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The Idol of Paris

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"What future?"

"The Duke wants to marry Esperance."

"But it is impossible, impossible," said the philosopher violently. "A
word that has been given cannot be taken back so lightly."

"Calm yourself, uncle, if you please. For three days I have been
wandering about in this untenable situation. We must make a decision.
Every instant I fear an outbreak either from Albert or from the Duke."

"How have Esperance and the Duke contrived to see each other?"

"I will tell you all that uncle, later, but the how and the why are
not very important at this moment. I want you to send for Albert.
Esperance does not wish to marry him. She has loved the Duke a long
time, but did not know that he loved her, and did not suppose an
alliance possible between our families, even though you have made the
name illustrious. For that matter I should never have supposed myself
that the Duke would consent to make what would generally be considered
a mésalliance."

"It all seems unbelievable," murmured François.

And with his head in his hands he groaned despairingly, "How can we
sacrifice that noble and unfortunate Albert?"

"One of the three must suffer, uncle. It would be a crime to sacrifice
Esperance who has the right to love whom she pleases and to choose her
own life. The Duke Morlay is loved, Count Albert is not and never has
been. He knows it as you know it now. Esperance consented to marry him
through gratitude to you."

"Ah! I feared as much," said the professor prostrated.

François Darbois remained a long time in thought, then he got up, his
face lined with sadness.

"Tell your cousin to come to me, I will wait for her here."

"I will send her to you at once. Forgive me for having so distressed
you, dear uncle."

"It was your duty!"

François pressed his hand affectionately. Left alone he felt
despairing. The futility of the precautions he had taken, the inanity
of all reasoning, of all logic, plunged him into the scepticism he had
been combatting for so many years.

Maurice found his cousin talking to Albert, the Marquis of Montagnac,
and Genevieve.

"Your father is feeling a little indisposed and is going to bed. Would
not you like to say good-night to him?"

Esperance rose immediately. Albert wanted to go with her, but Maurice
held him back, and began asking under what conditions he proposed to
play the duet with Esperance next day.

"It is all one to me," replied the Count wearily. "I am in a hurry to
get away from here. I find myself too much disturbed by my nerves, and
you know, cousin, how unusual it is for me to be nervous."

At this term of family familiarity, Maurice shivered. He thought of
the interview now taking place in his uncle's room. Genevieve joined
them and they strolled up and down, but Albert made them return
continually near the tower.

When Esperance opened the door of the little salon where her father
was waiting, she saw him in such an attitude of distress that she
threw herself at his knees.

"Father, darling father, I ask your pardon. I am ruining your life
just as you begin to reap the harvest of so many noble efforts. You
have been so good to me," she sobbed, "and I must seem to you so
ungrateful. Do not suffer so, I beg you. Take me away with you, let us
go and I will do my best to forget; let us go!"

"But," said the Professor, hesitatingly, "Albert would follow."

The girl rose.

"Oh! no, not that. I wish I could marry Albert without loving him; I
have tried, but I cannot go on to the end, I cannot!"

"You really love the Duke?"

"Father, for a whole year I have struggled against that love."

"Why have you never told me?"

"Because I saw nothing in the Duke's attentions except the agitation
they caused me; and I was too ashamed to speak of it to you. I
thought, considering the position of the Duke, that I was an aspiring
fool. He overheard me talking to Genevieve. When he appeared before
us, I so little expected to see him there at such an hour--six o'clock
in the morning, in the grove--that my heart could not bear the shock,
and I fainted. From that instant I understood how much I loved him. I
had no idea before of the power of love, but now I feel it the master
of my life. I will sacrifice that to your will, father; but I will not
sacrifice the immense happiness of loving. Even if the Duke did not
love me, I should still be uplifted by my own love."

She sat down beside her father.

"Who knows what unhappiness may not be lurking for me, ready to spring
at any moment?"

She drew near him shivering.

François took her charming head in his hands. He looked at her
tenderly, but with an expression almost of terror in his face.

"Alas! all happiness built upon the unhappiness of others always risks
disillusionment--and collapse."

"Dear father, my life has been bathed in such sunlight for the last
three days, that I shall keep that glow of warmth for the rest of my
life."

"I only ask, you little daughter, to do nothing, to say nothing,
before the end of this fête. We have no right, however grave our
personal troubles and responsibilities are, to betray the hospitality
of the Duchess. To-morrow, after the fête, I will talk to Albert. Go,
my darling, go back to that poor boy. I hate to send you to practice a
dissimulation that I abhor, but we are in a situation of such delicacy
and difficulty.... God keep you!"

