The Deputy of Arcis

XVIII

         CHARLES DE SALLENAUVE TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE

7 P.M.

Madame,—­The rather abrupt manner in which I parted from you and Monsieur de l’Estorade the evening of our visit to Armand’s school, has been explained to you by the preoccupations of all sorts to which at that moment I was a victim.  Marie-Gaston tells me that he has kept you informed of the subsequent events.

I acknowledge that in the restless and agitated state of mind in which I then was, the sort of belief which Monsieur de l’Estorade appeared to give to the scandal which he mentioned caused me great displeasure and some surprise.  How, thought I, is it possible that a man of Monsieur de l’Estorade’s morality and intellect can a priori suppose me capable of such disorder, when he sees me anxious to give to my life all the weight and consideration which the respect of others alone can bestow?  Only a few moments before this painful conversation I had been on the point of making you a confidence which would, I presume, have protected me against the unfortunate impression which Monsieur de l’Estorade conveyed to your mind.  As for Monsieur de l’Estorade himself, I was, I confess, so annoyed at seeing the careless manner in which he made himself the echo of a calumny against which I felt he ought rather to have defended me that I did not deign to make any explanation to him.  I now withdraw that word, but it was then the true expression of a displeasure keenly felt.

In the course of my electoral contest, I have been obliged to make public the justification I did not make to you; and I have had the satisfaction of finding that men in masses are more capable than individuals of understanding generous impulses and of distinguishing the honest language of truth.  Here are the facts which I related, but more briefly and with less detail, to my electors.

A few months before my departure from Rome, I was in a cafe frequented by the pupils of the Academy, when an Italian musician, named Benedetto, came in, as he usually did every evening.  Nominally he was a musician and a tolerable one; but we had been warned that he was also a spy of the Roman police.  However that might be, he was very amusing; and as we cared nothing for the police, we not only endured but we encouraged his visits,—­which was not hard to do in view of his passion for poncio spongato and spuma di latte.

On his entrance one evening, a member of our party asked him who was the woman with whom he had met him that morning.

“My wife, signore,” answered the Italian.

“Yours, Benedetto!—­you the husband of such a beauty!”

“Si, signore.”

“Nonsense! you are ugly and drunken, and people say you are police spy; but she, on the contrary, is as handsome as Diana the huntress.”

“I charmed her with my talent; she adores me.”

“Well, if she is your wife, make her pose to our friend here, Dorlange, who wants a model for his Pandora.  He can’t get a finer one.”

“That can be managed,” replied the Italian.

The next day I was in my studio in company with several young painters and sculptors when Benedetto came in accompanied by a woman of rare beauty, whom I need not describe, for you have seen her, madame, at my house.  A joyous hurrah greeted the Italian, who said to me,—­

“Ecco la Pandora!  Hey! what do you think of her?”

“Marvellously beautiful; but would she pose?”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Benedetto, with an air which seemed to say:  “I’d like to see her refuse.”

“But,” I remarked, “she would cost too much, a model of her beauty.”

“No; you need only make my bust—­just a plaster cast—­and give it to her.”

“Very good,” I said.  Then I told my friends to go and leave us alone together.

Nobody minded me.  Judging the wife by the husband, the eager young fellows pressed round her; while she, wounded and angered by the audacity of their eyes, looked like a caged panther irritated by peasants at a fair.

Going up to her and pulling her aside, Benedetto told her in Italian that I wanted to copy her from head to foot, and she must then and there take off her clothes.  The woman gave him one withering look, and made for the door.  Benedetto rushed forward to prevent her; while my comrades, for the honor of the studio, endeavored to bar his way.

Then began an argument between the wife and the husband; but, as I saw that Benedetto sustained his part of it with great brutality, I was angry, and, having a pretty vigorous arm, I pushed him aside, and took the wife, who was trembling all over, to the door.  She said, in Italian, a few words of thanks, and disappeared instantly.

Returning to Benedetto, who was gesticulating furiously, I told him to leave the studio, that his conduct was infamous, and if I heard of his ill-treating his wife I would have him punished.

“Debole!” (idiot!) he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and departing amid derisive cheers.

Several days passed, and no signs of Benedetto.  By the end of a week he was forgotten.  Three days before my departure from Rome his wife entered my studio.

“You are leaving Rome,” she said, “and I want you to take me with you.”

“Take you with me!—­but your husband?”

“Dead,” she answered tranquilly.

A thought crossed my mind.

“Did you kill him?” I said.

She made an affirmative sign, adding, “But I meant to die too.”

“How was it?” I asked.

“After he offered me that affront,” she replied, “he came home and beat me, as he often did; then he went out and was gone all day.  At night he returned with a pistol and threatened to shoot me; but I got the pistol away from him, for he was drunk.  I threw him—­the briccone!—­on his bed, and he fell asleep.  Then I stuffed up the doors and windows, and lighted the charcoal brazier.  My head ached horribly, and I knew nothing more till the next day, when I woke up in the hands of my neighbors.  They had smelt the charcoal, and burst in the door,—­but he was dead.”

“And the law?”

“I told the judge everything.  Besides, he had tried to sell me to an Englishman,—­that’s why he wanted to disgrace me here with you; he thought I would resist less.  The judge told me I might go, I had done right; then I confessed to a priest, and he gave me absolution.”

