as to the father’s fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel
of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven
years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives
his daughter a “dot” of two hundred thousand francs, and before I
make the offer on Ernest’s behalf I am anxious to get the rights
of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to
Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our
young lover, — simply by the transmission of the father-in-law’s
title, and no one, I think, can more readily obtain that favor
than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence
which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes,
Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden,
will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs
a year, a permanent place, and a wife — luckless fellow!
Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of
absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of
its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the
reasons that make my love eternal, — my bones will love thee in the
grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay
here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours
to Paris.
Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you,
my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year?
The billing and cooing of the “handsome disconsolate,” compared
with the accents of our happy love — so true and changeless for now
ten years! — have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had
never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a
“false step” brings two beings nearer together than the law — does
it not?
The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences and aspirations a little too confidential for publication.
The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by Melchior’s silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene’s letter to her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon. Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her mistress with her eyes full of tears, — so unprecedented a phenomenon in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped short stupefied.
“We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes,” she heard the duchess say.
“A letter from Havre, madame.”
Eleonore read the poet’s prose without noticing the presence of Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn of fresh serenity on the duchess’s face as she read further and further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety. The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis’s good faith when she had read through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent for her husband to prevent Melchior’s appointment while there was still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted almost to the sublime.
“Poor fellow!” she thought; “he has not had one faithless thought; he loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all — Philoxene!” she cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to arrange the toilet-table.
“Madame la duchesse?”
“A mirror, child!”
Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women, — a thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps, the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and beautiful rival to Momonoff.
“Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her millions,” she thought, — ”provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as he says she is.”
Three raps, circumspectly given, announced the duke, and his wife went herself to the door to let him in.
“Ah! I see you are better, my dear,” he cried, with the counterfeit joy that courtiers assume so readily, and by which fools are so readily taken in.
“My dear Henri,” she answered, “why is it you have not yet obtained that appointment for Melchior, — you who sacrificed so much to the king in taking a ministry which you knew could only last one year.”
The duke glanced at Philoxene, who showed him by an almost imperceptible sign the letter from Havre on the dressing-table.
“You would be terribly bored at Baden and come back at daggers drawn with Melchior,” said the duke.
“Pray why?”
“Why, you would always be together,” said the former diplomat, with comic good-humor.
“Oh, no,” she said; “I am going to marry him.”
“If we can believe d’Herouville, our dear Canalis stands in no need of your help in that direction,” said the duke, smiling. “Yesterday Grandlieu read me some passages from a letter the grand equerry had written him. No doubt they were dictated by the aunt for the express purpose of their reaching you, for Mademoiselle d’Herouville, always on the scent of a ‘dot,’ knows that Grandlieu and I play whist nearly every evening. That good little d’Herouville wants the Prince de Cadignan to go down and give a royal hunt in Normandy, and endeavor to persuade the king to be present, so as to turn the head of the damozel when she sees herself the object of such a grand affair. In short, two words from Charles X. would settle the matter. D’Herouville says the girl has incomparable beauty — ”
“Henri, let us go to Havre!” cried the duchess, interrupting him.
“Under what pretext?” said her husband, gravely; he was one of the confidants of Louis XVIII.
“I never saw a hunt.”
“It would be all very well if the king went; but it is a terrible bore to go so far, and he will not do it; I have just been speaking with him about it.”
“Perhaps Madame would go?”
“That would be better,” returned the duke, “I dare say the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would help you to persuade her from Rosny. If she goes the king will not be displeased at the use of his hunting equipage. Don’t go to Havre, my dear,” added the duke, paternally, “that would be giving yourself away. Come, here’s a better plan, I think. Gaspard’s chateau of Rosembray is on the other side of the forest of Brotonne; why not give him a hint to invite the whole party?”
“He invite them?” said Eleonore.
“I