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Mysteries of Paris, V3

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"Draw it mild!"

"Fact! Well, in spite of his death's-head look, when he pronounced these
words his voice was so heart-rending--I would say, almost so soft--"

"So soft? Get out. There is not a rattle, nor Tom-cat with a cold, whose
sounds would not be music alongside his voice."

"It is possible; that did not prevent it from being so plaintive at that
time that I felt myself quite affected; so much the more as M. Ferrand is
not habitually communicative. 'Sir,' said I, 'I believe that.' 'Leave me!
leave me!' he answered, interrupting me; 'to tell your sufferings to
another is a great solace.' Evidently he took me for some one else."

"So familiar? Then you owe us two bottles of Bordeaux:

"'When one's master is not proud
One must freely treat the crowd.'

It is the proverb that speaks; it is sacred. Proverbs are the wisdom of a
nation."

"Come, Chalamel, leave your proverbs alone. You comprehend, that, on
hearing that, I at once understood that he was mistaken, or that he was in
a high fever. I disengaged myself, saying, 'Calm yourself! it is I.' Then
he looked at me with a stupid look."

"Very well! now that sounds like the truth."

"His eyes were wild. 'Eh!' he answered. 'What is it?--who is there? what do
you want with me?' At each question he ran his hand over his face, as if to
drive away the clouds which obscured his thoughts."

"'Which obscured his thoughts!' Just as if it were written! Bravo, head
clerk; we will make a melodrama together:

"'Who speaks so well, and so polite,
A melodrama ought to write.'"

"Do hold your tongue, Chalamel. I know nothing about it; but what is sure
is, that, when he recovered his Senses, it was another song. He knit his
brows in a terrible manner, and said to me, with quickness, without giving
me time to answer, 'What did you come here for?--have you been a long time
here?--can I not be alone in my own house without being surrounded by
spies?--what have I said?--what have you heard? Answer, answer.' He looked
so wicked that I replied, 'I have heard nothing, sir; I just came in.' 'You
do not deceive me?' 'No, sir.' 'Well, what do you want?' 'To ask for some
signatures, sir.' 'Give me the papers.' And he began to sign--without
reading them, a half dozen notarial acts--he, who never put his flourish on
an act without spelling it, letter by letter, and twice over, from end to
end. I remarked that, from time to time, his hand slackened a little in the
middle of his signature, as if he was absorbed by a fixed idea, and then he
resumed and signed quickly, in a convulsive manner. When all were signed he
told me to retire, and I heard him descend by the little staircase which
leads from his cabinet to the court."

"I now come back to this: what can the matter be with him?"

"Perhaps he regrets Madame Séraphin."

"Oh, yes! _he_ regrets any one!"

"That reminds me of what the porter said: that the curé of Bonne-Nouvelle
and his vicar had called several times, and were not received. That is
surprising."

"What I want to know is, what the carpenter and locksmith have been doing
in the pavilion."

"The fact is, they have worked there for three days consecutively."

"And then one evening they brought some furniture here in a covered cart."

"I give it up! as sung the swan of Cambrai."

"It is perhaps remorse for having imprisoned Germain which torments him."

"Remorse--_he?_ It is too hard, and too tough, as the eagle of Meau said."

"Fie, Chalamel!"

"Speaking of Germain, he is going to have famous recruits in his prison,
poor fellow."

"How is that?"

"I read in the 'Gazette des Tribunaux' that the gang of robbers and
assassins who have been arrested by the Champs Elysees in one of those
little subterranean taverns--"

"They are real caverns."

"That this band of scoundrels has been confined in La Force."

"Poor Germain, good society for him."

"Louise Morel will also have her part of the recruits; for in the band they
say there is a whole family, from father to son and mother to daughter."

"Then they will send the women to Saint Lazare, where Louise is."

"It is, perhaps, some of this band who have attempted the life of the
countess who lives near the Observatory, one of our clients. Has not master
sent me often enough to know how she is? He appears to be very much
interested about her health. Only yesterday he sent me again to inquire how
Lady M'Gregor had passed the night."

"Well."

"Always uncertain: one day they hope, the next despair--they never know
whether she will get through the day; two days ago she was given up; but
yesterday there was a ray of hope; what complicates the matter is, she has
a brain fever."

"Could you go into the house, and see where the deed was committed?"

