Books: Cosmopolis, v3
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Paul Bourget >> Cosmopolis, v3
"Yes," said Boleslas, "you think thus. True and simple as you are, how
could you have learned to understand what a weak will is--a will which
wishes and which does not, which rises and which falls?.... And yet,
if I had not loved you, what interest would I have in lying to you?
Have I anything to conceal now? Ah, if you knew in what a position I am,
on the eve of what day, I beseech you to believe that at least the best
part of my being has never ceased to be yours!"
It was the strongest effort he could make to bring back the heart of his
wife so deeply wounded--the allusion to his duel. For since she had not
mentioned it to him, it was no doubt because she was still ignorant of
it. He was once more startled by the reply she made, and which proved to
him to what a degree indignation had paralyzed even her love. He
resumed:
"Do you know it?"
"I know that you fight a duel to-morrow," said she, "and for your
mistress, I know, too."
"It is not true," he exclaimed; "it is not for her."
"What?" asked Maud, energetically. "Was it not on her account that you
went to the Rue Leopardi to provoke your rival? For she is not even true
to you, and it is justice. Was it not on her account that you wished to
enter the house, in spite of that rival's brother-in-law, and that a
dispute arose between you, followed by this challenge? Was it not on her
account, and to revenge yourself, that you returned from Poland, because
you had received anonymous letters which told you all? And to know all
has not disgusted you forever with that creature?.... But if she had
deigned to lie to you, she would have you still at her feet, and you dare
to tell me that you love me when you have not even cared to spare me the
affront of learning all that villainy--all that baseness, all that
disgrace--through some one else?"
"Who was it?" he asked. "Name that Judas to me, at least?"
"Do not speak thus," interrupted Maud, bitterly; "you have lost the
right.... And then do not seek too far.... I have seen Madame Maitland
to-day."
"Madame Maitland?" repeated Boleslas. "Did Madame Maitland denounce me
to you? Did Madame Maitland write those anonymous letters?"
"She desired to be avenged," replied Maud, adding: "She has the right,
since your mistress robbed her of her husband."
"Well, I, too, will be avenged!" exclaimed the young man. "I will kill
that husband for her, after I have killed her brother. I will kill them
both, one after the other.".... His mobile countenance, which had just
expressed the most impassioned of supplications, now expressed only
hatred and rage, and the same change took place in his immoderate
sensibility. "Of what use is it to try to settle matters?" he
continued. "I see only too well all is ended between us. Your pride and
your rancor are stronger than your love. If it had been otherwise, you
would have begged me not to fight, and you would only have reproached me,
as you have the right to do, I do not deny.... But from the moment that
you no longer love me, woe to him whom I find in my path! Woe to Madame
Maitland and to those she loves!"
"This time at least you are sincere," replied Maud, with renewed
bitterness. "Do you think I have not suffered sufficient humiliation?
Would you like me to supplicate you not to fight for that creature?
And do you not feel the supreme outrage which that encounter is to me?
Moreover," she continued with tragical solemnity, "I did not summon you
to have with you a conversation as sad as it is useless, but to tell you
my resolution.... I hope that you will not oblige me to resort for its
execution to the means which the law puts in my power?"
"I don't deserve to be spoken to thus," said Boleslas, haughtily.
"I will remain here to-night," resumed Maud, without heeding that reply,
"for the last time. To-morrow evening I shall leave for England."
"You are free," said he, with a bow.
"And I shall take my son with me," she added.
"Our son!" he replied, with the composure of a man overcome by an access
of tenderness and who controls himself. "That? No. I forbid it."
"You forbid it?" said she. "Very well, we will appeal it. I knew that
you would force me," she continued, haughtily, in her turn, "to have
recourse to the law.... But I shall not recoil before anything.
In betraying me as you have done, you have also betrayed our child.
I will not leave him to you. You are not worthy of him."
"Listen, Maud," said Boleslas, sadly, after a pause, "remember that it is
perhaps the last time we shall meet.... To-morrow, if I am killed, you
shall do as you like.... If I live, I promise to consent to any
arrangement that will be just.... What I ask of you is--and I have the
right, notwithstanding my faults--in the name of our early years of
wedded life, in the name of that son himself, to leave me in a different
way, to have a feeling, I don't say of pardon, but of pity."
