The Wandering Jew, Book VIII.. - Eugene Sue (trending books to read TXT) 📗

or three of the volumes scattered over

the couch, and had glanced at their titles in the same careless manner.

The first was the "Modern History of India." The second, "Travels in

India." The third, "Letters on India." Much surprised, M. de Montbron had

continued his investigation, and found that the fourth volume continued

this Indian nomenclature, being "Rambles in India." The fifth was,

"Recollections of Hindostan." The sixth, "Notes of a Traveller in the

East Indies."

 

Hence the astonishment, which, for many serious reasons, M. de Montbron

had no longer been able to conceal, and which his looks betrayed to

Adrienne. The latter, having completely forgotten the presence of the

accusing volumes by which she was surrounded, yielded to a movement of

involuntary confusion, and blushed slightly; but, her firm and resolute

character again coming to her aid, she looked full at M. de Montbron, and

said to him: "Well, my dear count! what surprises you?"

 

Instead of answering, M. de Montbron appeared still more absorbed in

thought, and contemplating the young girl, he could not forbear saying to

himself: "No, no--it is impossible--and yet--"

 

"It would, perhaps, be indiscreet in me to listen to your soliloquy, my

dear count," said Adrienne.

 

"Excuse me, my dear child; but what I see surprises me so much--"

 

"And pray what do you see?"

 

"The traces of so great and novel an interest in all that relates to

India," said M. de Montbron, laying a slight stress on his words, and

fixing a piercing look upon the young girl.

 

"Well!" said Adrienne, stoutly.

 

"Well! I seek the cause of this sudden passion--"

 

"Geographical?" said Mdlle. de Cardoville, interrupting M. de Montbron:

"you may find this taste somewhat serious for my age my dear count--but

one must find occupation for leisure hours--and then, having a cousin,

who is both an Indian and a prince, I should like to know something of

the fortunate country from which I derive this savage relationship."

 

These last words were pronounced with a bitterness that was not lost on

de Montbron: watching Adrienne attentively, he observed: "Meseems, you

speak of the prince with some harshness."

 

"No; I speak of him with indifference."

 

"Yet he deserves a very different feeling."

 

"On the part of some other person, perhaps," replied Adrienne, dryly.

 

"He is so unhappy!" said M, de Montbron, in a tone of sincere pity. "When

I saw him the other day, he made my heart ache."

 

"What have I to do with it?" exclaimed Adrienne, with an accent of

painful and almost angry impatience.

 

"I should have thought that his cruel torments at least deserved your

pity," answered the count gravely.

 

"Pity--from me!" cried Adrienne, with an air of offended pride. Then

restraining herself, she added coldly: "You are jesting, M. de Montbron.

It is not in sober seriousness that you ask me to take interest in the

amorous torments of your prince."

 

There was so much cold disdain in these last words of Adrienne, her pale

and agitated countenance betrayed such haughty bitterness, that M. de

Montbron said, sorrowfully: "It is then true; I have not been deceived.

I, who thought, from our old and constant friendship, that I had some

claim to your confidence have known nothing of it--while you told all to

another. It is painful, very painful to me."

 

"I do not understand you, M. de Montbron."

 

"Well then, since I must speak plainly," cried the count, "there is, I

see, no hope for this unhappy boy--you love another."

 

As Adrienne started--"Oh! you cannot deny it," resumed the count; "your

paleness and melancholy for the last few days, your implacable

indifference to the prince--all prove to me that you are in love."

 

Hurt by the manner in which the count spoke of the sentiment he

attributed to her, Mdlle. de Cardoville answered with dignified

stateliness: "You must know, M. de Montbron, that a secret discovered is

not a confidence. Your language surprises me.

 

"Oh, my dear friend, if I use the poor privilege of experience--if I

guess that you are in love--if I tell you so, and even go so far as to

reproach you with it--it is because the life or death of this poor prince

is concerned; and I feel for him as if he were my son, for it is

impossible to know him without taking the warmest interest in him."

 

"It would be singular," returned Adrienne, with redoubled coldness, and

still more bitter irony, "if my love--admitting I were in love--could

have any such strange influence on Prince Djalma. What can it matter to

him?" added she, with almost agonizing disdain.

 

"What can it matter to him? Now really, my dear friend, permit me to tell

you, that it is you who are jesting cruelly. What! this unfortunate youth

loves you with all the blind ardor of a first love--twice has attempted

to terminate by suicide the horrible tortures of his passion--and you

think it strange that your love for another should be with him a question

of life or death!"

 

"He loves me then?" cried the young girl, with an accent impossible to

describe.

 

"He loves you to madness, I tell you; I have seen it."

 

Adrienne seemed overcome with amazement. From pale, she became crimson;

as the redness disappeared, her lips grew white, and trembled. Her

emotion was so strong, that she remained for some moments unable to

speak, and pressed her hand to her heart, as if to moderate its

pulsations.

 

de Montbron, almost frightened at the sudden change in Adrienne's

countenance, hastily approached her, exclaiming: "Good heaven, my poor

child! what is the matter?"

 

Instead of answering, Adrienne waved her hand to him, in sign that he

should not be alarmed; and, in fact, the count was speedily

tranquillized, for the beautiful face, which had so lately been

contracted with pain, irony, and scorn, seemed now expressive of the

sweetest and most ineffable emotions; Adrienne appeared to luxuriate in

delight, and to fear losing the least particle of it; then, as reflection

told her, that she was, perhaps, the dupe of illusion or falsehood, she

exclaimed suddenly, with anguish, addressing herself to M. de Montbron:

"But is what you tell me true?"

 

"What I tell you!"

 

"Yes--that Prince Djalma--"

 

"Loves you to madness?--Alas! it is only too true."