"Oh! by no means! I could go no further than the gate, and the porter did
not seem disposed to walk much, not as ..."

"Here comes master," cried the boy, entering the office with the carcass.
Immediately the young men seated themselves at their respective desks, over
which they bent, moving their pens, while the boy deposited for a moment
the turkey skeleton in a box filled with law papers.

Jacques Ferrand appeared.

Taking off his old silk cap, his red hair, mixed with gray, fell in
disorder from each side of his temples; some of the veins on his forehead
seemed injected with blood, while his flat face and hollow cheeks were of a
livid paleness. The expression of his eyes could not be seen, concealed as
they were by his large green spectacles; but the visible alteration of his
features announced a consuming passion.

He crossed the office slowly, without saying a word to his clerks, without
appearing to notice their presence, entered the room of the head clerk,
walked through it, as well as his own cabinet, and descended immediately by
the little staircase which led to the court. Jacques Ferrand having left
behind him all the doors open, the clerks could, with good reason, be
astonished at the extraordinary motions of their master, who came up one
staircase and descended another, without stopping in any of the chambers,
which he had traversed mechanically.

The Countess M'Gregor, at least, was not his trouble. In showing La
Chouette Fleur-de-Marie's picture, she had exposed her jewels, and to
secure them, the hag poniarded the lady and decamped.




CHAPTER II.

THOU SHALT NOT LUST.


It was night. The profound silence which reigned in the house occupied by
Jacques Ferrand was interrupted at intervals by the sighing of the wind,
and by rain, which fell in torrents. These melancholy sounds seemed to
render still more complete the solitude of the dwelling. In a bed-chamber
on the first floor, very comfortably and newly furnished, and covered with
a thick carpet, a young woman was standing before an excellent fire.

What was very strange, in the center of the door, which was strongly
bolted, and opposite the bed, was placed a small wicket of about five or
six inches square, which could be opened on the outside.

A reflecting lamp cast an obscure light in this room, which was hung with
garnet-colored silk; the curtains of the bed, as also the covering of a
large sofa, were of silk and worsted damask, of the same color.

We are minute in these details of furniture, so recently imported into the
dwelling of the notary, because it announces a complete revolution in the
habits of Jacques Ferrand, who, until then was of Spartan avarice and
meanness (above all as respected others) in all that concerned living. It
is then upon this garnet tapestry, a strong background, warm in color, on
which is delineated the picture we are going to paint.

Of tall and graceful stature, she is a quadroon in the flower of bloom and
youth. The development of her fine shoulders, and of her luxurious person,
makes her waist appear so marvelously slender, that one would believe that
she might use her necklace for a girdle.

As simple as it is coquettish and provoking, her Alsatian costume is of
strange taste, somewhat theatrical, and thus more calculated for the effect
that it was intended to produce.

Her spencer of black cassimere, half open on her swelling bosom, very long
in the body, with tight sleeves and plain back, is embroidered with purple
wool on the seams, and trimmed with a row of small chased silver buttons. A
short petticoat of orange merino, which seems of exaggerated amplitude,
although it fits admirably on the contours of sculptural richness, allows a
glance at the charming leg of the Creole, in the scarlet stockings with
blue clocks, just as it is met with among the old Flemish painters, who
show so complacently the garters of their robust heroines.

Never did artist dream of an outline more pure than her limbs; strong and
muscular above their full calves, they terminated in a small foot, quite at
ease, and well arched in its very small shoe of black morocco with silver
buckles. She is standing before the glass on the chimney-piece. The slope
of her spencer displays her elegant, graceful neck, of dazzling whiteness,
but without transparency.

Taking off her cherry-colored cap, to replace it by a Madras kerchief, the
Creole displayed her thick and magnificent hair of bluish black, which,
divided in the middle of her forehead, and naturally curled, descended no
lower than the junction of the neck with the shoulders. One must know the
inimitable taste with which a Creole twists around her head these
handkerchiefs, to have an idea of the graceful appearance, and of the
piquant contrast of this tissue, variegated purple, azure, and orange, with
her black hair, which, escaping from the close folds, surrounds with its
large, silky curls her pale, but plump and firm cheeks.

Her arms raised above her head, she finished, with her slender ivory
fingers, arranging a large bow, placed very low on the left side, almost on
the ear. Her features are of the kind it is impossible ever to forget.

