The Project Gutenberg EBook of Zibeline, Complete, by Phillipe de Massa This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Zibeline, Complete Author: Phillipe de Massa Release Date: October 5, 2006 [EBook #3934] Last Updated: August 23, 2016 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ZIBELINE, COMPLETE *** Produced by David Widger
PAUL HERVIEU de l’Academe Francaise.
Your friend, JULES CLARETIE de l’Academie Francaise. APRIL 26, 1892.
“DEPUTY OF WAR, TOURS: “Escaped from prisons of the enemy, I demand admittance to France, and official duties suitable to my rank, that I may cooperate in the national defence. “DE PREROLLES, Commandant.”He handed the paper to the police agent, saying: “Do me the favor to forward this despatch with the utmost expedition.” As soon as the agent had glanced at the message, he swept a profound salute. “Pass on, Commandant,” said he, in a tone of great respect. Promoted to a higher rank, and appointed commander of a regiment of foot, the Lieutenant-Colonel de Prerolles rejoined the army of Chanzy, which, having known him a long time, assigned to him the duties of a brigadier-general, and instructed him to cover his retreat from the Loire on the Sarthe. In the ensuing series of daily combats, the auxiliary General performed all that his chief expected of him, from Orleans to the battle of Maus, where, in the thick of the fight, a shell struck him in the breast. It is necessary to say that on the evening before he had noticed that the little medallion which had been given to him by Fanny Dorville, worn from its chain by friction, had disappeared from his neck. Scoffing comrades smiled at the coincidence; the more credulous looked grave. The wound was serious, for, transported to the Chateau de Montgeron, a few leagues distant, the Marquis was compelled to remain there six months before he was in fit condition to rejoin his command. Toward the end of his convalescence, in June, 1871, the brother and sister resolved to make a pious pilgrimage to the cradle of their ancestors. Exactly nine years had elapsed since the castle and lands had been sold at auction and fallen into the possession of a company of speculators, who had divided it and resold it to various purchasers. Only the farm of Valpendant, with a house of ancient and vast construction, built in the time of Philippe-Auguste, remained to an old tenant, with his dependencies and his primitive methods of agriculture. Leaving the train at the Beaumont tunnel, the two travellers made their way along a road which crosses the high plateau that separates the forest of Carnelle from the forest of the Ile-d’Adam, whence one can discern the steeple of Prerolles rising above the banks of the Oise. From this culminating point they beheld the chateau transformed into a factory, the park cut up into countryseats, the fields turned into market-gardens! With profound sadness the brother and the sister met each other’s glance, and their eyes filled with tears, as if they stood before a tomb on All Souls’ Day. “No expiation is possible,” said Henri to Jeanne, pressing her hand convulsively. “I must go—I must move on forever and ever, like the Wandering Jew.” Thanks to the influence of the Duke of Montgeron, whose faithful constituents had sent him to the National Assembly, his brother-in-law had been transferred to a regiment of zouaves, of which he became colonel in 1875, whereupon he decided to remain in Africa during the rest of his life. But Tunis and Tonquin opened new horizons to him. Landing as a brigadier-general at Haiphong, he was about to assume, at Bac-Ninh, his third star, when the Minister of War, examining the brilliant record of this officer who, since 1862, never had ceased his service to his country, called him to take command of one of the infantry divisions of the army of Paris, a place which he had occupied only a few months before the events related in the preceding chapter.
