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Mysteries of Paris, V3 by Eugene Sue

E >> Eugene Sue >> Mysteries of Paris, V3




In a word, the licentiousness of Jacques Ferrand stifled the voice of cold
reason; he abandoned himself blindly to the emotions which overwhelmed him.

It was agreed that Cecily should be his servant only in appearance; in this
manner there would be no scandal. Besides, to assure still more the
security of his guest, he would take no other domestic; he would himself
serve her and himself also; a neighboring coffee-house keeper could bring
his repasts. He paid in money the breakfasts of his clerks, and the porter
could take care of the office. Finally, the notary ordered to be promptly
furnished a chamber on the first floor, according to Cecily's taste. She
offered to pay the expense. He opposed it, and expended two thousand
francs.

This generosity was enormous, and proved the unheard-of violence of his
passion. Then commenced for this wretch a strange life.

Shut up in the impenetrable solitude of his house, inaccessible to all,
more and more under the yoke of his frenzied love, no longer attempting to
discover the secrets of this strange woman, from master he became a slave;
he was the footman of Cecily--he served her at her repasts--he took care of
her apartment. Informed by the baron that Louise had been surprised by a
narcotic, the Creole only drank very pure water, only ate meats impossible
to adulterate; she chose the chamber which she occupied, and assured
herself that the walls concealed no secret doors.

Besides, Jacques Ferrand soon comprehended that Cecily was a woman not to
be surprised with impunity. She was vigorous, agile, and dangerously armed.

Nevertheless, not to allow his passion to flag, the Creole seemed at times
touched with his attentions, and flattered by the terrible domination she
exercised over him. Then, supposing that by proofs of his devotion and
self-denial he could make her forget age and ugliness, she delighted to
paint in glowing colors his reward when he should arrive at that success.

At these words of a woman so young and so lovely, Jacques Ferrand felt
sometimes his mind wandering; a devouring imagery pursued him, waking or
sleeping. The ancient fable of the Nessus' shirt was realized for him.

In the midst of these nameless tortures he lost his health, appetite, and
sleep. Often at night, in spite of cold or rain, he descended to his
garden, and endeavored by a rapid walk to calm his emotions.

At other times, during whole hours, he looked into the chamber where the
Creole slept, for she had had the infernal kindness to allow a wicket to be
placed in her door, which she often opened, in order that she might almost
cause him to lose his reason, so that she could then execute the orders she
had received.

The decisive moment seemed to approach. The chastisement of Ferrand became
from day to day more worthy of his sins.

He suffered all the torments. By turns absorbed, lost, out of his mind,
indifferent to his most serious interests, the maintenance of his
reputation as an austere, grave, and pious man--a reputation usurped, but
acquired by long years of dissimulation and cunning--he astonished his
clerks by his aberrations, displeased his clients by his refusal to see
them, and harshly kept at a distance the priests, who, deceived by his
hypocrisy, had been, until then, his most fervent trumpeters.

As we were saying, Cecily was arranging her head for the night before a
glass. On a slight noise coming from the corridor, she turned her face away
from the door.

Notwithstanding the noise which she had just heard at the door, Cecily did
not the less tranquilly continue her undressing; she drew from her corsage,
where it was placed like a busk, a dirk, five or six inches long, in a case
of black shagreen, with a handle of black ebony fastened with silver, a
very simple handle, but perfectly _handy_, not a weapon of mere display.

Cecily took the dirk from its case with excessive precaution, and placed it
on the marble chimney-piece; the blade, of the finest Damascus and the best
temper, was triangular; its point, as sharp as a needle, had pierced a
dollar without blunting it.

Impregnated with a subtle and quick poison, the least wound from this
poniard was mortal.

Jacques Ferrand, having one day doubted the dangerous properties of this
weapon, the Creole made before him an experiment _in anima vita_, that
is to say, on the unfortunate house dog, who, slightly pricked in the nose,
fell dead in horrible convulsions.

The dirk placed on the chimney, Cecily taking off her spencer of black
cloth, exposed her shoulders, bosom, and arms, naked like a lady in ball
costume.

