Clotilde; or, The secret of three generations

Prologue

ON a beautiful day in the autumn of 1846, a post-chaise, drawn by four horses, rolled along the ro^d from Montelimart to Avignon with such rapidity that it scarcely seemed to touch the ground. From time to time the occupant of the carriage protruded his head, covered with black hair, from the door, and in an agitated voice endeavored to urge to still greater rapidity this unusual speed.

Wherever the road approached the Rhone and allowed him to perceive its various windings, he turned anxiously toward it, seeking to discern, in the spaces between the hills which stretch along the borders of the river or beyond the trees which overhang its waters, a column of floating smoke, the usual companion of a steamboat. Then, after having convinced himself that there was as yet no indication of its approach, he heaved a profound sigh of relief.

It was four in the afternoon. Until the last stage our friend had seen nothing, but on leaving the village of Sorgues, an elbow formed by the road as it followed the course of the Rhone allowed the impatient traveller to see in the distance the smoke he seemed to dread. The black pipe, followed by its gray cloud, soon appeared more distinctly among the poplars and willows, looking like one of their own trunks in motion. There was no doubt that

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in another quarter of an hour the boat would arrive at Avignon.

At this sight the occupant of the post-chaise uttered a cry of disappointment and anger. Then, as if desirous to run a race with this active antagonist, he leaned for the last time from the door, and said to the postilion, “Five louis for you if we arrive at the same time as that boat l” These words produced a magic effect. The breathless automaton and his thin quadrupeds displayed a vigor in traversing the few remaining miles which could not have been expected. Thoughtlessly, the traveller had just brought into competition the two great powers of modern society — steam and money.

From that time the carriage rolled with such haste over the road which still intervened that it drew up triumphantly on the quay of the Rhone at the same moment in which the steamboat reached its landing-place and drew to its moorings. This is the time when the porters, stagedrivers and hotel-boys standing on the wharf practice their proverbial extortions on travelers. There are ten minutes of noise and confusion, during which the passenger who remembers his Horace can do nothing better than imitate its justem et tenacem, and seat himself peaceably on his baggage to await the end of the squall.

During these ten minutes our unknown friend, still in his carriage, which he had stopped a short distance from the boat, awakened his valet, who wTas sleeping heavily^ and said hurriedly to him,

“Jacques, you know the Viscount Charles de Varni?”

“Yes, sir.”

“ Does he know you ?”

“ I scarcely think so.”

“Very well. Mingle in the crowd which surrounds the boat ; in less than five minutes you will see M. de Varni

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'eave it. His first words will be to inquire the way to M. Calixte Ermel, notary at Avignon ; try to prevent this name being heard ; before he has time to repeat it make yourself seen by him ; speak louder than any one else, and offer to guide him to M. Ermel’s house.”

“ But I do not know it.”

“ So much the better ; it will take you only longer to find it : on the way, moreover, propose to show him the curiosities of the place, the monuments, the museum — ”

“ But if there are none ?”

“There must be; however, if you are afraid of the role of cicerone, lead M. de Yarni through several streets, and then tell him that you have made a mistake — that it was not M. Calixte Ermel whom you knew, but another notary, whom you may name hap-hazard; it is important that I should have a half hour’s advantage of him, and see M. Ermel before Charles can reach there. Do you understand ?”

The servant made a sign in the affirmative, and his master continued :

“Any pretext will do, provided you consume time : that is the object; I leave you the choice of the means. The city is large, evening draws near, you have an imagination. I have confidence in you, and merely tell you to meet me in an hour at the Hotel d’ Europe, whence we will depart immediately. Not a word now, for the passengers are beginning to scatter.” Then turning to the postilion, who was still in the saddle, and showing him the gate called La Ligne,

“Enter by this gate,” said he; “follow the interior of the ramparts, and take me to M. Calixte Ermel, notary, Bonasterie St.”

