when she reached the hotel, everyone was already gone to the concert at the casino; it was thursday night; she got to her own rooms unperceived, and told her maid that she had lost her way in the olive-woods, was terribly tired, and only wished for some hot soup and a cutlet, she was indeed fatigued and worn out; she had found the good consul’s cab dreadfully slow and rickety; his great coat had smelt unpleasantly of very coarse tobacco, and the night was cold and the way into the town seemed endless.
she did not venture to look at the packet she had stolen until she was safely in the warmth of her bed, with a reading lamp beside her, and an eider-down quilt over her. she did not feel at ease, and she was haunted by vague terrors. the steel-blue eyes of the dying man haunted her. hatred, powerless, but only the more intense for its impotency, had stared at her with a look which she felt that she would never forget if she lived for a hundred years. moreover, she knew that she had committed a crime, or what people would call a crime if they knew of it. she knew that it had been an ugly thing to do; the kind of thing which people who are well-born and well-bred do not do. there is a class of sins which are well-bred; there is another class which is caddish. she knew that this act of hers belonged to the latter category.
nevertheless, she opened the packet when she was quite safe from interruption, whilst the mellowed light of her reading lamp shed its soft radiance on her pillow, and the billets of olive-wood were burning fragrantly upon the hearth. her pulses beat unevenly as she opened it, for it was very possible that she had gone through all this agitation and danger quite uselessly. there might be nothing in it whatever of interest or value.
she undid it with great care so as to leave the seals unbroken. oddly enough, there recurred to her at that moment the memory of her little son looking at her with his sorrowful angry eyes and saying:
[539]“i don’t know much, but i think—i think—i think you are a wicked, wicked woman!”
was she a wicked woman?
it was a very unpleasant, vulgar kind of thing to be! she had always thought that wicked women belonged exclusively to the lower classes. the idea that she might be wicked was disagreeable to her; it was as though she had been forced to wear a cheap gown or carry a cotton umbrella.
the stare of the dying man had brought the same charge against her. she did not think the charge was true. she was only a woman, all alone, in difficult circumstances, who tried to help herself; that was all. the fault was clearly with those who had placed her in those circumstances; with cocky first of all, with ronald next, and, above all, with that dreadful brute whose bones lay in the crypt at vale royal.
the documents were all in german, but she knew that language well and read them easily. there was nothing dubious in them. they were the confession of khris of karstein of the wickedness he had done in bringing about the separation of his daughter from adrian vanderlin, and the proofs of the false testimony he had caused to be brought against her. they were indisputably genuine, attested, and positive. they had been lying in his despatch-box for years; perhaps his remorse had not been strong enough to impel him to condemn himself, or perhaps he had reserved them for still greater stress of want when he could use then to obtain subsidies, or perhaps, seeing nothing of vanderlin, he had been in doubt as to how far they would be welcome. she who had now possessed herself of them did know how precious they would be esteemed. but would she dare to give them to either vanderlin or olga zu lynar? what history could she invent, plausible enough, probable enough, to account naturally for her possession of them? would she, if she could think of one—would she have the courage (some people would call it the effrontery) to carry through such a piece of comedy?
her nerve had been shaken by all she had suffered from william massarene. she was no longer as sure of her own[540] audacity and dexterity as she once had been. she would have burnt these papers without the slightest hesitation if burning them would have done her any good; but their disposal, unburnt, cost her much torturing indecision, and she could not forget the glare of old khris’s dying eyes, so full of impotent hatred.
on the other hand, as they were genuine, and bore internal evidence of their bonâ fides, there could not be any doubt thrown on their accuracy, nor on the unblemished motives of her intervention. no one could blame her for giving documents to the person to whom they were addressed. she understood that they were worth many millions to the man made of millions, as boo called him. she read them all twice over to be sure that she had made no mistake in her perusal and estimate of them. no! she had made none. their meaning was clear as crystal. there could not be two constructions of their text and import.
what should she do with them? she was uncertain.
where was vanderlin?
in paris, they said.
burn them, and continue her scheme of marriage?
tell him, and withhold them until she got what she wanted?
either choice had its drawbacks. she was conscious that both were what people would call discreditable. she endeavored to think of something which should not be discreditable, yet should be profitable.
sitting up against her pillows with a pink plush dressing-jacket trimmed with swansdown on her shoulders, and her bright hair rolled closely round her head, she looked a charming, innocent, poetic picture in the warm and fragrant atmosphere of her chamber.
painful emotions were odious to her; tragic events still more so; she liked her life to be all dressing and dining and flirting, doing theatres, leading cotillons, hunting with the best horses, laughing and being amused, the whole sprinkled intrigue and stimulated by exciting much passion and feeling a little.
but anything serious she detested, anything painful annoyed her.