According to the custom of most girls of color, she wore, instead of a
corset, a second corsage of double linen, which was closely bound around
her waist; her orange petticoat, remaining fastened under her white inner
waist with short sleeves, composed thus a costume much less severe than the
first, and harmonized wonderfully with the scarlet stockings, and the
Madras scarf so capriciously twisted around the head of the Creole. Nothing
could be more pure, more beautiful, than the contour of her arms and
shoulders, to which little dimples gave a charm the more.

A profound sigh attracted the attention of Cecily. She smiled, while
roiling around one of her ivory fingers some stray curls which escaped from
the folds of the bandana.

"Cecily! Cecily!" murmured a voice, at once harsh and plaintive.

And at the narrow opening of the wicket appeared the pale, flat face of
Jacques Ferrand; his eyes sparkled in the shade.

Cecily, silent until then, began to sing softly in Creole French, a
Louisianian air. The words of this melody were soft and expressive.
Although restrained, the noble contralto overpowered the noise of the
torrents of rain and violent gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old
house to its foundation.

"Cecily! Cecily!" repeated Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.

The Creole suddenly stopped, turned her head quickly, and appeared to hear
for the first time the voice of the notary, and approached the door. "How!
dear master, you are there?" said she, with a slight foreign accent, which
gave additional charm to her melodious voice.

"Oh! how handsome you are!" murmured the notary.

"You think so?" answered the Creole: "this bandana suits my hair?"

"Every day I find you still more handsome."

"And see how white my arm is."

"Monster! go away! go away!" cried Jacques Ferrand, furiously.

Cecily laughed immoderately.

"No, no, this is suffering too much! Oh! if I did not fear death!" cried
the notary, in a hollow voice; "but to die--to renounce the sight of you,
so handsome. I prefer to suffer, and see you--"

"See me; this wicket is made for that, and, also, that we can talk as
friends, and thus charm our solitude; which, in truth, does not weigh
heavily, you are so good a _master!_ See what dangerous confessions I
can make through this door."

"And will you not open this door? Yet see how submissive I am! to-night I
might have tried to enter with you into your chamber--I did not."

"You are submissive for two reasons. In the first place, you know that
being, from necessity, in the habit of wearing a dirk, I handle with a firm
hand this venomous plaything, sharper than the tooth of a viper; you know
also, that on the day I complain of you, I shall leave forever this house,
leaving you a thousand time more charmed, since you have been so gracious
toward your unworthy servant as to be charmed with her."

"My servant? it is I who am your slave--your slave, mocked, despised."

"That is true enough."

"And does not this touch you?"

"It amuses me. The days, and, above all, the nights, are so long."

"Oh, the cursed--"

"No seriously, you appear so completely bewildered, your features change so
sensibly, that I am flattered. It is a poor triumph, but you are the only
man here!"

"To hear that, and only be able to consume in powerless rage!"

"How little wit you have! never, perhaps, have I said anything to you more
tender."

"Scoff--scoff."

"I do not scoff; I have never seen a man of your age so much in love; and,
it must be acknowledged, that a young and handsome man would be incapable
of such mad passion. An Adonis admires himself as much as he admires us; he
loves on the end of his teeth; and then to love him is his due, hardly is
he grateful; but to love a man like you, my master, oh! that would be to
raise him from earth to heaven; it would be to accomplish his wildest
dreams, his hopes the most extravagent. For, in fine, the being would say
to you, 'You love Cecily madly; if I wish it, she shall be yours'--you
would believe such a being endowed with supernatural powers, would you not,
dear master?"

"Yes, oh! yes."

"Well! if you knew how to convince me better of your passion, I should
have, perhaps, the fantasy to play myself, in your favor, this supernatural
part. Do you comprehend?"

"I comprehend that you scoff at me still, always, and without pity."

"Perhaps solitude creates such strange fantasies."