The postilion obeyed ; the toll-gatherers, who reverence a post-chaise, allowed the carriage tti pass without a word. Some seconds later it stopped in a quiet street before a

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handsome house, the principal door of which was surmounted by a tablet of gray marble, whereon was printed in large letters, Calixte Ermel, Notary. Bills posted on the door and front of the house, advertising sales, auctions and bankruptcies, further announced his profession.

The stranger did not stop to examine these details. He hastily paid the postilion, ordered him to drive to the Hotel d’Europe, entered the house, inquired for the notary, and mounted the stairs four steps at a time.

He opened a door on the first floor, and entered a room in which time had destroyed the original colors of the hangings and lace. He crossed this office, a large gloomy room, where two or three clerks were surreptitiously reading the “Count of Monte Christo,” concealing the book behind a pile of papers, and then stepped over the threshold of the room where the notary was sitting alone.

Calixte Ermel was about fifty-five years of age, but he looked almost seventy, his countenance was so careworn, his cheeks so wrinkled and his hair so gray. This appearance of premature age gave him an air of sadness rare in men of his calling. He was dressed in a full suit of black, which seemed the habiliments of mourning rather than a badge of his profession. On scanning his face more attentively a trace of youth might still be found in h'is cheerful expression and the dimples around his mouth, and it was easy to see that grief and care had aged him, but that he was still young in heart and mind.

His room was like all the notaries’ offices in the country. Its occupant was seated in a leathern arm-chair before a large table covered with papers. On each side of the chimney, to which his back was turned, were walnut cases of equal size, containing pigeon-holes, painted green, and each furnished with a c&pper ring, variously marked mortgages, sales, leases, wills, marriage contracts, etc. A bookcase

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opposite, which corresponded with these desks, was filled with massive folios white with dust. The only object calculated to attract attention was a black silk curtain, which covered nearly the whole side of the wall opposite the window, and seemed to conceal a piece of furniture or some valuable painting.

On entering the office of the notary the stranger took off his travelling-cap and threw back his overcoat, and he then appeared a man of about thirty or thirty-five years of age, handsome, but with something sinister about his face. His brown eyes, swarthy complexion and black hair would perhaps have accorded better with the cape of a Corsican fisher than with the foppish costume he wore. The expression of his face was manly, almost stern, and there was something frightful in his smile, although it displayed a set of the whitest teeth under red and rather sensual lips.

The moment he appeared before M. Ermel the latter regarded him with an anxious attention which seemed actually a presentiment. Evidently, at the sight of the new-comer long-buried and painful recollections wer<3 gradually awakening within him, but he was not allowed time to recall them.

“ Master Calixte Ermel,” said the stranger, hastily, “ I am Simon d’Arrioules. You knew my father : do you remember him ?”

The notary trembled ; his pale face became suddenly suffused with crimson, which as quickly faded, leaving an expression of terror.

“ Simon d’Arrioules ! you ! ” exclaimed he in a tremulous voice ; then added, “ And may I ask to what I owe the honor of seeing you here ?”

“ Oh ! can you not guess ?”

“Not yet,” replied M. Ermel, who feigned ignorance, although he really knew the caus'e of his guest’s appearance.

“ What ! you see in your house a man named D’ Arrioules, and you do not know that another man, named Yarni, must be near ! Ah, M. Ermel, I believed you less forgetful or more perspicacious !”

“ It is then true !” murmured the distressed notary.

“ Yes/’ replied Simon ; “in half an hour, perhaps less, Charles de Yarni will be with you, in the place I now occupy.”

“ And what will he do ?”

“You are his notary, you are his friend ; he comes to ask advice and money.”

“ But a long time has passed since M. de Yarni has had his foot in this city; he no longer has acquaintances here.; his funds, which he left in my hands, I had deposited in Florence, Rome, Switzerland, Madrid — wherever he was led by his errant fancy and artistic tastes, which appeared to guard him from his doom. I thought — I hoped never to see him again ! ”

“Yes, but there came a time when I recalled to my mind that* I had a task to accomplish, and knew there was here a man to assist me : that man is yourself ; the time is the present ! ”

“ The money — the advice then ?”