[541]she wished she had let the despatch-box alone. she was alarmed and discouraged. the papers were all which she had expected to find them, but she had not courage to use them. she was like a person who steals jewels and then is afraid to sell them, or pawn them, or wear them, for fear of inquiry. she cried a little from the wretched tension of her nerves and over-fatigue. she took a few drops of chloral and put the documents under her pillow and decided to try and go to sleep. night brings counsel.
in the morning, after her bath and her coffee, things wore a different aspect. she did not see the old man’s dying stare, nor the boy’s reproachful sad eyes, any longer. she made up her mind suddenly; she said to her maid, “pack up a day gown and an evening gown—i am going away for two days.” and said to boo’s governess, “take care of lady beatrix, and don’t let her get into mischief; and take care nobody lets her go to the casino.”
she wrote a telegram to wuffie at cannes: “so thankful i came. i could soothe his dying hours, and persuaded him to a tardy repentance. i go to paris on his errand. the consul is charged with his burial. will explain on return.”
the consul’s name looked well, she thought, in this message.
the young cuirassier did not recognize his correspondent in this mood; but he was simple and sentimental by temperament, and he was in love. he put the note in his pocket with a photograph of her which he had carried for three months next his heart, and went to the golfing-ground. he could not resist speaking of her there to a cousin, a very big cousin, no less a person than the gentleman with the glassy eyes whom katherine massarene once had snubbed.
“is it not good of her?” he said enthusiastically to this very big cousin.
“extremely good,” replied that gentleman. “so very good, indeed, that i have difficulty in picturing the duchess in such a rôle. but women are protean.”
wuffie pondered on the reply and failed to understand it.
she, meanwhile, of whom the great personage spoke so[542] irreverently, was rushing swiftly across central france, her strength sustained by a well-filled tea-basket of the latest invention, and most extensive resources. with her traveled the dead man’s papers. she was alone nearly all the way; at that season everyone was coming southward, few were going northward, except some english members leaving monte carlo play and pigeon-shooting for the opening of parliament, rueful and gloomy at their lot.
her mind was filled with unformed plans and conflicting projects. she formed a fresh one every minute. she could not decide what would be the surest wisdom, and she felt so afraid of her own indecision that paris was reached all too soon for her.
she went to her favorite hotel and had a night’s rest. there was snow in paris and on the surrounding country. the temperature seemed very low after that of the alpes maritimes, and her spirits sank with the mercury. but in the morning she had herself dressed becomingly with sable furs which enhanced the beauty and delicacy of her complexion and the golden gleam of her hair, and went out of the cour d’honneur of the great caravanserai on foot. it was not very far from the end of the rue de rivoli in which there was situated the vast and imposing building called the maison vanderlin, where ministers were suppliants and kings were debtors. her heart quaked within her as she ascended its broad white steps.
even yet she had not decided what it would be best to say; but inside her muff were the documents which she had taken from the despatch-box.
“is m. vanderlin in paris?” she asked the stately functionary who waited beside the inner glass doors.
“yes, madame,” he answered.
“is he in the bank this morning?”
“yes, madame.”
she passed within. she gave her card.
“i require to see him alone,” she said to the officials who received her.
“it will be impossible,” they answered her. “m. vanderlin sees no one except by appointment.”
“try,” she urged on them. “take my card. say that i come on an urgent matter.”
[543]“it is impossible, madame,” they reiterated. “he never receives anyone without previous arrangement, often weeks in advance. at this moment the minister of foreign affairs is with him.”