"Did you have it for me," she replied, "when you were following your
passion by way of my heart? No!".... And she walked before him in order
to reach the door, fixing upon him eyes so haughty that he involuntarily
lowered his. "You have no longer a wife and I have no longer a
husband.... I am no Madame Maitland; I do not avenge myself by means of
anonymous letters nor by denunciation.... But to pardon you?.... Never,
do you hear, never!"
With those words she left the room, with those words into which she put
all the indomitable energy of her character.... Boleslas did not essay
to detain her. When, an hour after that horrible conversation, his valet
came to inform him that dinner was served, the wretched man was still in
the same place, his elbow on the mantelpiece and his forehead in his
hand. He knew Maud too well to hope that she would change her
determination, and there was in him, in spite of his faults, his folly
and his complications, too much of the real gentleman to employ means of
violence and to detain her forcibly, when he had erred so gravely. So
she went thus. If, just before, he had exaggerated the expression of his
feelings in saying, in thinking rather, that he had never ceased loving
her, it was true that amid all his errors he had maintained for her an
affection composed particularly of gratitude, remorse, esteem and, it
must be said, of selfishness.
He loved for the devotion of which he was absolutely sure, and then, like
many husbands who deceive an irreproachable wife, he was proud of her,
while unfaithful to her. She seemed to him at once the dignity and the
charity of his life. She had remained in his eyes the one to whom he
could always return, the assured friend of moments of trial, the haven
after the tempest, the moral peace when he was weary of the troubles of
passion. What life would he lead when she was gone? For she would go!
Her resolution was irrevocable. All dropped from his side at once.
The mistress, to whom he had sacrificed the noblest and most loving
heart, he had lost under circumstances as abject as their two years of
passion had been dishonorable. His wife was about to leave him,
and would he succeed in keeping his son? He had returned to be avenged,
and he had not even succeeded in meeting his rival. That being so
impressionable had experienced, in the face of so many repeated blows,
a disappointment so absolute that he gladly looked forward to the
prospect of exposing himself to death on the following day, while at the
same time a bitter flood of rancor possessed him at the thought of all
the persons concerned in his adventure. He would have liked to crush
Madame Steno and Maitland, Lydia and Florent--Dorsenne, too--for having
given him the false word of honor, which had strengthened still more his
thirst for vengeance by calming it for a few hours.
His confusion of thoughts was only greater when he was seated alone with
his son at dinner. That morning he had seen before him his wife's
smiling face. The absence of her whom at that moment he valued above all
else was so sad to him that he ventured one last attempt, and after the
meal he sent little Luc to see if his mother would receive him. The
child returned with a reply in the negative. "Mamma is resting.... She
does not wish to be disturbed." So the matter was irremissible. She
would not see her husband until the morrow--if he lived. For vainly did
Boleslas convince himself that afternoon that he had lost none of his
skill in practising before his admiring seconds; a duel is always a
lottery. He might be killed, and if the possibility of an eternal
separation had not moved the injured woman, what prayer would move her?
He saw her in his thoughts--her who at that moment, with blinds drawn,
all lights subdued, endured in the semi-darkness that suffering which
curses but does not pardon. Ah, but that sight was painful to him!
And, in order that she might at least know how he felt, he took their son
in his arms, and, pressing him to his breast, said: "If you see your
mother before I do, you will tell her that we spent a very lonesome
evening without her, will you not?"
"Why, what ails you?" exclaimed the child. "You have wet my cheeks with
tears--you are sweeping!"
"You will tell her that, too, promise me," replied the father, "so that
she will take good care of herself, seeing how we love her."
"But," said the little boy, "she was not ill when we walked together
after breakfast. She was so gay."
"I think, too, it will be nothing serious," replied Gorka. He was
obliged to dismiss his son and to go out. He felt so horribly sad that
he was physically afraid to remain alone in the house. But whither
should he go? Mechanically he repaired to the club, although it was too
early to meet many of the members there. He came upon Pietrapertosa and
Cibo, who had dined there, and who, seated on one of the divans, were
conferring in whispers with the gravity of two ambassadors discussing the
Bulgarian or Egyptian question.
"You have a very nervous air," they said to Boleslas, "you who were in
such good form this afternoon."
"Yes," said Cibo, "you should have dined with us as we asked you to."
