop this nightmare he tried to count the gas-lamps: one, two, three,
four, five--but the same thought interrupted his calculation:
"You are dead, since your betrothed is about to marry another."
He was afraid he was going mad. A sharp pain shot across his forehead
just above the right eyebrow. In the old days he had felt the same pain
when he had overworked himself in preparing for his examinations at the
Polytechnic School. With a bitter smile he asked himself if one of the
aching vessels in his brain was about to burst?
The sudden stoppage of the cab freed him from this torture. The hotel
porter opened the door. Pierre stepped out mechanically. Without
speaking a word he followed a waiter, who showed him to a room on the
second floor. Left alone, he sat down. This room, with its commonplace
furniture, chilled him. He saw in it a type of his future life: lonely
and desolate. Formerly, when he used to come to Paris, he stayed with
Madame Desvarennes, where he had the comforts of home, and every one
looked on him affectionately.
Here, at the hotel, orders were obeyed with politeness at so much a day.
Would it always be thus in future?
This painful impression dissipated his weakness as by enchantment. He so
bitterly regretted the sweets of the past, that he resolved to struggle
to secure them for the future. He dressed himself quickly, and removed
all the traces of his journey; then, his mind made up, he jumped into a
cab, and drove to Madame Desvarennes's. All indecision had left him.
His fears now seemed contemptible. He must defend himself. It was a
question of his happiness.
At the Place de la Concorde a carriage passed his cab. He recognized the
livery of Madame Desvarennes's coachman and leant forward. The mistress
did not see him. He was about to stop the cab and tell his driver to
follow her carriage when a sudden thought decided him to go on. It was
Micheline he wanted to see. His future destiny depended on her. Madame
Desvarennes had made him clearly understand that by calling for his help
in her fatal letter. He went on his way, and in a few minutes arrived at
the mansion in the Rue Saint-Dominique.
Micheline and Jeanne were still in the garden, seated in the same place
on the lawn. Cayrol had joined Serge. Both, profiting by the lovely
morning, were enjoying the society of their beloved ones. A quick step
on the gravel walk attracted their attention. In the sunlight a young
man, whom neither Jeanne nor Micheline recognized, was advancing. When
about two yards distant from the group he slowly raised his hat.
Seeing the constrained and astonished manner of the young girls, a sad
smile played on his lips, then he said, softly:
"Am I then so changed that I must tell you my name?"
At these words Micheline jumped up, she became as white as her collar,
and trembling, with sobs rising to her lips, stood silent and petrified
before Pierre. She could not speak, but her eyes were eagerly fixed on
the young man. It was he, the companion of her youth, so changed that
she had not recognized him; worn by hard work, perhaps by anxieties,
bronzed--and with his face hidden by a black beard which gave him a manly
and energetic appearance. It was certainly he, with a thin red ribbon at
his button-hole, which he had not when he went away, and which showed the
importance of the works he had executed and of great perils he had faced.
Pierre, trembling and motionless, was silent; the sound of his voice
choked with emotion had frightened him. He had expected a cold
reception, but this scared look, which resembled terror, was beyond all
he had pictured. Serge wondered and watched.
Jeanne broke the icy silence. She went up to Pierre, and presented her
forehead.
"Well," she said, "don't you kiss your friends?"
She smiled affectionately on him. Two grateful tears sparkled in the
young man's eyes, and fell on Mademoiselle de Cernay's hair. Micheline,
led away by the example and without quite knowing what she was doing,
found herself in Pierre's arms. The situation was becoming singularly
perplexing to Serge. Cayrol, who had not lost his presence of mind,
understood it, and turning toward the Prince, said:
"Monsieur Pierre Delarue: an old friend and companion of Mademoiselle
Desvarennes's; almost a brother to her," thus explaining in one word all
that could appear unusual in such a scene of tenderness.
Then, addressing Pierre, he simply added--"Prince Panine."
The two men looked at each other. Serge, with haughty curiosity; Pierre,
with inexpressible rage. In a moment, he guessed that the tall, handsome
man beside his betrothed was his rival. If looks could kill, the Prince
would have fallen down dead. Panine did not deign to notice the hatred
which glistened in the eyes of the newcomer. He turned toward Micheline
with exquisite grace and said:
"Your mother receives her friends this evening, I think, Mademoiselle; I
shall have the honor of paying my respects to her."