“gaulois? oh, i know him well! show me to a private room, and when m. gaulois comes out, bring him to me.”
the officials were moved by the beauty and grace of the suppliant, and consented to let her wait in a small apartment warmed as all the building was by hot air, and looking on an inner court where a fountain played.
the time that she waited was not more than twenty minutes, but it seemed to her to be hours. at last the minister was ushered into her presence; an agreeable, sagacious, unscrupulous man of the south of france, who had begun life as an advocate in the town of dax.
he was her humble servant; he was at her feet; he would move heaven and earth to do her bidding; but if it were a question of seeing vanderlin, that was impossible; he regretted it profoundly, but it was impossible; two ambassadors, a nuncio, an orleans prince, and an english banker were all waiting their turn of audience.
“one would think that he was a king!” she said irritably, while tears of rage and disappointment started to her eyes.
“alas! madame, he exercises the only sovereignty truly potent in modern life—that of wealth,” said the minister. “he is greatly occupied, and the rules which regulate his interviews are rigorously observed. may i ask if you know him?”
“i know him, yes.” she added, after a moment’s hesitation, “i require to see him. prince khristof of karstein-lowenthal is dead.”
gaulois was astonished.
“that was the father of the lady he divorced? his death can have nothing to do with vanderlin?”
“yes, it has; i require to see him.”
gaulois was perplexed. at last he reluctantly consented to return to vanderlin’s room, and inform him of her presence and her desire. she was again left alone; the rippling of the fountain the only sound on the silence.[544] she had burnt her boats; she could not turn back now. the time again appeared to her interminable, though it was not more than eight minutes before the minister returned.
“dearest lady, i have done my uttermost, but it is impossible that he can receive you here. if you will leave word where you are staying, he will have the honor of waiting on you at four o’clock. alas! men of business are insensible and farouches! allow me, duchess, to profit by vanderlin’s austerity, and enjoy the felicity of driving you home.”
there was nothing else to be done. she was forced to let the loquacious and amiable gaulois conduct her to his coupé, and was obliged to laugh and talk with him, and consent to be carried by him to breakfast with his wife at his official residence on the quay d’orsay. since william massarene had passed out of her life, she had never found it so hard to counterfeit the gaiety and interest which are necessary in social intercourse.
“did you tell m. vanderlin of prince khristof’s death?” she asked of gaulois as he accompanied her downstairs after breakfast.
“ah, mon dieu, non!” exclaimed the minister. “who speaks to any man of a divorced wife’s family?”
“i was wondering if he had any feeling at all for the poor old man,” she said with much pathos.
“i should think none; very pardonably,” replied the minister. “the poor old man drew an allowance of a thousand francs a month from vanderlin and it all went in play.”
“but the poor prince had some conscience?”
“had he indeed? he concealed it very carefully throughout a long life.”
“ma belle sourisette!” he thought, “what secret have you got hold of that you are going to try to sell to vanderlin?”
he had been a lawyer, he was now a statesman; despite his loquacity he was very discreet; he told no one that he had met her at the great banking-house in the rue de rivoli.
by the time breakfast was over it was nearly three[545] o’clock, and when she returned to her hotel she gave an hour to her toilette. she was conscious that she looked what parisians call défaite. she was nervous and undecided, and she dreaded the visit of vanderlin whilst she desired it. it was only a little after three when she went into her salon which looked on the rue rouget de lisle; and sat down to wait for him vainly trying to read the morning journals.
she always dressed in accordance with the character she assumed, and she wore a rather sombre loose gown of grey velvet trimmed with chincilla and old mechlin lace, a kind of gown that vittoria colonna or blanche of castille might have worn. her own personality only revealed itself in the diamond arrow run through the coils of her hair and the little bouquet of heliotrope at her throat. she was melancholy but she was preëminently seductive.
punctually as the timepiece struck four vanderlin was announced. he entered and saluted her with his usual grave and distant courtesy.
“you desired to see me, madame? i am at your commands, of course. i hope mr. gaulois explained that it was impossible for me to receive you this morning.”
no one could have been more courteous, but she felt that he was on his guard against her and that he saw her desire to see him singular; the perception of that did not decrease the embarrassment she felt. she was venus, but he would never be tannhäuser.
after all, she did not want him to be tannhäuser: she only wanted some small share of his million, some little mouse-like nibbling at his golden store.