“Oh, M. Ermel! between partners the cards are all open, and I pretend to hide nothing from you : the money must be confided to me, whom he believes his best friend ; he will seek counsel as to whether he shall marry a low girl whom he thinks my sister. In plain language, the money is for his ruin, the advice for his misery.”

“But how have matters reached this point?” asked the notary, in surprise mingled with fear.

“ Thus : you remember the death of the Yiscount de Yarni, Charles’ father?”

“Do I remember it!” exclaimed M. Ermel, his pallor

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increasing. “Do I remember that event which has left such a sad and ineffaceable impression on my life ? Ah, twenty-five years have passed since then, and it still seems but like yesterday. M. de Yarni was then living in the castle of Maleraygues, in Cevennes; all the neighboring gentry were to meet at a great fox-chase, and as a friend of the family, I was invited too. I was preparing to go that very evening to Maleraygues, and I was busy with my preparations in the room we are now in, when — ”

“When a man with an energetic and sombre countenance entered,” interrupted Simon, “ and said to you, ‘ I am Jerome d’Arrioules; you must present me to M. de Yarni, and I will join in the chase/ ”

“ Ah ! just so,” stammered the notary, greatly moved, and seeming to evoke all the phantoms of the past. “ I then felt that Jerome had some evil design. Alas ! did I not know with what an inheritance of hatred and vengeance we were both burdened ? I plead, I supplicated, I fell on my knees to him : he was inflexible ; and to my questions, as to my prayers, he answered only the words, ‘You must introduce me at Maleraygues ; I command you in the name of the Yiscountess Clotilde de Yarni !’ Then I tried to point out to Jerome all there was monstrous and criminal in this murderous succession, this bloody compact, which after so many tears, so much bloodshed, still bound us. I told him that generations and years had passed since that frightful period ; that the crimes which we were to avenge had been already expiated ; that we ought now to leave in reconciliation and forgetfulness the three families bound by an infernal oath, the Yarnis to be victims, the D’Arrioules to be tormentors, and the Ermels to be instruments. I told him all this with sobs and supplications. I besought hfm in the name of our common humanity to forgive the past. I plead with him as we plead with the man who

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holds our life or death in his power; for one instant I thought myself saved — ”

“But,” again interrupted Simon d’Arrioules, “he then took you by the arm, as I now do, and leading you, as I do, toward this black curtain, he drew the silken cord, and the curtain raising, as at this moment, exposed to view the portrait of Clotilde de Varni.”

Whilst speaking, M. d’Arrioules, suiting the action to the words, had drawn the notary toward the large curtain which covered the end of the room, and raised it with violence : both trembled at the sight of the object before them.

It was a full-length, life-sized portrait of a female of about twenty years of age, dressed in the style of the eighteenth century. A slight touch of powder on her light brown hair subdued the dazzling whiteness of her skin and the incomparable beauty of her neck and bosom. Perhaps the complexion might have been taxed with a slight pallor, and the perfect oval of the face with being a degree too thm, but these almost imperceptible defects seemed rather signs of a hidden grief than natural imperfections, and lent a sort of mysterious fascination to her ideal beauty. Her dark blue eyes, of that changing azure whose liquid and transparent tint reveals such depth of character and passion, were so striking in expression that they riveted the gaze. It was one of those portraits which, whether by chance or the intention of the painter, seemed to follow you with its eyes at whatever point of sight you placed yourself. This illusion gave this exquisite figure something annoying yet irresistible.

The frame had a coat of arms on it, and bore the following date :

HYfiEES, OCTOBER 10, 1756.

Simon d’Arrioules and M. Ermel remained silent a mo-

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ment before this magnificent painting; then Simon, turning to the notary, said to him, in a determined manner which gave a significance to each word,

“It is she ! Yes, it is thus that my grandfather saw her, thus that my father pictured her to me, thus that I have dreamed of her; it is the same Clotilde de Varni whose unsatisfied spirit still haunts that cursed family ! I knew that this portrait was here ; I knew that her terrible will was written in her burning gaze, in this indelible date ; I knew that byr invoking this image, as my father had done, I would make you bow your head and obey my orders.”