‘Paraissez, Navarrois, Maures et Castilians, Et tout ce que l’Espagne a produit de vaillants,’many opera-glasses were directed toward the spectator to whom the actress appeared to address herself, when suddenly a new object of interest changed the circuit of observation. The door of the large, right-hand box opened, and Zibeline appeared, accompanied by the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy, an elderly gallant, carefully dressed and wearing many decorations, and whose respectable tale of years could give no occasion for malicious comment on his appearance in the role of ‘cavalier servente’. Having assisted his companion to remove her mantle, he profited by the instant of time she took to settle her slightly ruffled plumage before the mirror, to lay upon the railing of the box her bouquet and her lorgnette. Then he took up a position behind the chair she would occupy, ready to assist her when she might deign to sit down. His whole manner suggested a chamberlain of the ancient court in the service of a princess. Mademoiselle de Vermont disliked bright colors, and wore on this occasion a robe of black velvet, of which the ‘decolletee’ bodice set off the whiteness of her shoulders and her neck, the latter ornamented with a simple band of cherry-colored velvet, without jewels, as was suitable for a young girl. Long suede gloves, buttoned to the elbow, outlined her well-modelled arms, of which the upper part emerged, without sleeves, from lace ruffles gathered in the form of epaulets. The men admired her; the women sought some point to criticise, and had the eyes of Madame Desvanneaux been able to throw deadly projectiles, her powerful lorgnette would have become an instrument of death for the object of her resentment. “This morning,” said the irreconcilable matron, “she showed us her ankles; this evening she allows us to see the remainder.” “I should have been very well pleased, however—” murmured young Desvanneaux, with regret. “If you had married her, Victor,” said his mother, “I should have taken full charge of her wardrobe, and should have made some decided changes, I assure you.” Perfectly indifferent to the general curiosity, Zibeline in her turn calmly reviewed the audience. After exploring the boxes with her opera-glass, she lowered it to examine the orchestra stalls, and, perceiving the Marquis, she fixed her gaze upon him. Undoubtedly she knew the reason for the particular attention which he paid to the stage, because, until the end of the act, her glance was divided alternately between the General and the actress. As the curtain fell on this act the spectators turned their backs to the footlights, and Lenaieff, indicating Zibeline to his friend, said in his slightly Slavonic accent: “Who is that pretty woman, my dear Henri?” “One of Jules Verne’s personages, a product of the land of furs.” “Do you know her?” “Not at all. I have a prejudice against girls that are too rich. Why do you ask?” “Because it seems to me that she looks at you very attentively.” “Indeed! I had not noticed it.” In saying this, the General—exaggerated! He had been perfectly well aware of the gaze of Mademoiselle de Vermont, but whether he still cherished a slight resentment against the lady, or whether her appearance really displeased him, he cut the conversation short and went to pay his respects to the occupants of several boxes. Evidently Zibeline knew few persons in society, for no visitor appeared in her box. However, after the next act she made a sign to M. Durand. That gentleman rejoined the Baron de Samoreau in the corridor and took him to meet Zibeline, and a sort of council appeared to be going on in the rear of her box. “What the deuce can she be talking about to them?” said Desvanneaux to his wife. “A new offer of marriage, probably. They say she declares she will marry no one of lower rank than a prince, in order to complete our chagrin! Perhaps they have succeeded in finding one for her!” The instructions that Mademoiselle de Vermont gave to the two men must have been easy to execute, for neither the notary nor the banker seemed to raise the least objection. The conversation was finished, and both gentlemen saluted her, preparing to take leave, when she said to M. Durand: “You understand that the meeting is for tomorrow?” “At five o’clock,” he replied. “Very well. I will stop for you at your door at a quarter of an hour before that time.” The fourth act had begun, that scene in which Adrienne accomplishes her generous sacrifice in furnishing herself the ransom which must deliver her unfaithful lover. The rapt attention that Zibeline paid to this scene, and the slight movements of her head, showed her approval of this disinterested act. Very touching in her invocation to her “old Corneille,” Mademoiselle Gontier was superb at the moment when the comedienne, knowing at last who is her rival, quotes from Racine that passage in ‘Phedre’ which she throws, so to speak, in the face of the patrician woman:
.... Je sais ses perfidies, OEnone! et ne suis point de ces femmes hardies Qui, goutant dans la crime une honteuse paix, Ont su se faire un front qui ne rougit jamais.From the place she was to obliged to take in the arrangement of the scene, the apostrophe and the gestures of the actress appeared to be unconsciously directed toward Mademoiselle de Vermont, who could not restrain a startled movement. “Look! One would think that Zibeline took that allusion for herself,” said Madame Desvanneaux, whom nothing escaped. On reentering the greenroom, after two well-deserved recalls, Eugenie Gontier was soon surrounded by a throng of admirers who had come to congratulate her upon her success. “Were you pleased, Henri?” she said in a low tone to the General. “Enthusiastically!” he replied. “Ah, then I can die happy!” she said, laughingly. As she traversed the ranks of her admirers to go to change her costume for the last act, she found herself face to face with Zibeline, who, having quickly recovered from her emotion, was advancing on the arm of the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy. “My dear child,” said the old nobleman to the actress, “I bring to you Mademoiselle de Vermont, who wishes to say to you herself—” “That Mademoiselle must be very tired of listening to our praises,” interrupted Zibeline. “But if the tribute of a foreigner can prove to her that her prestige is universal, I beg that she will accept these flowers which I dared not throw to her from my box.” “Really, Mademoiselle, you embarrass me!” Eugenie replied, somewhat surprised. “Oh, you need not fear to take them—they are not poisoned!” added Zibeline, smiling. And, after a gracious inclination of her head, to which the actress responded with a deep courtesy, Zibeline took again the arm of her escort in order to seek her carriage, without waiting for the end of the play. Three-quarters of an hour later, as, the audience was leaving the theatre, M. Desvanneaux recounted to whoever chose to listen that Mademoiselle de Vermont had passed the whole of the last ‘entr’acte’ in the greenroom corridor, in a friendly chat with Eugenie Gontier.