Her tone, until then, had been sardonic; but she pronounced these last
words with a serious expression, and accompanied them by a glance which
made the notary tremble. "Hush--do not look at me thus; you will make me
mad. I prefer that you should say to me _never_; at least, I could
abhor you, drive you from the house," cried Jacques Ferrand, who again
abandoned his vain hopes. "Yes, for I expect nothing from you. But woe is
me! woe! I know you now enough. You tell me to convince you of my love; do
you not see how unhappy I am! Yet I do all I can to please you. You wish to
be concealed from every eye: I conceal you, perhaps at the risk of
compromising myself; in fine, I do not know who you are; I respect your
secret; I never speak to you about it. I have interrogated you on your past
life; you have not answered me."

"Well! I was wrong; I am going to give you a mark of blind confidence. Oh!
my master, listen to me."

"Once more a bitter joke!"

"No, it is very serious. You must know, you should know, the history of her
to whom you give such generous hospitality."

And Cecily added, in a tone of hypocritical and tearful compunction:

"The daughter of a brave soldier, brother of my Aunt Pipelet, I have
received an education above my condition; I was seduced, then abandoned, by
a rich young man. Then, to escape from the rage of my old father, I fled my
native country." Then, laughing heartily, Cecily added: "There, I hope is a
little story very presentable, and, above all, very probable, for it has
often been related. Amaze your curiosity with that, while waiting for some
revelation more piquant."

"I was very sure that this was a cruel pleasantry," said the notary, with
suppressed anger. "Nothing touches you, nothing; what must be done? tell
me, at least. I serve you like the meanest valet; for you I neglect my
dearest interests; I know no more what I do. I am a subject of laughter for
my clerks; my clients hesitate to leave me their business. I have parted
with some pious people who used to visit me. I dare not think what the
public say of this complete change in all my habits. You do not know, no,
you do not know the fatal consequences that my mad passion may have for me.
See, now, the proofs of my devotion, my sacrifices. Do you wish more?
speak! Is it gold you wish? The world thinks me richer than I am, but
I----"

"What would you have me to do with your gold?" said Cecily, interrupting
the notary, and shrugging her shoulders. "To reside in this chamber--what
good would the gold do me? You have small invention!"

"But it is not my fault if you are a prisoner. Does this room displease
you? Will you have it more magnificent? speak, command."

"For what purpose; once more, for what purpose? Oh! if I expected here an
adored being, I would have gold, silk, flowers, perfumes, all the wonders
of luxury; nothing could be too sumptuous, too enchanting."

"Well! these wonders of luxury; say a word, and----"

"For what purpose? What should I do with the frame without the picture? The
adored being, where is he, oh! my master?"

"It is true!" cried the notary, bitterly. "I am old. I am ugly. I can only
inspire disgust and aversion; she loads me with contempt; she scoffs at me,
and I have not the strength to drive her away. I have only strength to
suffer."

"Oh! the insupportable _cry-baby_; oh! the silly, with his complaints,"
cried Cecily, in a sardonic and contemptuous tone; he does nothing but
groan and lament, and has been for ten days shut up alone with a young
woman, in a deserted house."

"But this woman despises me--is armed--is locked!" cried the notary in a
rage.

"Well! overcome the disdain of this woman; cause the dagger to fall from
her hand; constrain her to open this door, which separates you from her;
and that not by brutal force, which would fail."

"And how then?"

"By the force of your passion."

"Passion! and how can I inspire it?"

"Stop, you are but a notary bound up with a sexton; you make me pity you.
Am I to teach you your part? You are ugly; be terrible, your ugliness will
be forgotten. You are old; be energetic, your age will be overlooked. You
are repulsive; be threatening. Since you cannot be the noble horse, who
neighs proudly in the midst of his wives, be not, at least, the stupid
camel, who bends the knee and crooks the back; be a tiger. An old tiger,
who roars in the midst of carnage, has also its beauty; his tigress answers
him from the depths of the desert."

At this language, which was not without a sort of bold natural eloquence,
Jacques Ferrard shuddered, at the savage and almost ferocious expression of
the face of Cecily, who, with heaving bosom, expanded nostril, haughty
mouth, fixed on him her large black and burning eyes.

Never had she appeared so lovely.