A bold forehead, slightly projecting, surmounted a visage of perfect oval,
her complexion of a dead white, the satin-like freshness of a camellia
imperceptibly touched by a ray of the sun; her eyes of a size almost
immoderate, have a singular expression, for the pupil, extremely large,
black, and brilliant, hardly allows the transparent pale blue of the eye
ball to be seen from the corners of her eyelids, fringed with long lashes;
her chin is perfect; her nose, fine and straight, is terminated by nostrils
dilating at each emotion; her lovely impudent mouth is of a lively red.

Let one imagine this pale face, with its sparkling black glances, its red,
moist, and glossy lips, which shine like wet coral.

Let us say that this tall Creole, slender, fleshy, strong and active as a
panther, was the type of that sensuality which is only lighted up by the
fires of the tropics. Such was Cecily.

She was once the slave of a Louisiana planter, who designed her for his
harem. Her lover, a slave named David, resisted that design to the only
gain of being flogged, while his loved one was borne away. David was no
common black; he had been educated in France, and was the plantation
surgeon. The story of this high-handed and twofold outrage reached Rudolph,
whose yacht was on the coast. The prince, landing in the night with a
boat's crew, carried off David and Cecily from the planter's calaboose,
leaving a sum of money as indemnity. The two were wedded in France, but
Cecily, won away by a very bad man, had become so evil, that her new life
was a series of scandals. David would have killed her, but Rudolph, whose
physician he had worthily become, induced him to prefer her life-prisonment
in Germany. Out of her dungeon she was brought by Rudolph, who knew no
fitter implement with which to chastise the notary.

Her detestable predilections, for some time restrained by her real
attachment for David, were only developed in Europe; the civilization and
climatical influence of the North had tempered the violence, modified the
expression. Instead of casting herself violently on her prey, and thinking
only, like her compeers, to destroy as soon as possible their life and
fortune, Cecily, fixing on her victims her magnetic glances, commenced by
attracting them, little by little, into the blazing whirlwind which seemed
to emanate from her; then, seeing them lost, suffering every torment of a
tantalized craving, she amused herself by a refinement of coquetry,
prolonging their delirium; then, returning to her first instincts, she
destroyed them in her homicidal embrace. This was more horrible still.

The famished tiger, who springs upon and carries off the prey which he
tears with wild roars, inspires less horror than the serpent, which
silently charms, attracts by degrees, twists in inextricable folds the
victim, feels it palpitate under its deadly stings, and seems to feed upon
its struggles with as much delight as upon its blood.

To the foregoing let there be joined an adroit, insinuating, quick mind--an
intelligence so marvelous, that in a year she spoke both French and German
with the most extreme facility--sometimes even with marked eloquence.
Imagine, in fine, a corruption worthy of the courtesan queens of ancient
Rome, and audacity and courage above all proof, propensities, diabolical
wickedness, and one would have a correct idea of the new _servant_ of
Jacques Ferrand--the determined creature who had dared to throw herself
into the den of the wolf. And yet (singular anomaly) on learning from M. de
Graun the provoking _platonic_ part which she was to play at the notary's
and what avenging ends were to be produced by her artifices, Cecily had
promised to perform her part with a will; or, rather, with a terrible
hatred against Jacques Ferrand, being very indignant at the recital of his
having drugged Louise--a recital it was found necessary to make, in order
that she should be on her guard against the hypocritical attempts of the
monster. Some retrospective words concerning the latter personage are
indispensable.

When Cecily was presented to him by Rudolph's intermediary, Madame Pipelet,
as an orphan over whom she wished to have no control, or care, the notary
had, perhaps, been less struck with the beauty of the Creole than
fascinated by her irresistible glances, which, at the first interview,
lighted a fire which disturbed his reason.

This man, ordinarily with so much self-command, so calm, and cunning,
forgot the cold calculations of his profound dissimulation when the demon
of lust obscured his mind. Besides he had no reason to suspect the
_protégée_ of Madame Pipelet.

After her conversation with the latter, Madame Séraphin had proposed to
Jacques Ferrand, to take the place of Louise, a young girl almost without a
home, for whom she would answer. The notary had gladly accepted, in the
hope of abusing, with impunity, the precarious and isolated condition of
his new servant. Finally, far from being suspicious, Jacques Ferrand found,
in the progress of events, new motives of security.