He kissed her tenderly. She went back to her fiancé, to find to her
surprise that the Countess de Morgueil had just passed by with him.
Maurice pointed them out where they were walking slowly in the
distance.

"Oh! so much the better," said Esperance. "That gives me an excuse to
go to my room."

Maurice urged her to wait. "I am convinced that that woman is meddling
in our affairs. It is plain enough that we have upset her."

"How? What do you mean, cousin?"

"Did you not know that the Countess is madly in love with the Duke,
and that she had hoped to marry him this winter?"

"Poor woman," sighed Esperance, sincerely.

The Duke came by, and seeing them alone, he joined them.

"The three of you alone?" he cried. "Then you will allow me to join
you for a moment?"

"Look," said Maurice, indicating Albert and the Countess de Morgueil.

"There is a dangerous woman who is making mischief at this moment!...
And, nevertheless, I owe her the happiness this moment brings me."

"My father," said Esperance, "has been as indulgent to me as always."

"Thanks for these tidings," said the Duke. "Do you think he will
receive me to-morrow, if I go to him?"

"Oh! certainly, after the fête; a little while after, for first he
wished to speak to Count Styvens," she said timidly.

"Will you," the Duke asked Maurice, "make an appointment for me, and
tell me as soon as you have an answer?"

"With pleasure."

The Duke bowed to the girls and withdrew. He took Maurice's hand, "I
am happy, my friend, everything is going as I wish. I seem to hear
laughter coming out of the shadows."

And he disappeared.

The young people waited for Albert a little while longer, but as he
did not appear, Maurice advised the girls to retire, and he returned
to sit down anxiously under the oak.

He had been there hardly a quarter of an hour when he saw the Countess
de Morgueil go by. She was alone and walked nervously. On the doorstep
she stopped and looked back into the distance. He saw her tremble,
then go in quickly. He stood up on his bench to see what she had been
looking at, but he almost fell, and had to steady himself by holding
on to a branch. Albert and the Duke were together. Albert had put his
hand on the Duke's shoulder, and the Duke had removed that great hand.
They were walking side by side towards the extensive terrace that
commanded the countryside.

"Oh! the wretched woman! What can she have said? And to be able to do
nothing, nothing," he thought.

He lighted a cigarette, waiting, he did not know for what. But he
could not go back to his room.

As he put his hand on the Duke's shoulder Albert had said, "I wish to
talk to you."

"Very well. I am listening."

"I want you to answer me with perfect truth."

"Your request would be offensive, Albert, if it were not for your
emotion."

"Is it true that you love Esperance Darbois?"

"It is true."

"Is it true that you want to marry her?"

"It is true."

"My God! My God!" muttered Albert, and he stopped for a minute. He was
choking. The Duke felt a profound pity for this man who was suffering
at this moment the most terrible pain.

"Do you believe that she loves you?" Albert still went on.

"I have answered you with perfect frankness concerning myself, but do
not ask me to answer for Mlle. Darbois."

"Yes; you are right, you cannot answer for her. I know that she does
not love me, but I hoped to make her love me. I wanted to make her so
happy!... That love has made a different man of me. What I regarded
yesterday as a crime seems to me now the will of destiny. One of us
two must disappear. If you kill me, I know her soul, she will not
marry you; she would die rather. If I kill you, the tender compassion
she feels for me will be changed into hatred. What I am doing now is a
brutal act, an animal act, but I cannot do otherwise! My religious
education had restrained my passions! At least I thought so," he said,
passing his great hand across his stubborn forehead. "But no! My youth
denied of love takes a terrible revenge upon me now, and I have to
exert a horrible effort now not to strangle you."

The Duke had not stirred.

"I am at your orders, Albert; only I think you will have to arm
yourself with patience for several hours longer. This fête, given by
the Duchess, cannot be prevented by our quarrel. I suggest that you
postpone our meeting until to-morrow evening. Our witnesses can meet
if you like at one o'clock at the little Inn of the 'Three Roads.' It
is only ten minutes distance from here. The innkeeper is loyal to me,
I am his daughter's godfather. The garden is cut by a long alley which
can serve as the field of honour. I will go at once to warn De
Montagnac and his brother; then I will go to the 'Three Roads.'"

"Good," said Albert.

"Naturally, we leave Maurice Renaud out of our quarrel."