"When one is to fight a duel," continued Pietrapertosa, sententiously,
"one should see neither one's wife nor one's mistress. Madame Gorka
suspects nothing, I hope?"
"Absolutely nothing," replied Boleslas; "you are right. I should have
done better not to have left you. But, here I am. We will exorcise
dismal thoughts by playing cards and supping!"
"By playing cards and supping!" exclaimed Pietrapertosa. "And your hand?
Think of your hand.... You will tremble, and you will miss your man."
"Alright dinner," said Cibo, "to bed at ten o'clock, up at six-thirty,
and two eggs with a glass of old port is the recipe Machault gives."
"And which I shall not follow," said Boleslas, adding: "I give you my
word that if I had no other cause for care than this duel, you would not
see me in this condition." He uttered that phrase in a tragical voice,
the sincerity of which the two Italians felt. They looked at each other
without speaking. They were too shrewd and too well aware of the
simplest scandals of Rome not to have divined the veritable cause of the
encounter between Florent and Boleslas. On the other hand, they knew the
latter too well not to mistrust somewhat his attitudes. However, there
was such simple emotion in his accent that they spontaneously pitied him,
and, without another word, they no longer opposed the caprices of their
strange client, whom they did not leave until two o'clock in the morning
--and fortune favored them. For they found themselves at the end of a
game, recklessly played, each the richer by two or three hundred louis
apiece. That meant a few days more in Paris on the next visit. They,
too, truly regretted their friend's luck, saying, on separating:
"I very much fear for him," said Cibo. "Such luck at gaming, the night
before a duel--bad sign, very bad sign."
"So much the more so that some one was there," replied Pietrapertosa,
making with his fingers the sign which conjures the jettutura. For
nothing in the world would he have named the personages against whose
evil eye he provided in that manner. But Cibo understood him, and,
drawing from his trousers pocket his watch, which he fastened a
l'anglaise by a safety chain to his belt, he pointed out among the charms
a golden horn:
"I have not let it go this evening," said he. "The worst is, that Gorka
will not sleep, and then, his hand!"
Only the first of those two prognostics was to be verified. Returning
home at that late hour, Boleslas did not even retire. He employed the
remainder of the night in writing a long letter to his wife, one to his
son, to be given to him on his eighteenth birthday, all in case of an
accident. Then he examined his papers and he came upon the package of
letters he had received from Madame Steno. Merely to reread a few of
them, and to glance at the portraits of that faithless mistress again,
heightened his anger to such a degree that he enclosed the whole in a
large envelope, which he addressed to Lincoln Maitland. He had no sooner
sealed it than he shrugged his shoulders, saying: "Of what use?" He
raised the piece of material which stopped up the chimney, and, placing
the envelope on the fire-dogs, he set it on fire. He shook with the
tongs the remains of that which had been the most ardent, the most
complete passion of his life, and he relighted the flames under the
pieces of paper still intact. The unreasonable employment of a night
which might be his last had scarcely paled his face. But his friends,
who knew him well, started on seeing him with that impassively sinister
countenance when he alighted from his phaeton, at about eight o'clock,
at the inn selected for the meeting. He had ordered the carriage the day
before to allay his wife's suspicions by the pretense of taking one of
his usual morning drives. In his mental confusion he had forgotten to
give a counter order, and that accident caused him to escape the two
policemen charged by the questorship to watch the Palazzetto Doria, on
Lydia Maitland's denunciation. The hired victoria, which those agents
took, soon lost track of the swift English horses, driven as a man of his
character and of his mental condition could drive.
The precaution of Chapron's sister was, therefore, baffled in that
direction, and she succeeded no better with regard to her brother, who,
to avoid all explanation with Lincoln, had gone, under the pretext of a
visit to the country, to dine and sleep at the hotel. It was there that
Montfanon and Dorsenne met him to conduct him to the rendezvous in the
classical landau. Hardly had they reached the eminence of the circus of
Maxence, on the Appian Way, when they were passed by Boleslas's phaeton.
"You can rest very easy," said Montfanon to Florent. "How can one aim
correctly when one tires one's arm in that way?"
That had been the only allusion to the duel made between the three men
during the journey, which had taken about an hour. Florent talked as he
usually did, asking all sorts of questions which attested his care for
minute information--the most of which might be utilized by his brother-
in-law-and the Marquis had replied by evoking, with his habitual
erudition, several of the souvenirs which peopled that vast country,
strewn with tombs, aqueducts, ruined villas, with the line of the Monts
Albains enclosing them beyond.