“MY DEAR BARON: “Your proverbial generosity justifies my new appeal. You will accept, I am sure, the ten tickets which I enclose, when you know that your confreres, the Messieurs Axenstein, have taken double that number.”“And here,” said the Vicomtesse de Nointel, “is a tax on gallantry.” And she read aloud:
“MY DEAR PRINCE: “You have done me the honor to write to me that you love me. I suppose I ought to show your note to my husband, who is an expert swordsman; but I prefer to return to you your autograph letter for the price of these fifteen tickets. Go—and sin again, should your heart prompt you!”“But that is a species of blackmail, Madame!” cried Madame Desvanneaux. “The end justifies the means,” replied the Vicomtesse gayly. “Besides, I am accountable only to the Duc de Montgeron. What is his opinion?” “I call it a very clever stroke,” said the Duke. “You hear, Madame! Only, of course, not every lady has a collection of similar little notes!” said the Vicomtesse de Nointel. The entrance of M. Durand, treasurer of the society, interrupted the progress of this correspondence. “Do not trouble yourselves so much, Mesdames,” said the notary. “The practical solution of the matter I am about to lay before you, if Madame the president will permit me to speak.” “I should think so!” said the Duchess. “Speak, by all means!” “A charitable person has offered to assume all the expenses of the affair,” said the notary, “on condition that carte blanche is granted to her in the matter of the site. In case her offer is accepted, she will make over to the society, within three months, the title to the real estate, in regular order.” “Do you guarantee the solvency of this person?” demanded M. Desvanneaux, who saw the project of the kermess falling to the ground. “It is one of my rich clients; but I have orders not to reveal her name unless her offer is accepted.” The unanimity with which all hands were raised did not even give time to put the question. “Her name?” demanded the Duchess. “Here it is,” replied the notary, handing her a visiting card. “‘Valentine de Vermont,’” she read aloud. “Zibeline?” cried Madame de Nointel. “Bravo! I offer her the assurance of my esteem!” “And I also,” added Madame de Lisieux. “I can not offer mine,” said Madame Desvanneaux, dryly. “A young woman who is received nowhere!” “So generous an act should open all doors to her, beginning with mine,” said the Duchesse de Montgeron. “I beg that you will tell her so from me, Monsieur Durand.” “At once, Madame. She is waiting below in her carriage.” “Why did you not say so before? I must beg her myself to join us here,” said the master of the house, leaving the room in haste. “See how any one can purchase admission to our world in these days!” whispered Madame Desvanneaux in her daughter’s ear. “Heavens! yes, dear mother! The only question is whether one is able to pay the price.” We must render justice to the two titled patronesses by saying that the immediate admission of Mademoiselle de Vermont to their circle seemed to them the least they could do, and that they greeted her appearance, as she entered on the arm of the Duke, with a sympathetic murmur which put the final stroke to the exasperation of the two malicious dames. “You are very welcome here, Mademoiselle,” said the Duchess, advancing to greet her guest. “I am delighted to express to you, in behalf of all these ladies, the profound gratitude with which your generous aid inspires them!” “It is more than I deserve, Madame la Duchesse!” said Valentine. “The important work in which they have taken the initiative is so interesting that each of us should contribute to it according to his means. I am alone in Paris, without relatives or friends, and these ladies have furnished me the means to cure my idleness; so it is I, rather, who am indebted to them.” Whether this speech were studied or not, it was pronounced to be in very good taste, and the stranger’s conquest of the assemblage was more and more assured. “Since you wish to join us,” resumed the Duchess, “allow me to present to you these gentlemen: Monsieur Desvanneaux, our zealous general secretary—” “I have already had the pleasure of seeing Monsieur at my house,” said Valentine, “also Madame Desvanneaux; and although I was unable to accede to their wishes, I retain, nevertheless, the pleasantest recollections of their visit.” “Good hit!” whispered Madame de Nointel to her neighbor. “The Marquis de Prerolles, my brother,” the Duchess continued. “The smiles of Fortune must be sweet, Mademoiselle,” said the General, bowing low. “Not so sweet as those of Glory, General,” Zibeline replied, with a pretty air of deference. “She possesses a decidedly ready wit,” said Madame de Lisieux in a confidential aside. “Now, ladies,” added the president, “I believe that the best thing we can do is to leave everything in the hands