 

"No, no," cried Adrienne, with a charming expression of simplicity; "that

could never be too true."

 

"What do you say?" cried the count.

 

"But that woman?" asked Adrienne, as if the word scorched her lips.

 

"What woman?"

 

"She who has been the cause of all these painful struggles."

 

"That woman--why, who should it be but you?"

 

"What, I? Oh! tell me, was it I?"

 

"On my word of honor. I trust my experience. I have never seen so ardent

and sincere a passion."

 

"Oh! is it really so? Has he never had any other love?"

 

"Never."

 

"Yet I was told so."

 

"By whom?"

 

"M. Rodin."

 

"That Djalma--"

 

"Had fallen violently in love, two days after I saw him."

 

"M. Rodin told you that!" cried M. de Montbron, as if struck with a

sudden idea. "Why, it is he who told Djalma that you were in love with

some one else."

 

"I!"

 

"And this it was which occasioned the poor youth's dreadful despair."

 

"It was this which occasioned my despair."

 

"You love him, then, just as he loves you!" exclaimed M. de Montbron,

transported with joy.

 

"Love him!" said Mdlle. de Cardoville. A discreet knock at the door

interrupted Adrienne.

 

"One of your servants, no doubt. Be calm," said the count.

 

"Come in," said Adrienne, in an agitated voice.

 

"What is it?" said Mdlle. de Cardoville. Florine entered the room.

 

"M. Rodin has just been here. Fearing to disturb mademoiselle, he would

not come in; but he will return in half an hour. Will mademoiselle

receive him?"

 

"Yes, yes," said the count to Florine; "even if I am still here, show him

in by all means. Is not that your opinion?" asked M. de Montbron of

Adrienne.

 

"Quite so," answered the young girl; and a flash of indignation darted

from her eyes, as she thought of Rodin's perfidy.

 

"Oho! the old knave!" said M. de Montbron, "I always had my doubts of

that crooked neck!" Florine withdrew, leaving the count with her

mistress.

 

CHAPTER IX. (LOVE.)

 

Mdlle. de Cardoville was transfigured. For the first time her beauty

shone forth in all its lustre. Until now overshadowed by indifference, or

darkened by grief, she appeared suddenly illumined by a brilliant ray of

sunshine. The slight irritation caused by Rodin's perfidy passed like an

imperceptible shade from her brow. What cared she now for falsehood and

perfidy? Had they not failed? And, for the future, what human power could

interpose between her and Djalma, so sure of each other? Who would dare

to cross the path of those two things, resolute and strong with the

irresistible power of youth, love, and liberty? Who would dare to follow

them into that blazing sphere, whither they went, so beautiful and happy,

to blend together in their inextinguishable love, protected by the proof

armor of their own happiness? Hardly had Florine left the room, when

Adrienne approached M. de Montbron with a rapid step. She seemed to have

become taller; and to watch her advancing, light, radiant, and

triumphant, one might have fancied her a goddess walking upon clouds.

 

"When shall I see him?" was her first word to M. de Montbron.

 

"Well--say to-morrow; he must be prepared for so much happiness; in so

ardent a nature, such sudden, unexpected joy might be terrible."

 

Adrienne remained pensive for a moment, and then said rapidly: "To

morrow--yes--not before to-morrow. I have a superstition of the heart."

 

"What is it?"

 

"You shall know. HE LOVES ME--that word says all, contains all,

comprehends all, is all--and yet I have a thousand questions to ask with

regard to him--but I will ask none before to-morrow, because, by a

mysterious fatality, to-morrow is with me a sacred anniversary. It will

be an age till then; but happily, I can wait. Look here!"

 

Beckoning M. de Montbron, she led him to the Indian Bacchus. "How much it

is like him!" said she to the count.

 

"Indeed," exclaimed the latter, "it is strange!"

 

"Strange?" returned Adrienne, with a smile of gentle pride; "strange,

that a hero, a demi-god, an ideal of beauty, should resemble Djalma?"

 

"How you love him!" said M. de Montbron, deeply touched, and almost

dazzled by the felicity which beamed from the countenance of Adrienne.

 

"I must have suffered a good deal, do you not think so?" said she, after

a moment's silence.

 

"If I had not made up my mind to come here to-day, almost in despair,

what would have happened?"

 

"I cannot tell; I should perhaps have died, for I am wounded mortally

here"--she pressed her hand to her heart. "But what might have been death

to me, will now be life."

 

"It was horrible," said the count, shuddering. "Such a passion, buried in

your own breast, proud as you are--"

 

"Yes, proud--but not self-conceited. When I learned his love for another,

and that the impression which I fancied I had made on him at our first

interview had been immediately effaced, I renounced all hope, without

being able to renounce my love. Instead of shunning his image, I

surrounded myself with all that could remind me of him. In default of

happiness, there is a bitter pleasure in suffering through what we love."

 

"I can now understand your Indian library."

 

Instead of answering the count, Adrienne took from the stand one of the

freshly-cut volumes, and, bringing it to M. de Montbron, said to him,

with a smile and a celestial expression of joy and happiness: "I was

wrong--I am vain. Just read this--aloud, if you please. I tell you that I

can wait for to-morrow." Presenting the book to the count, she pointed

out one passage with the tip of her charming finger. Then she sank down

upon the couch, and, in an attitude of deep attention, with her body bent

forward, her hands crossed upon the cushion, her chin resting upon her

hands, her large eyes fixed with a sort of adoration on the Indian

Bacchus, that was just opposite to her, she appeared by this impassioned

contemplation to prepare herself to listen to M. de Montbron.

 

The latter, much astonished, began to read, after again looking at

Adrienne, who said to him,