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Stories of Modern French Novels

M >> Modern French Novels >> Stories of Modern French Novels



THE LOCK AND KEY LIBRARY

THE MOST INTERESTING STORIES OF ALL NATIONS

Edited by Julian Hawthorne


FRENCH NOVELS



Table of Contents


Victor Cherbuliez

Count Kostia


Paul Bourget

Andre Cornelis


Anonymous

The Last of the Costellos

Lady Betty's Indiscretion



Victor Cherbuliez


Count Kostia


I


At the beginning of the summer of 1850, a Russian nobleman, Count
Kostia Petrovitch Leminof, had the misfortune to lose his wife
suddenly, and in the flower of her beauty. She was his junior by
twelve years. This cruel loss, for which he was totally
unprepared, threw him into a state of profound melancholy; and some
months later, seeking to mitigate his grief by the distractions of
travel, he left his domains near Moscow, never intending to return.
Accompanied by his twin children, ten years of age, a priest who
had served them as tutor, and a serf named Ivan, he repaired to
Odessa, and then took passage on a merchant ship for Martinique.
Disembarking at St. Pierre, he took lodgings in a remote part of
the suburbs. The profound solitude which reigned there did not at
first bring the consolation he had sought. It was not enough that
he had left his native country, he would have changed the planet
itself; and he complained that nature everywhere was too much
alike. No locality seemed to him sufficiently a stranger to his
experience, and in the deserted places, where the desperate
restlessness of his heart impelled him, he imagined the
reappearance of the obtrusive witnesses of his past joys, and of
the misfortune by which they were suddenly terminated.

He had lived a year in Martinique when the yellow fever carried off
one of his children. By a singular reaction in his vigorous
temperament, it was about this time that his somber melancholy gave
way to a bitter and sarcastic gayety, more in harmony with his
nature. From his early youth he had had a taste for jocularity, a
mocking turn of spirit, seasoned by that ironical grace of manner
peculiar to the great Moscovite nobleman, and resulting from the
constant habit of trifling with men and events. His recovery did
not, however, restore the agreeable manners which in former times
had distinguished him in his intercourse with the world. Suffering
had brought him a leaven of misanthropy, which he did not take the
trouble of disguising; his voice had lost its caressing notes and
had become rude and abrupt; his actions were brusque, and his smile
scornful. Sometimes his bearing gave evidence of a haughty will
which, tyrannized over by events, sought to avenge itself upon
mankind.

Terrible, however, as he sometimes was to those who surrounded him,
Count Kostia was yet a civilized devil. So, after a stay of three
years under tropical skies, he began to sigh for old Europe, and
one fine day saw him disembark upon the quays of Lisbon. He
crossed Portugal, Spain, the south of France and Switzerland. At
Basle, he learned that on the borders of the Rhine, between Coblenz
and Bonn, in a situation quite isolated, an old castle was for
sale. To this place he hurried and bought the antique walls and
the lands which belonged to them, without discussing the price and
without making a detailed examination of the property. The bargain
concluded, he made some hasty and indispensable repairs on one of
the buildings which composed a part of his dilapidated manor, and
which claimed the imposing name of the fortress of Geierfels, and
at once installed himself therein, hoping to pass the rest of his
life in peaceable and studious seclusion.

Count Kostia was gifted with a quick and ready intellect, which he
had strengthened by study. He had always been passionately fond of
historical research, but above everything, knew and wished to know,
only that which the English call "the matter of fact." He
professed a cold scorn for generalities, and heartily abandoned
them to "dreamers;" he laughed at all abstract theories and at the
ingenuous minds which take them seriously. He held that all system
was but logical infatuation; that the only pardonable follies were
those which were frankly avowed; and that only a pedant could
clothe his imagination in geometrical theories. In general,
pedantry to his eyes was the least excusable of vices; he
understood it to be the pretension of tracing back phenomena to
first causes, "as if," said he, "there were any 'first causes,' or
chance admitted of calculation!" This did not prevent him however
from expending much logic to demonstrate that there was no such
thing as logic, either in nature or in man.

These are inconsistencies for which skeptics never dream of
reproaching themselves; they pass their lives in reasoning against
reason. In short, Count Kostia respected nothing but facts, and
believed that, properly viewed, there was nothing else, and that
the universe, considered as an entirety, was but a collection of
contradictory accidents.