"Certainly," said Charles de Morlay bowing.

They parted. From a distance the young painter saw the Duke enter the
great hall. Several minutes later Albert's tall form barred the
horizon for a moment. He looked at the Tower of Saint Genevieve, then
he also entered the hall. Then Maurice decided to go in himself. He
sat down by a little table littered with magazines and periodicals,
and picked up one, without ceasing for an instant to watch the two
men. The Duke de Morlay was standing behind the Marquis, who was still
at the whist table. Albert Styvens had sat down beside a diplomat from
Italy, Cesar Gabrielli, a serious young man, a clever diplomat, and a
renowned fencer. When Montagnac finished his hand, the Duke offered
him a cigar.

"Will you help me with some arrangements for the performance
to-morrow?"

He was about to refuse, but the Duke said briefly, "It is important,
come!"

The two of them went out, only lingering a little on the way for a
joke with the men and a compliment to the ladies. Then Maurice watched
the diplomat, who rose at the same time, and invited Albert to admire
the moon from the terrace. Maurice saw them disappearing towards the
corner by the Chinese umbrella. That was the end of the terrace, and
was out of sight from all the windows.

"It is all plain enough," thought the young man, "but when, where?"

He understood that neither of the two adversaries could take him
either for confidant or for second.

"However," he said, as he went to his room. "I want to know. I must
know. I will know."




CHAPTER XXVII


The next day, the day of the fête, all the Château, from early in the
morning, was in a violent tumult. Maurice, the Marquis Assistant, and
Jean Perliez were busy to the point of distraction; fortunately for
Maurice, who had been unable to sleep and had called Jean at six to
share the secret which had not been confided to him. He could not
think of telling Genevieve, and Jean should be able to help keep
watch.

"You try," he directed, "to watch Montagnac; I shall not leave the
diplomat."

The Duke came in search of Maurice to ask for Esperance. He looked a
little pale but showed much interest in the fête.

"Our dear Duchess must be rewarded for all the excitement we have
caused her house."

"There is no reason to suppose," said Maurice, "that all the
excitement will cease after the fête!"

The Duke would not show that he had understood. Maurice went to smoke
a cigarette in the garden and was hardly surprised to see the doctor,
who had been attached to the service of the Duchess for twenty years,
and attended all the guests in the Château, talking animatedly with
the diplomat. The doctor raised his arms in a horrified gesture,
letting them fall again tragically. He gave every evidence of a
violent struggle with himself. The diplomat remained calm, determined,
and even authoritative. The poor doctor finally yielded. The diplomat
shook his hand and left him.

The doctor with an expression of great distress, walking feebly,
passed by Maurice, who would have stopped him.

"No, no. What? It is impossible.... You are not ill.... Leave me, dear
sir.... I ... I must..."

He stammered unintelligible phrases, hastening his steps. Maurice
re-entered the hall. He met the musician Xavier Flamand, who said,
"I just saw the Count Styvens go out."

"At this hour?" exclaimed Montagnac, looking at the Duke.

"He has gone to meet his mother at the station. She arrives at eight
o'clock. It is only seven, he will arrive half an hour too soon."

"He is a dutiful son," said Montagnac. "I am surprised that he has not
taken his fiancée."

Maurice raised his head. "Then the Marquis knows nothing!" he said to
himself.

He reflected, "How dense I am growing. Evidently neither the Duke nor
Albert has told anyone the motive of their quarrel."

Jean came up and cut short his monologue.

"I think that the two other seconds are Count Alfred Montagnac, the
Marquis's brother, and Captain Frederic Chevalier. Here they come
now."

Indeed the three seconds had just come up to the Marquis, who asked
Maurice to excuse him. "I will be back in a few moments, dear M.
Renaud."

The Duke dropped down by Maurice.

"I believe the fête will be a great success, but I wonder if you long
to have it over as heartily as I do."

"I regret," replied Maurice, "that our hostess ever thought of it, and
that we ever had anything to do with it."

"Would you also regret having me for your cousin?"

"No, you know very well that I would not, but...."

"But?"

"I know...."

"You know?"

"Yes, I know."

"Who has told you?"

The Duke's face grew stern.

"No one, I give you my word, but I have guessed; it was not very
difficult...."

"Then, my dear Maurice, I must ask you to remain absolutely silent.
None of our seconds know the real reason of our meeting. None of them
will ever know. This duel will be to the death, by the wish of Count
Styvens, who has found himself justifiably offended."