Dorsenne was silent. It was the first affair at which he had assisted,
and his nervous anxiety was extreme.
Tragical presentiments oppressed him, and at the same time he apprehended
momentarily that, Montfanon's religious scruples reawakening, he would
not only have to seek another second, but would have to defer a solution
so near. However, the struggle which was taking place in the heart of
the "old leaguer" between the gentleman and the Christian, was displayed
during the drive only by an almost imperceptible gesture. As the
carriage passed the entrance to the catacomb of St. Calixtus, the former
soldier of the Pope turned away his head. Then he resumed the
conversation with redoubled energy, to pause in his turn, however, when
the landau took, a little beyond the Tomb of Caecilia, a transverse road
in the direction of the Ardeatine Way. It was there that 'l'Osteria del
tempo perso' was built, upon the ground belonging to Cibo, on which the
duel was to take place.
Before l'Osteria, whose signboard was surmounted by the arms of Pope
Innocent VIII, three carriages were already waiting--Gorka's phaeton, a
landau which had brought Cibo, Pietrapertosa and the doctor, and a simple
botte, in which a porter had come. That unusual number of vehicles
seemed likely to attract the attention of riflemen out for a stroll, but
Cibo answered for the discretion of the innkeeper, who indeed cherished
for his master the devotion of vassal to lord, still common in Italy.
The three newcomers had no need to make the slightest explanation.
Hardly had they alighted from the carriage, when the maid conducted them
through the hall, where at that moment two huntsmen were breakfasting,
their guns between their knees, and who, like true Romans, scarcely
deigned to glance at the strangers, who passed from the common hall into
a small court, from that court, through a shed, into a large field
enclosed by boards, with here and there a few pine-trees.
That rather odd duelling-ground had formerly served Cibo as a paddock.
He had essayed to increase his slender income by buying at a bargain some
jaded horses, which he intended fattening by means of rest and good
fodder, and then selling to cabmen, averaging a small profit. The
speculation having miscarried, the place was neglected and unused, save
under circumstances similar to those of this particular morning.
"We have arrived last," said Montfanon, looking at his watch; "we are,
however, five minutes ahead of time. Remember," he added in a low voice,
turning to Florent, "to keep the body well in the background," these
words being followed by other directions.
"Thanks," replied Florent, who looked at the Marquis and Dorsenne with a
glance which he ordinarily had only for Lincoln, "and you know that,
whatever may come, I thank you for all from the depths of my heart."
The young man put so much grace in that adieu, his courage was so simple,
his sacrifice for his brother-in-law so magnanimous and natural--in fact,
for two days both seconds had so fully appreciated the charm of that
disposition, absolutely free from thoughts of self--that they pressed his
hand with the emotion of true friends. They were themselves, moreover,
interested, and at once began the series of preparations without which
the role of assistant would be physically insupportable to persons
endowed with a little sensibility. In experienced hands like those of
Montfanon, Cibo and Pietrapertosa, such preliminaries are speedily
arranged. The code is as exact as the step of a ballet. Twenty minutes
after the entrance of the last arrivals, the two adversaries were face to
face. The signal was given. The two shots were fired simultaneously,
and Florent sank upon the grass which covered the enclosure. He had a
bullet in his thigh.
Dorsenne has often related since, as a singular trait of literary mania,
that at the moment the wounded man fell he, himself, notwithstanding the
anxiety which possessed him, had watched Montfanon, to study him. He
adds that never had he seen a face express such sorrowful piety as that
of the man who, scorning all human respect, made the sign of the cross.
It was the devotee of the catacombs, who had left the altar of the
martyrs to accomplish a work of charity, then carried away by anger so
far as to place himself under the necessity of participating in a duel,
who was, no doubt, asking pardon of God. What remorse was stirring
within the heart of the fervent, almost mystical Christian, so strangely
mixed up in an adventure of that kind? He had at least this comfort,
that after the first examination, and when they had borne Florent into a
room prepared hastily by the care of Cibo, the doctor declared himself
satisfied. The ball could even be removed at once, and as neither the
bone nor the muscles had been injured it was a matter of a few weeks at
the most.
"All that now remains for us," concluded Cibo, who had brought back the
news, "is to draw up our official report."