A member of the Historical and Antiquarian Society of Moscow, he
had once published important memoirs upon Slavonic antiquities and
upon some of the disputed questions in the history of the Lower
Empire. Hardly was he installed at Geierfels, before he occupied
himself in fitting up his library, but a few volumes of which he
had carried to Martinique. He at once ordered from Moscow most of
the books he had left, and also sent large orders to German
bookstores. When his "seraglio," as he called it, was nearly
complete, he again became absorbed in study, and particularly in
that of the Greek historians of the Byzantine Empire, of whose
collective works he had the good fortune to possess the Louvre
edition in thirty-six volumes folio; and he soon formed the
ambitious project of writing a complete history of that Empire from
Constantine the Great to the taking of Constantinople. So absorbed
did he become in this great design, that he scarcely ate or drank;
but the further he advanced in his researches the more he became
dismayed by the magnitude of the enterprise, and he conceived the
idea of procuring an intelligent assistant, upon whom he could
shift a part of the task. As he proposed to write his voluminous
work in French, it was in France this living instrument which he
needed must be sought, and he therefore broached the project to Dr.
Lerins, one of his old acquaintances in Paris. "For nearly three
years," he wrote to the Doctor, "I have dwelt in a veritable owl's
nest, and I should be much obliged to you if you would procure for
me a young night bird, who could endure life two or three years in
such an ugly hole without dying of ennui. Understand me, I must
have a secretary who is not contented with writing a fine hand and
knowing French a little better than I do: I wish him to be a
consummate philologist, and a hellenist of the first order,--one of
those men who ought to be met with in Paris,--born to belong to the
Institute, but so dependent upon circumstances as to make that
position impossible. If you succeed in finding this priceless
being, I will give him the best room in my castle and a salary of
twelve thousand francs. I stipulate that he shall not be a fool.
As to character, I say nothing about it; he will do me the favor to
have such as will suit me."

M. Lerins was intimate with a young man from Lorraine named Gilbert
Saville, a savant of great merit, who had left Nancy several years
before to seek his fortune in Paris. At the age of twenty-seven he
had presented, in a competition opened by the Academy of
Inscriptions, an essay on the Etruscan language, which took the
prize and was unanimously declared a masterpiece of sagacious
erudition. He had hoped for some time that this first success,
which had gained him renown among learned men, would aid him in
obtaining some lucrative position and rescue him from the
precarious situation in which he found himself. Nothing resulted
from it. His merits compelled esteem; the charm of his frank and
courteous manner won him universal good will; his friends were
numerous; he was well received and caressed; he even obtained,
without seeking it, the entree to more than one salon, where he met
men of standing who could be useful to him and assure him a
successful future. All this however amounted to nothing, and no
position was offered. What worked most to his prejudice was an
independence of opinion and character which was a part of his
nature. Only to look at him was to know that such a man could not
be tied down, and the only language which this able philologist
could not learn was the jargon of society. Add to this that
Gilbert had a speculative, dreamy temperament and the pride and
indolence which are its accessories. To bestir himself and to
importune were torture to him. A promise made to him could be
forgotten with impunity, for he was not the man to revive it; and
besides, as he never complained himself, no one was disposed to
complain for him. In short, among those who had been desirous of
protecting and advancing him, it was said: "What need has he of our
assistance? Such remarkable talent will make its own way." Others
thought, without expressing it: "Let us be guarded, this is another
Letronne,--once 'foot in the stirrup,' God only knows where he will
stop." Others said and thought: "This young man is charming,--he
is so discreet,--not like such and such a person." All those cited
as not "discreet," were provided for.

The difficulties of his life had rendered Gilbert serious and
reflective, but they had neither hardened his heart nor quenched
his imagination. He was too wise to revolt against his fate, but
determined to be superior to it. "Thou art all thou canst be,"
said he to himself; "but do not flatter thyself that thou hast
reached the measure of my aspirations."

After having read M. Leminof's letter, Dr. Lerins went in search of
Gilbert. He described Count Kostia to him according to his remote
recollections, but he asked him, before deciding, to weigh the
matter deliberately. After quitting his young friend he muttered
to himself--

"After all, I hope he will refuse. He would be too much of a prize
for that boyard. Of his very Muscovite face, I remember only an
enormous pair of eyebrows,--the loftiest and bushiest I ever saw,
and perhaps there is nothing more of him! There are men who are
all in the eyebrows!"