"Where will you meet?"

"At the Inn of the 'Three Roads.'"

"When?"

"To-morrow, immediately after the fête. The Inn has been closed since
this morning so as to receive no one except ourselves and our
witnesses. Now, my dear Maurice, since you know, I want to ask you a
favour. Here are some papers that I wrote last night. I am afraid my
servant is on intimate terms with Mme. de Morgueil's English maid, and
I dare not leave them in my room. I put them in your care. If luck is
against me you will give these to the proper persons. If Count Albert
is unfortunate, you will give me back the envelope. I'll see you
later!"

He pressed the young man's hand in a close grasp.

The Duke de Castel-Montjoie, the Dowager's only son, had been chosen
by the seconds as umpire. De Morlay and Styvens approved the choice.

The great hall had been invaded by a score of servants who arranged
the chairs, placed the palms, and hung silver chains to separate the
musicians from the audience. The curtain of the little stage was
lowered, but a murmur could be heard through the pretty drop painted
by Maurice. Among the servants set to finish the costumes was the
Duke's sly goddaughter. Every time the Duke passed she gazed at him
and her lips trembled. She who was usually so pert and smiling worked
with set lips.

"Ha, ha!" said one of the maids, "you must be in love, eh, Jeanette?"

"Let me alone, stupid, to do my work," said the young girl with tears
in her eyes.

She had been waked the night before by the noise of opening doors, she
had got up and seen her godfather talking to her father. The Duke
said, "You must close your Inn early as possible, you must refuse
everybody, except the Doctor from the Château, Count Styvens and four
gentlemen with the Duke of Castel-Montjoie. I shall probably get here
first."

"Ah! my God," the Innkeeper had murmured, "the Duke is going to fight,
I know that.... If only nothing happens to you, sir."

"I need not say that I count on your discretion as on your devotion.
Have your best bedroom ready to receive one or the other of the
adversaries and put yourself at the absolute command of the Duke de
Castel-Montjoie. _Au revoir_. Try not to let your daughter know
anything about this, and say nothing to her; but I know that even if
she discovered she would not give us away. _Au revoir_!"

As soon as the door closed Jeanette ran to her father, bare-footed,
her hair flying, just as she had jumped out of bed.

"Great Heavens!" said the Innkeeper, "you were listening."

"Yes, I was listening, I heard; I will prepare the room, but it shall
be for the other!"

"Do you know who the other is?"

"No," she said quickly.

"Do you know why they are fighting?"

"How should I know?" she demanded.

She did know, however. However she sat mute under the gibes of the
other servants.

Albert had returned with his mother, who seemed gayer, happier than
usual. Esperance went at once to speak to her and was enthusiastically
congratulated on her superb bearing.

The Countess kissed Esperance whose eyes were filling with tears, and
she kissed the Countess's hands with so much emotion that the lady
raised the blonde head, saying tenderly, "No, no, you must not cry! We
must love each other joyfully. I have never seen my son so happy, I
should be jealous if I loved him less. See, dear, I want to give you
these jewels myself; I believe that they are going to suit you very
well."

She clasped a magnificent collar of pearls around the young girl's
neck. Esperance could not refuse them. She thanked the lovely lady
affectionately.

"My father will tell me what to do," she thought.

Lunch was an hour earlier as the fête was to begin at half-past two.
"Heavens," said Mme. Styvens with perturbation, "I shall never be
ready."

Esperance left her, happy to escape from her torturing thoughts.
"Deceit, deceit to this good woman!" Albert was waiting to lead her
back. He admired his mother's gift, and spoke to her gently.

"It is just the tint of your skin," he said, "that gives these pearls
their beautiful lustre. They ought not to flatter themselves that it
is they who embellish you!"

All this was added anguish for the girl, his mother's kindness,
Albert's gay confidence, and this fête which was, soon to begin, this
fête where she must show herself publicly with him whom she loved so
that she would die for him, with him who loved her more than life! She
repulsed with horror the ideas that came crowding into her brain. If
the Château should burn. If she should fall down the staircase and
break a leg; if Albert should be taken ill and die within the hour....
If ... if ... and a million visions raced through her brain as she went
back to the Tower of Saint Genevieve. But never once did the Duke
appear as a victim of any of these misfortunes which her brain was
conjecturing up so busily.

Lunch was a bit disorganized. The Duke avoided looking at Esperance.
The sight of that child who loved him filled him with such emotion
that he was afraid of betraying himself. The Countess de Morgueil,
annoyed at seeing the two men she had sought to embroil talking
together in the most courteous fashion, started to sharpen her claws
once more.