And taking leave of Jeanne with a smile, and of Pierre with a courteous
bow, he left, accompanied by Cayrol.
Serge's departure was a relief to Micheline. Between these two men to
whom she belonged, to the one by a promise, to the other by an avowal,
she felt ashamed. Left alone with Pierre she recovered her self-
possession, and felt full of pity for the poor fellow threatened with
such cruel deception. She went tenderly to him, with her loving eyes of
old, and pressed his hand:
"I am very glad to see you again, my dear Pierre; and my mother will be
delighted. We were very anxious about you. You have not written to us
for some months."
Pierre tried to joke: "The post does not leave very often in the desert.
I wrote whenever I had an opportunity."
"Is it so very pleasant in Africa that you could not tear yourself away a
whole year?"
"I had to take another journey on the coast of Tripoli to finish my
labors. I was interested in my work, and anxious not to lose the result
of so much effort, and I think I have succeeded--at least in--the opinion
of my employers," said the young man, with a ghastly smile.
"My dear Pierre, you come in time from the land of the sphinx,"
interrupted Jeanne gravely, and glancing intently at Micheline.
"There is here, I assure you, a difficult enigma to solve."
"What is it?"
"That which is written in this heart," she replied, lightly touching her
companion's breast.
"From childhood I have always read it as easily as a book," said Pierre,
with tremulous voice, turning toward the amazed Micheline.
Mademoiselle de Cernay tossed her head.
"Who knows? Perhaps her disposition has changed during your absence;"
and nodding pleasantly, she went toward the house.
Pierre followed her for a moment with his eyes, then, turning toward his
betrothed, said:
"Micheline, shall I tell you your secret? You no longer love me."
The young girl started. The attack was direct. She must at once give an
explanation. She had often thought of what she would say when Pierre
came back to her. The day had arrived unexpectedly. And the answers she
had prepared had fled. The truth appeared harsh and cold. She
understood that the change in her was treachery, of which Pierre was the
innocent victim; and feeling herself to blame, she waited tremblingly the
explosion of this loyal heart so cruelly wounded. She stammered, in
tremulous accents:
"Pierre, my friend, my brother."
"Your brother!" cried the young man, bitterly. "Was that the name you
were to give me on my return?"
At these words, which so completely summed up the situation, Micheline
remained silent. Still she felt that at all hazards she must defend
herself. Her mother might come in at any moment. Between Madame
Desvarennes and her betrothed, what would become of her? The hour was
decisive. Her strong love for Serge gave her fresh energy.
"Why did you go away?" she asked, with sadness.
Pierre raised with pride his head which had been bent with anguish.
"To be worthy of you," he merely said.
"You did not need to be worthy of me; you, who were already above every
one else. We were betrothed; you only had to guard me."
"Could not your heart guard itself?"
"Without help, without the support of your presence and affection?"
"Without other help or support than I had myself: Hope and Remembrance."
Micheline turned pale. Each word spoken by Pierre made her feel the
unworthiness of her conduct more completely. She endeavored to find a
new excuse:
"Pierre, you know I was only a child."
"No," said the young man, with choked voice, "I see that you were already
a woman; a being weak, inconstant, and cruel; who cares not for the love
she inspires, and sacrifices all to the love she feels."
So long as Pierre had only complained, Micheline felt overwhelmed and
without strength; but the young man began to accuse. In a moment the
young girl regained her presence of mind and revolted.
"Those are hard words!" she exclaimed.
"Are they not deserved?" cried Pierre, no longer restraining himself.
"You saw me arrive trembling, with eyes full of tears, and not only had
you not an affectionate word to greet me with, but you almost accuse me
of indifference. You reproach me with having gone away. Did you not
know my motive for going? I was betrothed to you; you were rich and I
was poor. To remove this inequality I resolved to make a name. I sought
one of those perilous scientific missions which bring celebrity or death
to those who undertake them. Ah! think not that I went away from you
without heart-breaking! For a year I was almost alone, crushed with
fatigue, always in danger; the thought that I was suffering for you
supported me.
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