"Speak, speak again!" cried he, passionately; "you speak seriously this
time. Oh! if I could----"

"One can do what one wishes," said Cecily, abruptly.

"But----"

"But I tell you that if you wish, repulsive as you are----"

"Yes, I will do it! Try me, try me!" cried Jacques Ferrand, more and more
excited.

Cecily continued, approaching nearer, and fixing on the notary a
penetrating look, "For a woman loving a handsome youth would know," resumed
the Creole, "that she would have an exorbitant caprice to satisfy; that the
boys would look at their money if they had any, or, if they had none, to a
mean trick, while the old tiger----"

"Would regard nothing, do you understand? nothing. Fortune, honor, he would
know how to sacrifice all he would!"

"True," said Cecily, placing her charming fingers on the bony and hairy
hands of Jacques Ferrand, who, for the first time, touched the soft and
velvety skin of the Creole. He became still paler, and uttered a hoarse
sigh.

"How this woman would be beloved," added Cecily, "had she an enemy, whom,
pointing out to her old tiger, she would say strike, and--"

"And he would strike," cried Jacques Ferrand, endeavoring to approach the
ends of her fingers to his withered lips.

"True, the old tiger would strike," said the Creole, placing her hand
softly on his.

"If you would love me," cried the wretch, "I believe I would commit a
crime."

"Hold, master," said Cecily, suddenly withdrawing her hand; "in your turn
go away, go away, I know you no more; you do not appear to me so ugly now
as before; go away."

She retired quickly from the wicket. The detestable creature knew how to
give to her gestures and to her last words an accent of truth so
incredible--her look, at once surprised and annoyed, seemed to express so
naturally her spite at having for a moment forgotten the ugliness of
Jacques Ferrand--that he, transported with frenzied hope, cried, clinging
to the bars of the wicket, "Cecily, return, command, I will be your tiger!"

"No, no, master," said Cecily, retreating still further from the wicket;
"and to lay the devil who tempts me--I am going to sing a song of my
country. Master, do you hear? without, the wind redoubles, the tempest is
unchained; what a fine night for two lovers, seated side by side near a
sparkling fire!"

"Cecily, return!" cried Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.

"No, no, presently, when I can without danger; but the light from this lamp
hurts my eyes, a soft languor weighs down my eyelids. I do not know what
emotion agitates me; a demi-obscurity will please me more; one would say I
am in the twilight of pleasure."

And Cecily went toward the chimney, put out the lamp, took a guitar
suspended on the wall, and stirred the fire, whose blaze illuminated this
large room.

From the narrow wicket where he remained immovable, such was the picture
which Jacques Ferrand perceived. In the midst of the luminous horizon
formed by the undulating light of the fire, Cecily, in a position full of
languor, half reclining on a divan of pink satin, held a guitar, from
whence she drew some harmonious preludes.

The blazing hearth shed its rosy light on the Creole, who appeared
brilliantly illumined in the midst of the obscurity of the rest of the
apartment.

To complete the effect of this picture, let the reader recall to his mind
the mysterious and almost fantastic appearance of a room where the
firelight struggles with the long, dark shadows which tremble on the
ceiling and walls.

The storm redoubled its violence, its roaring could be heard from within.

While preluding on her guitar, Cecily fixed her magnetic glances on Jacques
Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not withdraw.

"Now, master," said the Creole, "listen to a song of my country; we do not
know how to make verses; we muse a simple recitative, without rhyme, and at
each pause we improvise a couplet appropriate to the subject; it is very
pastoral; it will please you, I am sure, master. This song is called the
'Loving Girl!' it is she who speaks."

And Cecily commenced a kind of recitative, much more accented by the
expression of the voice than by the modulations of the song. A few soft and
trembling chords served as an accompaniment. This was the song:

"Flowers, everywhere flowers,
My lover comes! The hope of happiness enervates and destroys.
Soften the light of day--pleasure seeks a lucid darkness.
To the fresh perfume of flowers my love prefers my warm breath,
The glare of day shall not wound his eyes, for I will keep them closed
by my kisses.
My angel, come! My heart beats; my blood burns!
Come, come, come!"