“you must have been much surprised at my request,” she said as she motioned to him to be seated. “but i have a communication to make to you. i was present at the death of prince khristof of karstein.”
the expression of vanderlin’s features grew very cold.
“the fact of that death was telegraphed to me,” he replied. “it cannot concern me in any way.”
“are you sure of that?”
“perfectly sure. nor can i conceive why you, a total stranger, were with him.”
[546]“i was not a stranger to him. i have known him many years; and i am about to marry his grandnephew. he was altogether abandoned; he had not even a servant or a nurse; i did what i could.”
vanderlin was silent; he, like the royal person on the golfing-ground, had difficulty in imagining her in these circumstances. he wondered what she was aiming at—what she desired.
“i did what i could,” she repeated; “he suffered greatly; he was completely paralyzed; but for a few moments he recovered his speech a little, and he made me understand—various things.”
she paused, hoping to excite his curiosity, wishing to induce him to interrogate her. but he remained mute; he was used to listening in silence whilst people revealed to him their necessities, described their projects, or endeavored to awaken his sympathies.
she was discouraged and embarrassed. changing her manner she said with her natural abruptness.
“you were much attached to your wife, were you not?”
she had the pleasure of seeing his composure rudely disturbed; an expression of extreme pain, a flush of extreme offence, came on his face: an unhealed wound had been roughly touched.
“on that subject,” he said briefly, “i allow no one to speak to me. i told you so at les mouettes.”
“but i am going to speak to you!” said mouse with her more natural manner, “whether you allow it or whether you don’t. as i tell you, i will be quite frank with you,” she continued with a graceful embarrassment which became her infinitely. “i had wished to know you, to attract you if i could. say it was vanity, necessity, love of money—what you will; i admit that i had that idea when i was so hospitably received by you.”
a gesture of impatience escaped him; she was telling him nothing that he did not know.
“but,” she pursued, “when i had that brief conversation with you after luncheon at your house, i understood that your heart was closed to all except one memory. with the prior knowledge i possessed of your wife’s[547] father, and the recollection of certain hints he had given me, i conceived the idea that he could if he chose establish her innocence. i determined to try and persuade him to do so if he possessed the power as i thought. i went for that purpose to monte carlo; and on reaching there i learned that he had been struck down by hemiplegia at the tables.”
he was now listening to her with great intentness, his eyes dwelling on her with a searching interrogation which did not make her part the easier to play. they were eyes trained to read the minds and penetrate the falsehoods of others.
“i found the poor old prince all alone in a miserable room with a bear of a doctor, and not a nun even present to see to his wants. i am not a very susceptible person, but it hurt me to think of what he was, and all he might have been. i did what little i could for him, and he recognized me, and was pleased; one could see that by his eyes. i sent all over the place for nurses, for physicians, for the german consul, for the lutheran pastor, but no one came until the end—too late. he had lodgings in an out-of-the-way country road; i suppose he could not afford any better—everything went at the tables. well, he recovered his faculties a little, and he made me understand that he was repentant and wretched because he had wronged his daughter and separated her from you. he was almost inarticulate but i managed to make out his meaning; i know german very well. i gathered that your wife was innocent; that she was the victim of suborned witnesses, and that her father had been the chief fabricator of the testimony which ruined her.”
vanderlin with difficulty controlled his emotion. he was used to conceal his thoughts, but for once his reserve broke down, and he was unable to conceal his anxiety.
“go on! go on!” he said in a breathless vein. “are there any proofs of what you say?”
“hear me out,” she said with some impatience. “what khris said was mumbled, incoherent, rambling, his tongue moved with difficulty. but i understood so much as this. that the lady they call the countess olga zu lynar, and whom as you gave me to understand you[548] have never ceased to regret, is absolutely innocent of any offence against you. your jealousy was wickedly aroused and your credulity abused.”
“these are words!” cried vanderlin. “i want proof! what proof did he give you? he was always a knave and a comedian.”