II


A week later Gilbert was on his way to Geierfels. At Cologne he
embarked on board a steamboat to go up the Rhine ten or twelve
leagues beyond Bonn. Towards evening, a thick fog settled down
upon the river and its banks, and it became necessary to anchor
during the night. This mischance rendered Gilbert melancholy,
finding in it, as he did, an image of his life. He too had a
current to stem, and more than once a sad and somber fog had fallen
and obscured his course.

In the morning the weather cleared; they weighed anchor, and at two
o'clock in the afternoon, Gilbert disembarked at a station two
leagues from Geierfels. He was in no haste to arrive, and even
though "born with a ready-made consolation for anything," as M.
Lerins sometimes reproachfully said to him, he dreaded the moment
when his prison doors should close behind him, and he was disposed
to enjoy yet a few hours of his dear liberty. "We are about to
part," said he to himself; "let us at least take time to say
farewell."

Instead of hiring a carriage to transport himself and his effects,
he consigned his trunk to a porter, who engaged to forward it to
him the next day, and took his way on foot, carrying under his arm
a little valise, and promising himself not to hurry. An hour later
he quitted the main road, and stopped to refresh himself at an
humble inn situated upon a hillock covered with pine trees. Dinner
was served to him under an arbor,--his repast consisted of a slice
of smoked ham and an omelette au cerfeuil, which he washed down
with a little good claret. This feast a la Jean Jacques appeared
to him delicious, flavored as it was by that "freedom of the inn"
which was dearer to the author of the Confessions than even the
freedom of the press.

When he had finished eating, Gilbert ordered a cup of coffee, or
rather of that black beverage called coffee in Germany. He was
hardly able to drink it, and he remembered with longing the
delicious Mocha prepared by the hands of Madame Lerins; and this
set him thinking of that amiable woman and her husband.

Gilbert's reverie soon took another turn. From the bank where he
was sitting, he saw the Rhine, the tow path which wound along by
the side of its grayish waters, and nearer to him the great white
road where, at intervals, heavy wagons and post chaises raised
clouds of dust. This dusty road soon absorbed all of his
attention. It seemed to him as if it cast tender glances upon him,
as if it called him and said: "Follow me; we will go together to
distant countries; we will keep the same step night and day and
never weary; we will traverse rivers and mountains, and every
morning we will have a new horizon. Come, I wait for thee, give me
thy heart. I am the faithful friend of vagabonds, I am the divine
mistress of those bold and strong hearts which look upon life as an
adventure."

Gilbert was not the man to dream long. He became himself again,
rose to his feet, and shook off the vision. "Up to this hour I
thought myself rational; but it appears I am so no longer.
Forward, then,--courage, let us take our staff and on to
Geierfels!"

As he entered the kitchen of the inn to pay his bill, he found the
landlord there busy in bathing a child's face from which the blood
streamed profusely. During this operation, the child cried, and
the landlord swore. At this moment his wife came in.

"What has happened to Wilhelm?" she asked.

"What has happened?" replied he angrily. "It happened that when
Monsieur Stephane was riding on horseback on the road by the mill,
this child walked before him with his pigs. Monsieur Stephane's
horse snorted, and Monsieur Stephane, who could hardly hold him,
said to the child: 'Now then, little idiot, do you think my horse
was made to swallow the dust your pigs raise? Draw aside, drive
them into the brush, and give me the road.' 'Take to the woods
yourself,' answered the child, 'the path is only a few steps off.'
At this Monsieur Stephane got angry, and as the child began to
laugh, he rushed upon him and cut him in the face with his whip.
God-a-mercy! let him come back,--this little master,--and I'll
teach him how to behave himself. I mean to tie him to a tree, one
of these days, and break a dozen fagots of green sticks over his
back."

"Ah take care what thou sayest, my old Peter," replied his wife
with a frightened air. "If thou'dst touch the little man thou'dst
get thyself into a bad business."

"Who is this Monsieur Stephane?" inquired Gilbert.

The landlord, recalled to prudence by the warning of his wife,
answered dryly: "Stephane is Stephane, pryers are pryers, and sheep
are put into the world to be sheared."