“But, cara mia, what can you do in France?  Better stay in Italy; besides, I am not rich.”

She smiled disdainfully.

“I shall not cost you much,” she said; “on the contrary, I can save you money.”

“How so?”

“I can be the model for your statues if I choose.  Besides which, I am a capital housekeeper.  If Benedetto had behaved properly, we should have had a good home,—­per che, I know how to make one; and I’ve another great talent too!”

She ran to a guitar, which was hanging on the wall, and began to sing a bravura air, accompanying herself with singular energy.

“In France,” she said, when she had finished, “I could take lessons and go upon the stage, where I know I should succeed; that was Benedetto’s idea.”

“But why not do that in Italy?”

“I am hiding from that Englishman,” she replied; “he wants to carry me off.  I am determined to go to France; I have learned to speak French.  If I stay here, I shall throw myself into the Tiber.”

By abandoning such a nature, more terrible than seductive, to itself, Monsieur de l’Estorade will, I think, agree that I was likely to cause some misfortune.  I consented, therefore, that Signora Luigia should accompany me to Paris.  Since then she has managed my household with discretion and economy.  She even offered to pose for my Pandora; but the memory of that scene with her husband has, as you may well believe, kept me from accepting her offer.  I have given her a singing-master, and she is now almost prepared to make her appearance on the stage.  But in spite of her theatrical projects, she, pious like all Italians, has joined the sisterhood of the Virgin in Saint-Sulpice, my parish church, and during the month of May, which began a few days ago, the letter of chairs counts on her beautiful voice for part of her receipts.  She is assiduous at the services, confesses, and takes the sacrament regularly.  Her confessor, a most respectable old man, came to see me lately to request that she might not be required to pose for any more of my statues, saying that she would not listen to him on that point, believing herself bound in honor to me.

My own intention, if I am elected, which now seems probable, is to separate from this woman.  In a position which will place me more before the public, she would become an object of remark as injurious to her reputation and future prospects as to mine.  I have talked with Marie-Gaston about the difficulty I foresee in making this separation.  Until now, my house has been the whole of Paris to this poor woman; and the thought of flinging her alone into the gulf, of which she knows nothing, horrifies me.

Marie-Gaston thinks that the help and advice of a person of her own sex, with a high reputation for virtue and good judgment, would be in such a case most efficacious; and he declares that he and I both know a lady who, at our earnest entreaty, might take this duty upon herself.  The person to whom Marie-Gaston makes allusion is but a recent acquaintance of mine, and I could hardly ask even an old friend to take such a care upon her shoulders.  I know, however, that you once did me the honor to say that “certain relations ripen rapidly.”  Marie-Gaston insists that this lady, being kind and pious and most charitable, will be attracted by the idea of helping and advising a poor lonely woman.  On our return to Paris, madame, we shall venture to consult you, and you will tell us whether we may ask for this precious assistance.

In any case, I will ask you to be my intermediary with Monsieur de l’Estorade; tell him the facts I have now told you, and say that I hope the little cloud between us may be effectually removed.  If I am elected, we shall be, I know, in opposite camps; but as my intention is not to take a tone of systematic opposition in all the questions which may arise between our parties, I do not think there need be any break between us.

By this time to-morrow, madame, I may have received a checkmate which will send me back forever to my studio, or I shall have a foot in a new career.  Shall I tell you that the thought of the latter result distresses me?—­doubtless from a fear of the Unknown.

I was almost forgetting to give you another piece of news.  I have consulted Mother Marie-des-Anges (whose history Marie-Gaston tells me he has related to you) on the subject of my doubts and fears as to the violence done to Mademoiselle de Lanty, and she has promised that in course of time she will discover the convent in which Marianina is a prisoner.  The worthy Mother, if she takes this into her head, is almost certain to succeed in finding the original of her Saint-Ursula.

I am not feeling at all easy in mind about Marie-Gaston.  He seems to me in a state of feverish agitation, partly created by the immense interest he takes in my success.  But I greatly fear that his efforts will result in a serious reaction.  His own grief, which at this moment he is repressing, has not in reality lost its sting.  Have you not been struck by the rather flighty and mocking tone of his letters, some of which he has shown to me?  That is not in his nature, for in his happiest days he was never turbulently gay; and I am sadly afraid that when this fictitious excitement about my election is over he may fall into utter prostration.  He has, however, consented to come and live with me, and not to go to Ville d’Avray unless I am with him.  Even this act of prudence, which I asked without hoping to obtain it, makes me uneasy.  Evidently he is afraid of the memories that await him there.  Have I the power to lessen the shock?  Old Philippe, who was left in charge of the place when he went to Italy, had orders not to move or change anything whatever in the house.  Our friend is therefore likely to find himself, in presence of those speaking objects, on the morrow as it were of his wife’s death.  Another alarming thing! he has only spoken of her once, and will not suffer me to approach the subject.  I hope, however, that this may be a crisis; once passed, I trust we may, by all uniting, succeed in composing his mind.

Victor or vanquished, I trust to meet you soon, madame, and always as your most respectful and devoted servant,

Charles de Sallenauve.