All responded to his wishes. The death of Madame Séraphin rid him of a
dangerous accomplice. The death of Fleur-de-Marie (he thought her dead)
released him from the living proof of his crime of child-stealing. He did
not fear the Countess M'Gregor now that she was wounded, while La Chouette
was dead, as we have related.

We repeat, no sentiment of suspicion came to counterbalance in his mind the
sudden, irresistible impression which he had experienced at the sight of
Cecily. He seized, with delight, the occasion to receive into his solitary
dwelling the pretended niece of Madame Pipelet.

The character, habits, antecedents of Jacques Ferrand known and stated, the
provoking beauty of the Creole, such as we have endeavored to paint it,
some other facts which we will now expose, will cause to be comprehended,
we hope, the sudden frenzied passion of the notary for this seductive and
dangerous creature.

Although Jacques Ferrand was never to obtain the object of his wishes, the
Creole was very careful not to deprive him of all hope; but the vague and
distant hopes which she rocked in the cradle of so many caprices were for
him only increased tortures, and riveted more solidly still the burning
chain he wore.

If any astonishment is felt that a man of such vigor and audacity had not
had recourse to cunning or violence to triumph over the calculated
resistance of Cecily, it must not be forgotten that Cecily was not a second
Louise. Besides, the next day after her presentation to the notary, she had
played quite another part than the simple country lass, under whose
semblance she had been introduced to her master, or he would not have been
the dupe of his servant for two consecutive days.

Instructed of the fate of Louise by Baron de Graun, and knowing by what
abominable means the unfortunate daughter of Morel had become the prey of
the notary, the Creole, entering into this solitary house, had taken
excellent precautions to pass the first night in security.

The evening of her arrival, remaining alone with Jacques Ferrand, who, in
order not to alarm her, affected hardly to look at her, and told her,
roughly, to go to bed, she avowed innocently, that at night she was very
much afraid of thieves, but that she was strong, resolute, and ready to
defend herself.

"With what?" asked Jacques Ferrand.

"With this," answered the Creole, drawing from the ample woolen pelisse in
which she was wrapped up a little dagger, of high finish, which made the
notary reflect.

Yet, persuaded that his new servant only feared _robbers,_ he conducted her
to the room she was to occupy (the former chamber of Louise). After having
examined the localities, Cecily told him, trembling, with her eyes cast
down, that, from fear, she would pass her night on a chair, because she saw
on the door neither lock nor bolt.

Jacques Ferrand, already completely under the charm, but not wishing to
awaken the suspicions of Cecily, said to her, in a cross tone, that she was
a fool to have such fears; but he promised that the next day the bolt
should be arranged. The Creole did not go to bed.

In the morning the notary came to instruct her as to her duties. He
intended to preserve, during the first day, a hypocritical reserve toward
his new servant in order to inspire her with confidence; but, struck with
her beauty, Which, in the broad daylight seemed still more dazzling,
blinded, and carried away by his feelings, he stammered forth some
compliments on her figure and beauty.

She, with rare sagacity, had judged from her first interview with the
notary, that he was completely under the charm, at the avowal which he made
of his _flame,_ she thought she would at once throw off her feigned
timidity, and change her mask. The Creole then assumed all at once a bold
air. Jacques Ferrand went into new ecstasies, on the beauty of features,
and the enchanting figure of his new maid.

"Look me full in the face," said Cecily, resolutely; "although dressed as
an Alsatian peasant, do I look like a servant?"

"What do you mean to say?" cried Jacques Ferrand.

"Mark this hand--is it accustomed to rude labor?"

And she showed a white and charming hand, with slender and delicate
fingers, the long nails polished like agate, but of which the
slightly-shaded crown betrayed the mixed blood.

"And is this a servant's foot?"

And she advanced a ravishing little foot, which the notary had not yet
remarked, and which he now only desisted from looking at to regard Cecily
with amazement.

"I told Aunt Pipelet just what suited me; she is ignorant of my past life;
she thought I was reduced to this position by the death of my parents, and
took me for a servant; but you have, I hope, too much sagacity to partake
of her error, _dear master."_

"And what are you, then?" cried Jacques Ferrand, more and more surprised at
this language.

"That is my secret. For reasons best known to myself, I have been obliged
to leave Germany in this disguise. I wish to remain concealed at Paris for
some time. My aunt, supposing me reduced to poverty, proposed my entering
your service, spoke of your solitary manner of living, and told me that I
would never be allowed to go out. I accepted quickly. Without knowing it,
my aunt anticipated my most anxious desire. Who could look for and discover
me here?"