Thus repulsed, poor Gilbert paid five or six times its value for
his frugal repast, muttering as he departed: "I don't like this
Stephane; is it on his account that I've just been imposed upon?
Is it my fault that he carries matters with such a high hand?"

Gilbert descended the little hill, and retook the main road; it
pleased him no more, for he knew too well where it was leading him.
He inquired how much further it was to Geierfels, and was told that
by fast walking he would reach that place within an hour, whereupon
he slackened his pace. He was certainly in no haste to get there.

Gilbert was but a half a league from the castle when, upon his
right, a little out of his road, he perceived a pretty fountain
which partly veiled a natural grotto. A path led to it, and this
path had for Gilbert an irresistible attraction. He seated himself
upon the margin of the fountain, resting his feet upon a mossy
stone. This ought to be his last halt, for night was approaching.
Under the influence of the bubbling waters, Gilbert resumed his
dreamy soliloquy, but his meditations were presently interrupted by
the sound of a horse's feet which clattered over the path. Raising
his eyes, he saw coming towards him, mounted upon a large chestnut
horse, a young man of about sixteen, whose pale thin face was
relieved by an abundance of magnificent bright brown hair, which
fell in curls upon his shoulders. He was small but admirably
formed, and his features, although noble and regular, awakened in
Gilbert more of surprise than sympathy: their expression was hard,
sullen, and sad, and upon this beautiful face not any of the graces
of youth appeared.

The young cavalier came straight towards him, and when at a step or
two from the fountain, he called out in German, with an imperious
voice: "My horse is thirsty,--make room for me, my good man!"

Gilbert did not stir.

"You take a very lofty tone, my little friend," replied he in the
same language, which he understood very well, but pronounced like
the devil,--I mean like a Frenchman.

"My tall friend, how much do you charge for your lessons in
etiquette?" answered the young man in the same language, imitating
Gilbert's pronunciation. Then he added in French, with
irreproachable purity of accent: "Come, I can't wait, move
quicker," and he began cutting the air with his riding-whip.

"M. Stephane," said Gilbert, who had not forgotten the adventure of
the little Wilhelm, "your whip will get you into trouble some of
these days."

"Who gave you the right to know my name?" cried the young man,
raising his head haughtily.

"The name is already notorious through the country," retorted
Gilbert, "and you have written it in very legible characters upon
the cheek of a little pig-driver."

Stephane, for it was he, reddened with anger and raised his whip
with a threatening air; but with a blow of his stick Gilbert sent
it flying into the bottom of a ditch, twenty paces distant.

When he looked at the young man again, he repented of what he had
done, for his expression was terrible to behold; his pallor became
livid; all the muscles of his face contracted, and his body was
agitated by convulsive movements; in vain he tried to speak, his
voice died upon his lips, and reason seemed deserting him. He tore
off one of his gloves, and tried to throw it in Gilbert's face, but
it fell from his trembling hand. For an instant he looked with a
scornful and reproachful glance at that slender hand whose weakness
he cursed; then tears gushed in abundance from his eyes, he hung
his head over the neck of his horse, and in a choking voice
murmured:

"For the love of God, if you do not wish me to die of rage, give me
back,--give me back--"

He could not finish; but Gilbert had already run to the ditch, and
having picked up the riding-whip, as well as the glove, returned
them to him. Stephane, without looking at him, answered by a
slight inclination of the head, but kept his eyes fixed upon the
pommel of his saddle,--evidently striving to recover his self-
possession. Gilbert, pitying his state of mind, turned to leave;
but at the moment he stooped to pick up his portmanteau and cane,
the youth, with a well-directed blow of his whip, struck off his
hat, which rolled into the ditch, and when Gilbert, surprised and
indignant, was about to throw himself upon the young traitor, he
had already pushed his horse to a full gallop, and in the twinkling
of an eye he reached the main road, where he disappeared in a
whirlwind of dust. Gilbert was much more affected by this
adventure than his philosophy should have permitted. He took up
his journey again with a feeling of depression, and haunted by the
pale, distorted face of the youth. "This excess of despair," said
he to himself, "indicates a proud and passionate character; but the
perfidy with which he repaid my generosity is the offspring of a
soul ignoble and depraved." And striking his forehead, he
continued: "It just occurs to me, judging from his name, that this
young man may be Count Kostia's son. Ah! what an amiable companion
I shall have to cheer my captivity! M. Leminof ought to have
forewarned me. It was an article which should have been included
in the contract."