“Ah! you are pitiless as Jerome was,” replied M. Calixte Ermel — “ pitiless to the son, as he was to the father. You are right ; he finally overcame my resistance, and the following day — Oh ! it is frightful ! On merely seeing that event in my thoughts I again feel myself seized with the vertigo which then attacked me, and caused me to pass so many feverish days and sleepless nights !”

“ Yes, the following day,” said Simon, insensible to his emotion, “you presented my father to the Viscount de Varni as one of your friends, a jovial companion and an intrepid hunter. He was received, entertained at Maleraygues, and three days after, at the great hunt which took place at the Combes d’Escanourges, a shot fired from behind an oak thicket took effect in the viscount’s temple, and killed him instantly. To his widow, to the other hunters— in fact, to the world — this death was the result of imprudence. You alone recognized in it the hand of the guest you had introduced. Am I not right? Does my memory play me false?”

“No! your memory is as faithful as your hatred,” replied the notary, with sombre irony. “ But do you know all that followed that fatal day ? The widow of the Viscount de Varni became insane with grief, and died at the expiration 2 * B

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of a few months. Charles, her only son, the same whom you now pursue, was then a child of five or six years of age. An orphan, the last of a family on which misery and death have never wearied of exercising their power, he was confided to my care. I became his tutor. In undertaking the management of his fortune, I took measures to exile this child from a country where he was doomed alike by past and future. I sold all his estates and invested the proceeds, which have increased under my care. It was my wish that Charles should have here neither tie nor interest, nor a foot of ground. As soon as his education was completed I inspired him with a taste for travelling, and, in spite of my affection for him, I was never so happy as when mountains and seas separated us. Ah ! to save this young man was thenceforth my only task, my one hope on earth! Listen ! I did ■ yet more. I loved and was beloved by a young girl beautiful and pure as an angel. I was accepted by her parents; we were on the eve of our betrothal; the union promised me nothing but happiness. But on my return from Maleraygues, stained with the blood which, though not shed by myself, I felt I was in some sort responsible for, I judged and condemned myself. I felt that the joys of love, the pleasure of the domestic fireside, were not made for a man forced to bequeath such a frightful heri- » tage ; and if I was unable to escape my destiny, it should at least die with me. I hoped that by leading a lonely life, by allowing my name to perish, I should turn the fatality from Charles. I was determined to dispute with the future the last act of this long drama. I broke my engagement on some trifling pretext. I saw the tears of my betrothed without growing pale ; I closed my heart as we close the grave with the stone. At thirty I was an old man, in those few short days I felt twenty years pass over me. My hair became gray, my cheeks sunken, my body bent. I

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put on this mourning, which I have never laid aside. It seemed to me that I had but a few steps more to take before leaving this world, in which I could only pray, weep and suffer. Ah ! who could have foretold that God would permit me to live only that my sacrifice might be useless ? who could have foreseen that this horrible task, of . which I wished to be the last inheritor, would again fall to me ? — to me who could not die !”

“ Well, I am less generous than you,” replied Simon.

“ This heritage of vengeance has had a very different effect on me. In my life there has passed one day, one hour, which has swallowed and absorbed all the rest. Ten years have gone by since that day, and each incident, every detail, every word, is still graven on my memory. It was at Baveno, on the banks of Lake Major. My father had retired there after the hunting expedition at Maleraygues, and never wished to return to France. Feeling that his end was approaching, he called me to his bedside and related this history to me. ‘Simon/ added he, ‘you will soon be the only possessor of this secret, the only remaining person charged with this mission. Do not fail, you will need the energy of two, for M. Ermel has allowed himself to be overcome by a. foolish pity, and when the time comes for you to claim his assistance you will find rather an opponent than an aid in him. It matters not; # our work must be accomplished, and this third generation dealt with as the two others have been. This fidelity to our oath is henceforth the only honor of our family. Claude d’Arrioules, my father, kept the promise he made to Madame de Varni on her deathbed. I have kept mine, given to my father ; it is now your turn, my son. Swear to me that you will be as inexorable as we have been/ I swore, and at that moment a new spirit seemed to take possession of me, and urge me to the accomplishment of my oath. It

