gave you my heart; that was not enough; you demanded, brutally,
that I should give my person----"
"Brutally?"
repeated Montriveau. But to himself he said, "If
I once allow her to
dispute over words, I am lost."
"Yes. You came to me as if I were one of those women. You
showed none of the respect, none of the attentions of love. Had
I not reason to
reflect? Very well, I
reflected. The
unseemliness of your conduct is not inexcusable; love lay at the
source of it; let me think so, and justify you to myself.--Well,
Armand, this evening, even while you were prophesying evil, I
felt convinced that there was happiness in store for us both.
Yes, I put my faith in the noble, proud nature so often tested
and proved." She bent lower. "And I was yours wholly," she
murmured in his ear. "I felt a
longing that I cannot express to
give happiness to a man so
violently tried by
adversity. If I
must have a master, my master should be a great man. As I felt
conscious of my
height, the less I cared to
descend. I felt I
could trust you, I saw a whole
lifetime of love, while you were
pointing to death. . . . Strength and kindness always go
together. My friend, you are so strong, you will not be unkind
to a
helpless woman who loves you. If I was wrong, is there no
way of obtaining
forgiveness? No way of making reparation?
Repentance is the charm of love; I should like to be very
charming for you. How could I, alone among women, fail to know a
woman's doubts and fears, the timidity that it is so natural to
feel when you bind yourself for life, and know how easily a man
snaps such ties? The bourgeoises, with whom you compared me just
now, give themselves, but they struggle first. Very well--I
struggled; but here I am!--Ah! God, he does not hear me!" she
broke off, and wringing her hands, she cried out "But I love
you! I am yours!" and fell at Armand's feet.
"Yours! yours! my one and only master!"
Armand tried to raise her.
"Madame, it is too late! Antoinette cannot save the Duchesse de
Langeais. I cannot believe in either. Today you may give
yourself; tomorrow, you may refuse. No power in earth or heaven
can
insure me the sweet
constancy of love. All love's pledges
lay in the past; and now nothing of that past exists."
The light behind the curtain blazed up so
brightly, that the
Duchess could not help turning her head; this time she distinctly
saw the three masked figures.
"Armand," she said, "I would not wish to think ill of you.
Why are those men there? What are you going to do to me?"
"Those men will be as silent as I myself with regard to the
thing which is about to be done. Think of them simply as my
hands and my heart. One of them is a surgeon----"
"A surgeon! Armand, my friend, of all things,
suspense is the
hardest to bear. Just speak; tell me if you wish for my life; I
will give it to you, you shall not take it----"
"Then you did not understand me? Did I not speak just now of
justice? To put an end to your misapprehensions," continued he,
taking up a small steel object from the table, "I will now
explain what I have
decided with regard to you."
He held out a Lorraine cross, fastened to the tip of a steel rod.
"Two of my friends at this very moment are heating another
cross, made on this pattern, red-hot. We are going to stamp it
upon your
forehead, here between the eyes, so that there will be
no
possibility of hiding the mark with diamonds, and so avoiding
people's questions. In short, you shall bear on your
foreheadthe brand of infamy which your brothers the convicts wear on
their shoulders. The pain is a mere
trifle, but I feared a
nervous
crisis of some kind, of resistance----"
"Resistance?" she cried, clapping her hands for joy. "Oh no,
no! I would have the whole world here to see. Ah, my Armand,
brand her quickly, this creature of yours; brand her with your
mark as a poor little
trifle be
longing to you. You asked for
pledges of my love; here they are all in one. Ah! for me there
is nothing but mercy and
forgiveness and
eternal happiness in
this
revenge of yours. When you have marked this woman with your
mark, when you set your
crimson brand on her, your slave in soul,
you can never afterwards
abandon her, you will be mine for
evermore? When you cut me off from my kind, you make yourself
responsible for my happiness, or you prove yourself base; and I
know that you are noble and great! Why, when a woman loves, the
brand of love is burnt into her soul by her own will.--Come in,
gentlemen! come in and brand her, this Duchesse de Langeais. She
is M. de Montriveau's forever! Ah! come quickly, all of you, my
forehead burns hotter than your fire!"
Armand turned his head
sharply away lest he should see the
Duchess kneeling, quivering with the throbbings of her heart. He
said some word, and his three friends vanished.
The women of Paris salons know how one mirror
reflects another.
The Duchess, with every
motive for
reading the depths of Armand's
heart, was all eyes; and Armand, all unsuspicious of the mirror,
brushed away two tears as they fell. Her whole future lay in
those two tears. When he turned round again to help her to rise,
she was
standing before him, sure of love. Her pulses must have
throbbed fast when he spoke with the
firmness she had known so
well how to use of old while she played with him.
"I spare you, madame. All that has taken place shall be as if
it had never been, you may believe me. But now, let us bid each
other goodbye. I like to think that you were
sincere in your
coquetries on your sofa,
sincere again in this outpouring of your
heart. Good-bye. I feel that there is no faith in you left in
me. You would
torment me again; you would always be the Duchess,
and---- But there, good-bye, we shall never understand each
other.