Gilbert felt his heart sink; he saw himself already condemned to
defend his dignity incessantly against the caprices and insolence
of a badly-trained child,--the prospect was not attractive!
Plunged in these melancholy reflections, he lost his way, having
passed the place where he should have quitted the main road to
ascend the steep hill of which the castle formed the crown. By
good luck he met a peasant who put him again upon the right track.
The night had already fallen when he entered the court of the vast
building. This great assemblage of incongruous structures appeared
to him but a somber mass whose weight was crushing him. He could
only distinguish one or two projecting towers whose pointed roofs
stood out in profile against the starlit sky. While seeking to
make out his position, several huge dogs rushed upon him, and would
have torn him to pieces if, at the noise of their barking, a tall
stiff valet had not made his appearance with a lantern in hand.
Gilbert having given him his name, was requested to follow him.
They crossed a terrace, forced to turn aside at every step by the
dogs who growled fiercely,--apparently regretting "these amiable
hosts" the supper of which they had been deprived. Following his
guide Gilbert found himself upon a little winding staircase, which
they ascended to the third story, where the valet, opening an
arched door, introduced him into a large circular apartment where a
bed with a canopy had been prepared. "This is your room," said he
curtly, and having lighted two candles and placed them upon the
round table, he left the room, and did not return for half an hour,
when he re-appeared bearing a tray laden with a samovar, a venison
pie, and some cold fowl. Gilbert ate with a good appetite and felt
great satisfaction in finding that he had any at all. "My foolish
reveries," thought he, "have not spoiled my stomach at least."

Gilbert was still at the table when the valet re-entered and handed
him a note from the Count, which ran thus:

"M. Leminoff bids M. Gilbert Saville welcome. He will give himself
the pleasure of calling upon him to-morrow morning."

"To-morrow we shall commence the serious business of life," said
Gilbert to himself, as he enjoyed a cup of exquisite green tea,
"and I'm very glad of it, for I don't approve of the use I make of
my leisure. I have passed all this day reasoning upon myself,
dissecting my mind and heart,--a most foolish pastime, beyond a
doubt"--then drawing from his pocket a note-book, he wrote therein
these words: "Forget thyself, forget thyself, forget thyself,"
imitating the philosopher Kant, who being inconsolable at the loss
of an old servant named Lamp, wrote in his journal: "Remember to
forget Lamp."

He remained some moments standing in the embrasure of the window
gazing upon the celestial vault which shone with a thousand fires,
and then threw himself upon his bed. His sleep was not tranquil;
Stephane appeared to him in his dreams, and at one time he thought
he saw him kneeling before him, his face bathed in tears; but when
he approached to console him, the child drew a poignard from his
bosom and stabbed him to the heart.

Gilbert awakened with a start, and had some difficulty in getting
to sleep again.


III


A great pleasure was in store for Gilbert at his awakening; he rose
as the sun began to appear, and having dressed, hastened to the
window to see what view it offered.

The rotunda which had been assigned to him for a lodging formed the
entire upper story of a turret which flanked one of the angles of
the castle. This turret, and a great square tower situated at the
other extremity of the same front, commanded a view of the north,
and from this side the rock descended perpendicularly, forming an
imposing precipice of three hundred feet. When Gilbert's first
glance plunged into the abyss where a bluish vapor floated, which
the rising sun pierced with its golden arrows, the spectacle
transported him. To have a precipice under his window, was a
novelty which gave him infinite joy. The precipice was his domain,
his property, and his eyes took possession of it. He could not
cease gazing at the steep, wall-like rocks, the sides of which were
cut by transverse belts of brush-wood and dwarf trees. It was long
since he had experienced such a lively sensation, and he felt that
if his heart was old, his senses were entirely new. The fact is
that at this moment, Gilbert, the grave philosopher, was as happy
as a child, and in listening to the solemn murmur of the Rhine,
with which mingled the croaking of a raven and the shrill cries of
the martins, who with restless wings grazed the abutments of the
ancient turret, he persuaded himself that the river raised its
voice to salute him, that the birds were serenading him, and that
all nature celebrated a fete of which he was the hero.

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