“poor old khris!” said mouse softy and sadly. “he was sincere on his deathbed, at any rate, for he confessed to sins which no one would wittingly assume.” then she added with a certain embarrassed but graceful câlinerie, “i have proof, proof positive; his attestation and those of his bribed witnesses. but what will you give me for them? i am a very poor woman, m. vanderlin, and you are a very rich man!”
vanderlin rose impetuously; he looked twenty years younger; the mask of impassive coldness which he had worn so long dropped; his natural expression was revealed, his eyes shone with the light of hope and expectation.
“i will give you anything you wish!” he answered. “anything! of what use is wealth without happiness?”
she changed her tactics, for she knew that to make any demand was dangerous and unseemly; and she realized that this man’s gratitude would be boundless and his generosity as great.
“it was only my jest,” she said with a smile. “i am not a cabrioleuse. here are the documents. i am, of course, not a very good judge of such things, but they seem to me quite indisputable.”
then risking everything on one chance she gave him the packet.
he turned away from her and went to one of the windows and stood so that she could not see his countenance, whilst he examined the papers with the swift but unerring perusal of a man accustomed every day of his life to examine and adjudicate upon important documents.
it seemed to her years that he stood thus, the curtain falling so that she could not see his face. her anxiety was terrible. if the papers should not satisfy him? if he did not desire reunion with his wife? if her own acts should appear to him, as they well might do, effrontery,[549] interference, attempt at extortion? above all, if he should not believe the description she had given him of the last moments of khristof of karstein? she was safe from all risk of contradiction. the doctor could not declare that the dying man had not recovered speech during his absence. the consul had only arrived when he was already dead. the woman of the house could testify to the presence of the foreign lady in the chamber from early afternoon to late evening. her narrative was absolutely safe from any discovery of its falsity. but still, she felt afraid of vanderlin. since she had seen the interior of that great establishment of the rue de rivoli, and had heard of all those great personages waiting in his antechamber, he seemed a much more imposing individuality to her than had seemed the sad and solitary master of les mouettes. but her conscience was clear. if she had cheated him in the manner, she had not cheated him in the matter, of her revelations. the papers were genuine. that was her great point. the one solid and indisputable truth which underlay like a rock of safety her whole impudent fabric of lies.
after what seemed to her a century of silence and suspense he left the embrasure of the window and turned toward her. his face was still pale and grave, but there was the light of a great happiness upon it, of an immense relief; the frozen snows of an endless sorrow had melted in a moment, the sun shone on his path once more.
“madame, i thank you,” he said in a low voice which had a tremor in it. “for eight years i have not lived. you have given me back to life.”
she had the supreme tact, the supreme self-control, to dismiss him as though she had had no other purpose in her action than to do simply what was natural and kind in obedience to a dead sinner’s trust.
“i am very glad,” she said simply, with that perfect intuition which had so often served her purpose so well: “and now go. i am sure you must wish to be alone. i am very, very glad to have been of use to you and glad that the poor old man did make some true atonement at the last.”
profoundly touched, vanderlin kissed her hands.
[550]“i will return to-morrow at this hour; you must tell me your embarrassments and employ my resources as you will. command my friendship as long as my life lasts.” he hesitated a moment, then added with an infinite tenderness of tone: “i am sure you will also command that of olga.”
left alone, as the door closed on him, she buried her face on the sofa cushions and cried and laughed hysterically, for the strain on her nerves had been very great. then she threw her tear-wet handkerchief into the air and played ball with it. what fools men were! oh, what fools! taking their passions and affections so seriously and tragically, and letting a love and its loss spoil all the gains of the world to them. then pride in her own genius and success danced like a band of elves before her eyes. sarah bernhardt herself could not have played that part with more exquisite art.
she touched the electric bell, bade them telephone for a coupé and a box at the gymnase, and then had herself put in visiting trim, and when the coupé pulled up by the peristyle went out to see some friends of the faubourg st. germain whose day for afternoon reception it happened to be.
in the circles of the old aristocracy she was sure not to meet the republican minister, gaulois. she did not wish to see him. she felt as if he would read in her eyes that she had triumphed in her interview with vanderlin. she was a little ashamed of what she had done; not much, for success and shame are not sisters, but a little.