"What a beautiful collar, Mlle. Darbois; this is the first time that
you have worn it, isn't it? Count, I compliment you!"

"Mme. Styvens has just given it to me." The Duke understood the
embarrassment the child felt--not yet eighteen, and forced to
extricate herself from nets set by such expert hands as best she
could.

At half-past two the great hall was crowded by women vying with each
other in their beauty. It was a magnificent sight! Xavier Flamand went
to his stand to conduct the orchestra.

He was heartily applauded and the spectacle commenced. More than two
thousand people had come together for the fête. The hall could only
accommodate eight hundred. Other chairs had been placed on the
terrace. The tableaux began. The society assembled, appreciated a form
of art which is pleasing and not fatiguing, which charms without
disturbing.

The tableau of Andromeda was frantically applauded. The men could not
admire enough the suppleness of Esperance's lovely body, the whiteness
of her bare feet with their pink arches, the gold of her hair floating
like a nimbus around the head of Andromeda, waved by the breeze as the
stage turned. The women admired the Duke, so very beautiful in his
gold and silver armour.

"How splendid the Duke is," remarked the Countess to Albert. "No one
could have a prouder bearing. If I were in your place, my son, I
should be jealous."

"Perhaps I am," said the Count, smiling.

The "Judgment of Paris" had the same success. Everyone waited for
"Europa," and many were really disappointed. A hundred reasons were
given for its withdrawal, and none of them the true one.

The philosopher and his wife were sitting with Genevieve behind the
Styvens. Sometimes the Countess would turn around to compliment
François, and the unfortunate man, so frank, whose whole life had
never known deceit, suffered cruelly. There was an intermission to set
the stage for the concert. The guests pressed around the Styvens's to
express their admiration for Esperance, in the most dithyrambic, the
most superlative terms. The concert began. Albert had to go upon the
stage to play the Liszt duet with Esperance. He begged François
Darbois to take his place beside his mother.

When the curtain went up after the quartette of "Rigoletto," Esperance
and Albert were seated on the long piano stool. Loud applause greeted
them. The Duke was talking to Maurice in the wings and seemed a little
nervous. He envied Albert at that moment for his superiority as a
musician. When they finished, a great tumult demanded an encore, but
Esperance had come to the end of her strength.

As the public continued to applaud, Maurice and the Duke came forward
to see why they did not raise the curtain. Esperance looked at the
Duke.

"Oh! no, please do not raise the curtain; my heart is beating so
fast."

Albert and the Duke supported her gently and she leaned upon them, her
pretty head bending towards the Duke.

"I feel confused."

And she closed her eyes, afraid of giving herself away. Once more in
the air and she began to feel better. She breathed the little flask of
ether that the Doctor held under her nose.

"This poor heart is always making scenes. Ah! dear Count, you will
have to set that in order."

The Duke had moved away. Annoyed by the insistence of the public, he
told Jean Perliez to announce that Mlle. Darbois needed a little rest,
and presented her compliments to the audience and excused herself from
replying to the encoring. This was a real disappointment. There had
been such enthusiasm for the two fiancés, an enthusiasm well-earned by
the inspired execution of "Orpheus," that the attitude of this elite
audience was a little indifferent to the artists who concluded the
concert. The hall was half empty and several artists were too offended
to appear.

Esperance went to her room with her mother and Genevieve, begging the
Count to return to his mother.

"Your mother will be anxious, and my father can not reassure her,
because he does not himself know the symptoms of this slight illness.
Tell them that I will rest for a quarter of an hour and then join you
at my flower booth."

When she was left alone with Genevieve she drew her friend to her.

"My dear little sister, I cannot tell you the joy that pervades every
part of my being. In an hour it will be over! My father will talk with
Albert and I shall be free! free!"

"Poor boy," sighed Genevieve.

"Oh! yes, I am ungrateful to his great devotion, but I should be false
to myself and to you, Genevieve, if I told you that the idea of his
despair greatly troubles me. I know that every one about me regrets
the breaking off of this marriage, and still I don't care. You all
admire the Duke, but you blame him a little. I know that, but that is
all submerged and forgotten in my great love. When I reason as I do
now, I recognize at once the horrible storm I am causing, and yet I
cannot feel sad. I find all sorts of excuses for myself, and cast back
all the responsibility on Fate."

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