"Conceal yourself! what have you done, to be obliged to conceal yourself?"

"Soft offenses, perhaps, but this is my secret."

"And what are your intentions, miss?"

"Always the same. Saving your significant compliments on my shape and
beauty, I should not, perhaps, have made this avowal, which your
penetration had sooner or later provoked. Listen to me, then, my dear
master: I have accepted for the moment the condition, or, rather, the
appearance of a servant; circumstances oblige me to do so. I shall have the
courage to play this part to the end. I will submit to all the
consequences. I will serve you with zeal, activity, and respect, to
preserve my place; that is to say, a sure and unknown retreat. But at the
least word of gallantry, at the least liberty you take with me, I leave
you--not from prudery, nothing in me, I think, looks like the prude."

And she cast a glance charged with sensual electricity, which reached the
very bottom of the notary's soul; he shuddered.

"No, I am not a prude," she resumed, with a provoking smile, which
displayed her dazzling teeth. "When love bites me, the _bacchantes_ are
saints in comparison. But be just, and you will agree that your unworthy
servant only wishes to perform honestly her duty as a servant. Now you know
my secret, or at least a part of my secret, will you, perchance, act as a
gentleman? Do I seem too handsome to serve you? Do you desire to change
parts and become my slave? So be it! Frankly, I prefer that, but always on
this condition, that I shall never go out of the house, and you shall have
for me the most paternal attention--that need not hinder you from saying
that you find me charming: it shall be the recompense of your devotion and
your discretion."

"The sole?" stammered Jacques Ferrand.

"The sole--unless solitude makes me mad; which is impossible, for you will
keep me company, and, in your quality as a holy man you shall exorcise the
evil spirit. Come, decide, no mixed position; either I will serve you, or
you shall serve me; otherwise I leave your house, and I beg my aunt to find
me _another place_. All this must seem strange to you; so be it; but
if you take me for an adventurer, without the means of existence, you are
wrong. In order to make my aunt my accomplice without her knowledge, I
allowed her to think I was too poor to buy other clothes than these. Yet I
have, you see, a purse well-filled: on this side with gold, on the other
with diamonds" (and she showed the notary a long red silk purse, filled
with gold, through the meshes of which also shone precious stones).
"Unfortunately, all the money in the world could not give me a retreat as
secure as your house, so isolated by the retirement in which you live.
Accept, then, one or the other of my offers; you will render me a service.
You see, I place myself at your discretion; for to tell you that I
concealed myself, is to tell you I am sought for. But I am sure you will
not betray me, even if you knew how to betray."

This romantic confidence, this sudden transformation of character, troubled
the brain of Jacques Ferrand.

Who was this woman? Why did she conceal herself? Had chance alone conducted
her to his dwelling? If, on the contrary, she came there for some secret
purpose, what was this purpose?

Among all the hypotheses which this singular adventure raised in the mind
of the notary, the true motive of the Creole's presence never came to his
thought. He had not, or, rather, he thought he had not, any other enemies
than the victims of his licentiousness and cupidity. Now all of them were
in such a condition of trouble or distress that he could not suppose them
capable of spreading a snare of which Cecily was the bait.

And then, again, for what purpose was it spread? No, the sudden
transformation of Cecily inspired but one fear to Jacques Ferrand: he
thought that if this woman did not speak the truth she was an adventurer,
who, believing him rich, introduced herself into the house to cajole him,
find him out, and perhaps cause him to marry her. But, although his avarice
and cupidity revolted at the idea, he perceived, shuddering, that these
suspicions and reflections were too late; for, with a single word, he could
put his suspicions at rest by sending this woman away. And this word he did
not speak. Already he loved her, after his manner, and passionately.
Already the idea of seeing this seducing creature leave his house seemed to
him impossible. Already, even, feeling the pangs of a savage jealousy to
think that Cecily might bestow on others favors refused to him, he
experienced some consolation in saying, "As long as she is sequestered in
my house no one will possess her."

The boldness of language of this woman, the fire in her eyes, the provoking
liberty of her manners, sufficiently revealed that she was not, as she
said, _a prude._ This conviction, giving vague hopes to the notary, assured
still more the empire of Cecily.

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