of Mademoiselle and our treasurer. The examination of the annual resources will be the object of the next meeting. For to-day, the meeting is adjourned.” Then, as Mademoiselle de Vermont was about to mingle with the other ladies, the Duchess detained her an instant, inquiring: “Have you any engagement for this evening, Mademoiselle?” “None, Madame.” “Will you do us the honor to join us in my box at the opera?” “But—I have no one to accompany me,” said Zibeline. “I dismissed my cousin De Sainte-Foy, thinking that I should have no further need of his escort to-day.” “That does not matter at all,” the Duchess replied. “We will stop for you on our way.” “I should not like to trouble you so much, Madame. If you will allow me, I will stop at your door at whatever hour will be agreeable to you, and my carriage shall follow yours.” “Very well. At nine o’clock, if you please. They sing Le Prophete tonight, and we shall arrive just in time for the ballet.” “The ‘Skaters’ Ballet,’” said the General. This remark recalled to Mademoiselle her triumph of the evening before. “Do you bear a grudge against me?” she said, with a smile. “Less and less of one,” the General replied. “Then, let us make a compact of peace,” said Zibeline, holding out her hand in the English fashion. With these words she left the room on the arm of the Duke, who claimed the honor of escorting her to her carriage. “Shall you go to the opera also?” asked the Duchess of her brother. “Yes, but later. I shall dine in town.” “Then-au-revoir—this evening!” “This evening!”
“Two weeks have elapsed since you have been to see me. I do not ask whether you love me still, but I do ask you, in case you love another, to tell me so frankly. “ARIADNE.”“So I am summoned to the confessional, and am expected to accuse myself of that which I dare not avow even to my own heart! Never!” said Henri, crushing the note in his hand. “Besides, unless I deceive myself, Ariadne has not been slow in seeking a consoling divinity! Samoreau is at hand, it appears. He played the part of Plutus before; now he will assume that of Bacchus,” thought the recreant lover, in order to smother his feeling of remorse.
“You have just had a terrible experience, my dear friend. Nothing that affects you can be indifferent to me. I beg you to believe, notwithstanding the grief which our separation causes me, in all the prayers that I offer for your happiness. “ARIADNE.”“My happiness? My torture, rather!” he said, the classic name of Ariadne suggesting the idea that the pseudonym of Tantalus might well be applied to himself. But he had long kept a rule to write as little as possible, and was guarded in making reply to any letter, especially to such a communication as this. When he left the house the next morning, on his way to attend to military duties, he learned that his sister had gone away early on an excursion to one of the suburbs, and that she would not return until evening. As the Duchess was the only person who had been initiated into the mystery surrounding Zibeline on the subject of the building of the Orphan Asylum, it was evident that she had gone to take her place in the directing of the work. In the afternoon Henri called to inquire for the invalid, and was received by the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy. She had had a quiet night; a little fever had appeared toward morning, and, above all, an extreme weakness, requiring absolute quiet and freedom from any excitement. On an open register in the reception-room were inscribed the names of all those persons who had called to express their interest in Mademoiselle de Vermont: Constantin Lenaieff, the Lisieux, the Nointels, Edmond Delorme, the Baron de Samoreau, and others. Only the Desvanneaux had shown no sign of life. Their Christian charity did not extend so far as that. Henri added his name to the list, and for several days he returned each morning to inscribe it anew, feeling certain that, as soon as Valentine was able to be placed half-reclining on a couch, she would give orders that he should be admitted to her presence. But nothing of the kind occurred. On the evening of the fifth day after the accident, the Duchess informed her brother that their young friend had been taken to the country, where it was thought a complete cure would sooner be effected. This hasty departure, made without any preliminary message, caused Henri to feel the liveliest disappointment. Had he deceived himself, then? Was it, after all, only by chance that she had so tenderly pronounced his name, and had that familiar appellative only been drawn from her involuntarily because of her surprise at beholding his unexpected presence at her bedside? Regarding the matter from this point of view, the whole romance that he had constructed on a fragile foundation had really never existed save in his own imagination! At