At that instant, and as the witnesses were preparing to reenter the house
for the last formality, an incident occurred, very unexpected, which was
to transform the encounter, up to that time so simple, into one of those
memorable duels which are talked over at clubs and in armories. If
Pietrapertosa and Cibo had ceased since morning to believe in the
jettatura of the "some one" whom neither had named, it must be
acknowledged that they were very unjust, for the good fortune of having
gained something wherewith to swell their Parisian purses was surely
naught by the side of this--to have to discuss with the Cavals, the
Machaults and other professionals the case, almost unprecedented, in
which they were participants.
Boleslas Gorka, who, when once his adversary had fallen, paced to and fro
without seeming to care as to the gravity of the wound, suddenly
approached the group formed by the four men, and in a tone of voice which
did not predict the terrible aggression in which he was about to indulge,
he said:
"One moment, gentlemen. I desire to say a few words in your presence to
Monsieur Dorsenne."
"I am at your service, Gorka," replied Julien, who did not suspect the
hostile intention of his old friend. He did not divine the form which
that hostility was about to take, but he had always upon his mind his
word of honor falsely given, and he was prepared to answer for it.
"It will not take much time, sir," continued Boleslas, still with the
same insolently formal politeness, "you know we have an account to
settle.... But as I have some cause not to believe in the validity of
your honor, I should like to remove all cause of evasion." And before
any one could interfere in the unheard-of proceedings he had raised his
glove and struck Dorsenne in the face. As Gorka spoke, the writer turned
pale. He had not the time to reply to the audacious insult offered him
by a similar one, for the three witnesses of the scene cast themselves
between him and his aggressor. He, however, pushed them aside with a
resolute air.
"Remember, sirs," said he, "that by preventing me from inflicting on
Monsieur Gorka the punishment he deserves, you force me to obtain another
reparation. And I demand it immediately.... I will not leave this
place," he continued, "without having obtained it."
"Nor I, without having given it to you," replied Boleslas. "It is all I
ask."
"No, Dorsenne," cried Montfanon, who had been the first to seize the
raised arm of the writer, "you shall not fight thus. First, you have no
right. It requires at least twenty-four hours between the provocation
and the encounter.... And you, sirs, must not agree to serve as seconds
for Monsieur Gorka, after he has failed in a manner so grave in all the
rules of the ground.... If you lend yourselves to it, it is barbarous,
it is madness, whatsoever you like. It is no longer a duel."
"I repeat, Montfanon," replied Dorsenne, "that I will not leave here and
that I will not allow Monsieur Gorka to leave until I have obtained the
reparation to which I feel I have the right."
"And I repeat that I am at Monsieur Dorsenne's service," replied
Boleslas.
"Very well, sirs," said Montfanon. "There only remains for us to leave
you to arrange it one with the other as you wish, and for us to
withdraw.... Is not that your opinion?" he continued, addressing Cibo
and Pietrapertosa, who did not reply immediately.
"Certainly," finally said one; "the case is difficult."
"There are, however, precedents," insinuated the other.
"Yes," resumed Cibo, "if it were only the two successive duels of Henry
de Pene."
"Which furnish authority," concluded Pietrapertosa.
"Authority has nothing to do with it," again exclaimed Montfanon. "I
know, for my part, that I am not here to assist at a butchery, and that I
will not assist at it.... I am going, sirs, and I expect you will do the
same, for I do not suppose you would select coachmen to play the part of
seconds.... Adieu, Dorsenne.... You do not doubt my friendship for
you.... I think I am giving you a veritable proof of it by not
permitting you to fight under such conditions."
When the old nobleman reentered the inn, he waited ten minutes, persuaded
that his departure would determine that of Cibo and of Pietrapertosa,
and that the new affair, following so strangely upon the other, would be
deferred until the next day. He had not told an untruth. It was his
strong friendship for Julien which had made him apprehend a duel
organized in that way, under the influence of a righteous indignation.
Gorka's unjustifiable violence would certainly not permit a second
encounter to be avoided. But as the insult had been outrageous, it was
the more essential that the conditions should be fixed calmly and after
grave consideration. To divert his impatience, Montfanon bade the
innkeeper point out to him whither they had carried Florent, and he
ascended to the tiny room, where the doctor was dressing the wounded
man's leg.