"Now, what do you wish?" he continued,
taking the tone of a
master of the ceremonies--"to return home, or to go back to Mme
de Serizy's ball? I have done all in my power to prevent any
scandal. Neither your servants nor anyone else can possibly know
what has passed between us in the last quarter of an hour. Your
servants have no idea that you have left the ballroom; your
carriage never left Mme de Serizy's
courtyard; your brougham may
likewise be found in the court of your own hotel. Where do you
wish to be?"
"What do you
counsel, Armand?"
"There is no Armand now, Mme la Duchesse. We are strangers to
each other."
"Then take me to the ball," she said, still curious to put
Armand's power to the test. "Thrust a soul that suffered in the
world, and must always suffer there, if there is no happiness for
her now, down into hell again. And yet, oh my friend, I love you
as your bourgeoises love; I love you so that I could come to you
and fling my arms about your neck before all the world if you
asked it off me. The
hateful world has not corrupted me. I am
young at least, and I have grown younger still. I am a child,
yes, your child, your new creature. Ah! do not drive me forth
out of my Eden!"
Armand shook his head.
"Ah! let me take something with me, if I go, some little thing
to wear tonight on my heart," she said,
taking possession of
Armand's glove, which she twisted into her
handkerchief.
"No, I am NOT like all those depraved women. You do not know
the world, and so you cannot know my worth. You shall know it
now! There are women who sell themselves for money; there are
others to be gained by gifts, it is a vile world! Oh, I wish I
were a simple bourgeoise, a
working girl, if you would rather
have a woman beneath you than a woman whose
devotion is
accompanied by high rank, as men count it. Oh, my Armand, there
are noble, high, and
chaste and pure natures among us; and then
they are lovely indeed. I would have all nobleness that I might
offer it all up to you. Misfortune willed that I should be a
duchess; I would I were a royal
princess, that my
offering might
be complete. I would be a grisette for you, and a queen for
everyone besides."
He listened, damping his cigars with his lips.
"You will let me know when you wish to go," he said.
"But I should like to stay----"
"That is another matter!"
"Stay, that was badly rolled," she cried, seizing on a cigar
and devouring all that Armand's lips had touched.
"Do you smoke?"
"Oh, what would I not do to please you?"
"Very well. Go, madame."
"I will obey you," she answered, with tears in her eyes.
"You must be blindfolded; you must not see a
glimpse of the
way."
"I am ready, Armand," she said, bandaging her eyes.
"Can you see?"
"No."
Noiselessly he knelt before her.
"Ah! I can hear you!" she cried, with a little fond gesture,
thinking that the
pretence of harshness was over.
He made as if he would kiss her lips; she held up her face.
"You can see, madame."
"I am just a little bit curious."
"So you always
deceive me?"
"Ah! take off this
handkerchief, sir," she cried out, with the
passion of a great
generosity repelled with scorn, "lead me; I
will not open my eyes."
Armand felt sure of her after that cry. He led the way; the
Duchess nobly true to her word, was blind. But while Montriveau
held her hand as a father might, and led her up and down flights
of stairs, he was studying the throbbing pulses of this woman's
heart so suddenly invaded by Love. Mme de Langeais,
rejoicing in
this power of speech, was glad to let him know all; but he was
inflexible; his hand was
passive in reply to the questionings of
her hand.
At length, after some journey made together, Armand bade her go
forward; the
opening was
doubtless narrow, for as she went she
felt that his hand protected her dress. His care touched her; it
was a
revelation surely that there was a little love still left;
yet it was in some sort a
farewell, for Montriveau left her
without a word. The air was warm; the Duchess, feeling the heat,
opened her eyes, and found herself
standing by the fire in the
Comtesse de Serizy's boudoir.
She was alone. Her first thought was for her disordered
toilette; in a moment she had adjusted her dress and restored her
picturesque coiffure.
"Well, dear Antoinette, we have been looking for you
everywhere." It was the Comtesse de Serizy who spoke as she
opened the door.
"I came here to breathe," said the Duchess; "it is unbearably
hot in the rooms."
"People thought that you had gone; but my brother Ronquerolles
told me that your servants were
waiting for you."
"I am tired out, dear, let me stay and rest here for a minute,"
and the Duchess sat down on the sofa.
"Why, what is the matter with you? You are shaking from head to
foot!"
The Marquis de Ronquerolles came in.
"Mme la Duchesse, I was afraid that something might have
happened. I have just come across your
coachman, the man is as
tipsy as all the Swiss in Switzerland."
The Duchess made no answer; she was looking round the room, at
the chimney-piece and the tall mirrors, seeking the trace of an
opening. Then with an
extraordinarysensation she recollected
that she was again in the midst of the
gaiety of the ballroom
after that
terrific scene which had changed the whole course of
her life. She began to
shiverviolently.