this thought his self-esteem suffered cruelly. He felt a natural impulse to spring into a carriage and drive to the dwelling of Eugenie Gontier, and there to seek forgetfulness. But he felt that his bitterness would make itself known even there, and that such a course would be another affront to the dignity of a woman of heart, whose loyalty to himself he never had questioned. Try to disguise it as he would, his sombre mood made itself apparent, especially to his brother-in-law, who had no difficulty in guessing the cause, without allowing Henri to suspect that he divined it. The date for the formal transfer of the Orphan Asylum to the committee had been fixed for the fifteenth day of May. On the evening of the fourteenth, at the hour when the General was signing the usual military documents in his bureau, a domestic presented to him a letter which, he said, had just been brought in great haste by a messenger on horseback: The superscription, “To Monsieur the General the Marquis de Prerolles,” was inscribed in a long, English hand, elegant and regular. The orderly gave the letter to his chief, who dismissed him with a gesture before breaking the seal. The seal represented, without escutcheon or crown, a small, wild animal, with a pointed muzzle, projecting teeth, and shaggy body, under which was a word Henri expected to find: Zibeline! The letter ran thus:
“MY DEAR GENERAL: “An officer, like yourself, whose business it is to see that his orders are obeyed, will understand that I have not dared, even in your favor, to infringe on those imposed upon me by the doctor. But those orders have been withdrawn! If you have nothing better to do, come to-morrow, with your sister, to inspect our asylum, before Monsieur Desvanneaux takes possession of it! “Your military eye will be able to judge immediately whether anything is lacking in the quarters. Yours affectionately, “VALENTINE DE VERMONT. “P.S.—Poor Seaman is dead! I beg you to carry this sad news to his friend Aida. V.”If a woman’s real self is revealed in her epistolary style, finesse, good-humor, and sprightliness were characterised in this note. Zibeline’s finesse had divined Henri’s self-deception; her good-humor sought to dissipate it; and her sprightliness was evidenced by her allusions to M. Desvanneaux and the loss of her horse. When they found themselves reunited at the dinner-hour, the Duchess said simply to her brother: “You must have received an invitation to-day from Mademoiselle de Vermont. Will you accompany us tomorrow?” “Yes, certainly. But where? How? At what hour?” “We must leave here at one o’clock. Don’t disturb yourself about any other detail—we shall look after everything.” “Good! I accept.” As he was not so curious as the Desvanneaux, it mattered little to him to what place they took him, so long as he should find Zibeline at the end of the journey. At the appointed hour the brother and sister drove to the Gare du Nord. The Duke, a director of the road, who had been obliged to attend a convocation of the Council until noon, had preceded them. He was waiting for them beside the turnstile at the station, having already procured their tickets and reserved a carriage in one of the omnibus trains from Paris to Treport which make stops at various suburban stations. “Will it be a very long journey?” Henri asked, on taking his place in the carriage. “Barely three-quarters of an hour,” said the Duke, as the train started on its way.
“I have heard all the details of your romance, my dear Henri. Its conclusion is according to all dramatic rules, and I congratulate you without reserve. “If, on the eve of contracting this happy union, an examination of your conscience should suggest to you some remorse for having abandoned me so abruptly, let me say that no shadow, not even the lightest, must cloud the serenity of this joyous day: I am about to leave the stage forever, to become the wife of the Baron de Samoreau! “Always affectionately yours, “EUGENIE GONTIER.”
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: All that was illogical in our social code Ambiguity has no place, nor has compromise But if this is our supreme farewell, do not tell me so! Chain so light yesterday, so heavy to-day Every man is his own master in his choice of liaisons If I do not give all I give nothing Indulgence of which they stand in need themselves Life goes on, and that is less gay than the stories Men admired her; the women sought some point to criticise Only a man, wavering and changeable Ostensibly you sit at the feast without paying the cost Paris has become like a little country town in its gossip The night brings counsel Their Christian charity did not extend so far as that There are mountains that we never climb but once You are in a conquered country, which is still more dangerous
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