These words, chanted with as much ardor as if she had addressed an
invisible lover, were, thus to speak, translated by the Creole into a theme
of enchanting melody; her charming fingers drew from her guitar sounds full
of delicious harmony.

The animated face of Cecily, her veiled and moistened eyes constantly fixed
on those of Jacques Ferrand, expressed all the languor of the song. Words
of love; intoxicating music; inflamed looks; silence; night! all conspired
at this moment to disturb the reason of the notary. He cried, bewildered:

"Mercy! Cecily! mercy I I shall go wild. Hush! I die. Oh! that I were mad!"

"Listen, then, to the second couplet," said the Creole, preluding anew.

And she continued her passionate recitative:

"If my lover were there, and with his hand touched my soft neck, I should
shudder and die.
If he were there, and his hair touched my cheek, my cheek so pale would
become red.
My cheek so pale would be as fire.
Life of my soul, if you were there, my parched lips could not speak.
Life of my life, if you were there--expiring--I would ask no mercy.
Those whom I love as I love you, I kill.
My angel, come. Oh! come! My heart beats: my blood burns I
Come, come, come!"

If the Creole had accented the first stanza with a voluptuous languor, she
poured into these last words all the transports of Eros of old. As if the
music had been powerless to express her wild delirium, she threw the guitar
aside, and half rising from the couch and extending her arms toward the
door, she repeated, in an expiring, languishing voice,

"Oh! come, come, come!"

To paint the electric look with which she accompanied these words would he
impossible.

Jacques Ferrand uttered a terrible cry.

"O! death--death to him you love so much, to whom you have addressed these
words!" cried he, shaking the door in a transport of jealousy.

Active as a tigress, with one bound Cecily was at the wicket, and, as if
she had with difficulty dispelled her feigned transports, she said to
Jacques Ferrand, in a low, palpitating voice: "Well! I avow I did not wish
to return to the door. I am here in spite of myself; for I fear your words
spoken just now. _If you say strike--I will strike._ You love me well,
then?"

"Do you wish gold--all my gold?"

"No; I have enough."

"Have you an enemy? I'll kill him."

"I have no enemy."

"Will you be my wife? I will espouse you."

"I am married."

"But what do you wish, then! what _do_ you wish?"

"Prove to me that your passion for me is blind, furious, that you will
sacrifice everything for me!"

"All! yes, all! But how?"

"I do not know; but there was a moment when the glance of your eye
bewildered me. If now you give me some proof of your love, I do not know of
what I should be capable! Hasten! I am capricious; to-morrow the impression
of this hour will perhaps be effaced."

"But what proof can I give you on the moment?" cried the wretch. "It is an
atrocious torment! What proof? speak! What proof?"

"You are only a fool!" answered Cecily, retreating from the wicket with an
appearance of extreme irritation. "I am mistaken! I thought you capable of
energetic devotion! Good-night. It is a pity--"

"Cecily! oh! do not go--return. But what must I do? tell me, at least. Oh!
my senses wander. What must I do? what do?"

"Guess!"

"But, in fine--speak! what do you wish?" cried the notary, quite beside
himself.

"Guess."

"Explain--command."

"Ah! if you love me as passionately as you say, you will find the means.
Good-night."

"Cecily!"

"I am going to shut this wicket--instead of opening the door--"

"Mercy! listen--remain--I have found it," cried Jacques Ferrand, after a
moment's pause, with an expression of joy impossible to describe. The
wretch was seized with a vertigo. He lost all prudence, all reserve; the
instinct of moral preservation abandoned him.

"Well! this proof of your love?" said the Creole: who, having approached
the chimney, took hold of her knife, and returned slowly toward the wicket.

Then, without being seen by the notary, she assured herself of the action
of a small chain, one end of which was fastened to the door, the other to
the door-post.

"Listen," said Jacques Ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice; "listen. If I
place my honor, my fortune, my life, at your mercy--here--on the spot--will
you then believe I love you? This proof of an insane passion, will it
suffice?"