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was the robe of Nessus. It suddenly bound my shoulders, smothering, burning and consuming all of youth, kindness and compassion still left me. When I had closed my father’s eyes and followed his remains to the village cemetery, I arose from the side of his grave utterly changed. I was so identified with the part I had to play that I could scarcely tell whether I would obey the voice of the past, or gratify my own hatred. I was alone in the world, for my mother had been dead for years ; for, after all,” continued Simon, bitterly, “ the evil we do does not spare us, and we are like the blade which breaks and dulls itself in cutting. I was now only bound to life by the mysterious compact to which I had pledged myself. I immediately applied myself to the work, and chance aided me. One day, while looking over the register of the only inn in Baveno, I read the name of Charles de Varni among the arrivals of the preceding evening. He was then beginning his travels, and in the very outset his evil genius threw him in my way. The next day we met on the lake. I represented myself to Charles as a Frenchman, fond of travelling like himself, and happy to find a fellow-countryman. You know how quickly you become acquainted on such occasions. A few days later we made arrangements to travel over Italy together. Both isolated, both without family, the similarity of our positions increased * our intimacy. Moreover, the better to please M. de Yarni, I concealed my rough nature ; I adopted his tastes ; I fell into his habits, and I chose the subjects of conversation he preferred. At the expiration of a month we were inseparable ; after that we rarely lost sight of each other, and I repeat it, he now thinks me his best friend.”

“But why this feint of friendship?” exclaimed Calixte Ermel.

“ Because I wish to observe him, to make myself thoroughly acquainted with him, to know where to strike that

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I might strike more effectually. Can you think that my hatred calls for nothing more than the blood of Charles de^ Varni? Ah, were I so easily satisfied, I could soon have put an end to him ! In our excursions across the Alps, on the seashore, in the depths of the Calabrian forests, what trace would have remained of my crime? Who would have accused or suspected me ? All could have been ended with a shot or the blow of a dagger. My father decided on that means for want of better, but it seemed to me that the spirit of Clotilde de Varni demanded of me a more exquisite, a more refined revenge. To gradually prepare his unhappiness, to study his character in order to find a weapon in each foible or each good quality, to make all that makes life desirable — hope, friendship, love — smile upon him, then of all these elements of happiness to bring about some terrible disaster, — this was what I desired.”

‘‘Well,” murmured the notary, fascinated in spite of himself, “what have you learned in these ten yea&s of intimacy with the man you design for your victim ?”

“Now, I know him better than he knows himself,” replied Simon. “ The dreamer, the artist and the nobleman are combined in him ; he is extravagant, romantic and proud ; no greater misery can exist for him than to be betrayed in friendship and love, particularly if the former ruins him and the latter renders him ridiculous. Now, in fifteen days he will be both ruined and ridiculous.”

“How so?”

“Time presses,” answered M. d’Arrioules, looking at his watch ; “ Charles has already had time to be here, and he must not meet me, he must not know that I have been here.”

“Be easy,” said M. Ermel, sadly; “if any person knocked at the door, I would let you out into my garden, which opens into a quiet alley.”