"Your honor, your fortune, your life? I do not comprehend."

"If I confide to you a secret which would place me on the scaffold?"

"You a criminal? You jest. And your austerity?"

"A lie."

"Your probity?"

"A lie."

"Your piety?"

"A lie."

"You pass for a saint, and you would be a demon! You are a boaster! No;
there is no man quite cunning enough, bold enough, thus to insinuate
himself into the confidence and respect of men. It would be a frightful
defiance cast in the face of society."

"I am this man! I have thrown this taunt, this defiance, in the teeth of
society!" cried the monster, in an access of frightful pride.

"Jacques! Jacques! do not speak thus," said Cecily. "You will make me mad!"

"My head for your love--do you wish it?"

"Oh! this is love, indeed!" cried Cecily. "Here--take my poniard; you
disarm me."

Jacques Ferrand took, through the wicket the dangerous weapon with
precaution, and threw it from him into the corridor.

"Verily--you believe me, then?" cried he, in transport.

"I believe you?" said the Creole, leaning with force her charming hands on
those of Jacques Ferrand. "Yes, I believe you; for I see again your look of
just now--that look which fascinated me. Your eyes sparkle with savage
ardor; Jacques, I love your eyes!"

"Cecily!"

"You should speak the truth."

"I speak the truth! Oh! you shall see."

"Your countenance is lowering. Your expression formidable. Hold, you are as
fearful and beautiful as a mad tiger. But you speak the truth, do you not?"

"I have committed crimes, I tell you."

"So much the better, if by their avowal you prove your love."

"And if I tell you all?"

"I grant all; for if you have this blind confidence in me--do you see,
Jacques--it will no longer be the ideal lover of the song I call. It is to
you, my tiger, you, that I shall say come--come--come."

"Oh, you will be mine. I shall be your tiger," cried he; "and then, if you
will, you shall dishonor me--my head shall fall. My honor, my life, all is
yours now,"

"Your honor?"

"My honor! Listen; ten years since an infant was confided to my care, and
two hundred thousand francs for its support; I have abandoned this child. I
spread the report the child was dead, and I kept the money."

Alex Ross: Winner of the Guardian first book award
Stuart Evers: They made a real difference to Britain's literary culture, and it would be a terrible shame if they got forgotten in the age of Amazon

Congratulations to Alex Ross, winner of the Guardian first book award
One of only seven copies of The Tales of Beedle the Bard handwritten by JK Rowling is unveiled at the New York Public Library as the mass market edition goes on sale around the world

The arcane first book that's also a bestseller

Congratulations to Alex Ross, the deserving winner of the 2008 Guardian first book award. There's been a massed chorus of appreciation for this work already, so I shan't add much, except to say that what I particular enjoy about it is the connections it makes between musics and musicians. I'm the sort of person who goes to a lot of concerts, plays the violin, has some kind of grasp of how the history of music works – but frankly, it's all a bit fragmented and vague, since I have never studied the history of music properly and I can't really do the textbook musicological stuff. As I was reading Ross's book, it dawned on me that most of my knowledge of 20th-century music was based on reading the occasional Grove essay – and mostly, reading programme notes. What Ross's book does brilliantly is knit all these odd and isolated bits of knowledge together, so that everything starts to synthesise rather wonderfully, and you get to know what Sibelius thought of Stravinsky, say (not much – "stillborn affectations" was the phrase employed); or that Alban Berg was lionised by George Gershwin; or that David Bowie referenced Philip Glass and vice versa. That, and then the material is set against its historical and political background, such that this is a book for history-lovers as much as music-lovers.

By the way, there's a pungent criticism of the new-music scene by Hans Eisler in 1928, as quoted by Ross. How much have things changed, I wonder?

"The big music festivals have become downright stock exchanges, where the value of the works is assessed and contracts for the coming season are settled. Yet all this noise is carried out in the vacuum of a bell glass, so to speak, so that not a sound can be heard outside. An empty officiousness celebrates orgies of inbreeding, while there is a complete lack of interest or participation of a public of any kind."

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