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“Well, then, I will continue. Two years since, while Charles was in the East, I went to the springs of Aix. There was nothing talked of at the time of my arrival but the humiliation which had just been inflicted on a young woman of notorious character, named Esther Goujon. This girl, beautiful as an angel and wicked as a demon, had had the audacity to appear two successive days among the guests in the public parlor dressed in a degree of luxury amounting to impertinence. She had been publicly driven out, and, to render her expulsion even more disgraceful, the women, merciless as they always are, had pretended to burn sandal-wood in her path, saying aloud that they wished to purify the air contaminated by this beautiful sinner. I knew that Esther had fled to Chambery ; I followed her there. No viper turning under the foot which crushed it ever displayed more anger and venom ! ‘ Do you wish,’ said

I, ‘ to repay to the world which outrages you blow for blow, affront for affront?’ ‘Yes,’ she answered, writhing with rage; ‘could I but avenge myself, could I but injure some one — ’ and she tore the lace of her handkerchief to shreds in her clenched hands. ‘ Will you, then, ally yourself with me, as the accomplice of a criminal, as the slave of a master ?’ ‘ Yes.’ ‘ Will you assist me in the execution of a project which will place the fortune and fate of a man at your mercy ?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘ Are you capable of everything to attain this end ?’ ‘ Of everything.’ ‘ Even of feigning for some

time to be a virtuous girl ?’ ‘ If necessary, I will try,’ said

she, with a diabolical smile parting her pale lips. Such were the preliminaries of our compact : it was immediately concluded. I installed Esther in one of those delightful chalets which surround Interlaken. I made her wear mourning, and passed her as my sister, the widow of a Sicilian nobleman, the Marquis Belperani. As soon as our mutual position was well established in the country, I went

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to meet Charles de Varni, who was then returning by way of Venice. The first embraces over, I said to him in a tone of affectionate confidence, ‘Charles, I have a secret to reveal which my friendship has hitherto concealed from you: I have a sister.’ ‘And why have you left me ignorant of it ?’ asked he, in surprise. ‘ Because my sister was married to an old man as jealous as Othello, and I dreaded what must have followed had I presented you to my dear Octavia.’ ‘ What is that ?’ ‘ She was forty years younger than her husband. You are romantic ; our intimacy would have authorized you to become her escort ; that would have been a source of danger and grief to you both.’ ‘And now?’

‘ Now, this danger no longer exists ; her old husband, the Marquis Belperani, died in Sicily two months ago. Octavia is free.’ ‘Your sister is very beautiful?’ asked Charles, whose imagination was already excited. ‘ You will see her,’ I replied, coldly.”

“Ah, I begin to understand,” interrupted the notary, who listened to Simon’s recital as if the victim of a frightful dream.

“Patience! I shall soon have finished,” continued M. d’Arrioules. “ A few7 weeks later we returned to Interlaken, and I presented the Viscount de Varni, my best friend, to the pretended Marquise de Belperani. I had already given Esther Goujon a lesson, but wdiat is our miserable knowledge compared to the genius of these wonderful women ? Those few weeks had sufficed to metamorphose Esther completely. Pale, sad, veiled in mourning habiliments, she wras so poetical, so beautiful, that I, whose heart is triply shielded, I sometimes trembled at her side. As for Charles, he was soon deeply in love : I pretended not to notice it ; and I had then but to admire the infernal art v7ith which Esther played her part. By turns coquettish or reserved, submissive or haughty, sad or lively, irresistible in her

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gayety as in her reserve, she took a year to complete her task, leading her lover through every phase of anxiety and hope, always repulsing but never discouraging him. This by-play brought us up to this summer. At last, one evening, after a long sentimental conversation, during which Esther had displayed more charms than would have turned the head of any reasonable man, Charles de Varni, taking me aside, confided to me that he loved my sister, and that he would be the happiest of men if he could obtain her hand. ‘ I know it,’ I replied, with the air of a Grand Master Templar ; ‘ if I have not proposed this alliance before you gave me your confidence, it is because there is an obstacle to it : Octavia is poor — her old husband left'her nothing — I am myself without fortune, and — ’ ‘That is of no consequence! I am rich, and if I owe you the happiness I dream of, I shall scarcely think myself out of debt in sharing with you.’ ‘The language of romance,’ I replied, gravely. ‘ But there is a way of arranging it all. I have had offered to me the direction of a new railroad to be laid from Palermo to Messina; I only need the necessary funds. In associating with me you will make my fortune and double your own, for I know for a certainty that the profits will be two to one in this undertaking !’ ‘ From this mo-