The Jew Part 64

"I know your plans, dear lady," replied Samuel laughing. "Let us show our cards and be friends. You have speculated--own it--on Mathilde's phthisis. You have even wished that her physician would confirm your hopes. Bitter deception! And during this time you have endeavoured to ensnare Henri, and you have made an easy conquest. Now, listen to me, madame. My daughter cannot be happy with him. I cede him to you. Take him. Try and persuade him to demand a divorce; the initiative will never come from Mathilde. You will have me for an accomplice. I give him up freely. Do what you wish, provided you rid me of him. Do you now understand the cause of my solicitude for you?"

Madame Wtorkowska was stupefied. She stood still a moment. Then her joy overcame her. She threw her arms around Samuel's neck, and kissed him several times; but, as he did not enjoy the caresses of elderly matrons, he freed himself from her embraces, and said:--

"Twenty or twenty-five years ago this exuberance of affection on your part would have charmed me. To-day it is too late. I am too old. What do you think of my proposition?"

"Dear benefactor," replied she, wiping the perspiration from her face with her handkerchief, "I cannot reply without consulting Emusia. In a few moments my rooms will be empty; she will see you herself. Wait here."

"With pleasure, madame; but I will light a cigar if you will permit it."

"Ten if you wish," replied the mother, closing the door on Samuel.

There were still some visitors in the _salon_. She made a secret sign to her daughter, and a few moments afterward Muse complained of a headache. Her admirers regretfully took their hats and left the house.

The particulars of the interview were soon learned, and her delight was equal to that of her mother.

Nevertheless, before going to meet Samuel, she a.s.sumed a calm and dignified mien.

"Your mother has no doubt spoken of my proposition. Let us discuss, then, without restraint," said Mathilde's father.

"But, monsieur, the subject is so delicate, so embarra.s.sing, so painful."

"Painful, mademoiselle, in what way? Not for you; nor for me, I think.

Delicate. Yes! Let us treat it with delicacy."

"I like Mathilde so much," said Muse.

"Then you will give her a real proof of your friendship by delivering her of a husband who does not suit her, who will suit you, and who loves you."

Muse tried to appear very much embarra.s.sed.

"Dear mademoiselle," said Samuel, "we can dispense with acting; you can gain nothing by it. I ask of you entire frankness. If you wish to succeed, you must act. Make Henri believe that Sofronof is a dangerous rival. I will tell everywhere that the colonel wishes to marry you at any price. Henri will be in despair; then push him to the end of the wall; exact a divorce, and advise him to take Mann for an intermediary between him and me."

"That is admirably planned," cried Madame Wtorkowska.

"Yes, the plan is excellent," added Muse, putting aside all embarra.s.sment. "I am sure I shall play my part to the satisfaction of its author."

"Well, I will be obliged to you if you do not make the play long. I am anxious for the end."

"I will do my best."

"I do not doubt that you will accomplish wonders," said Samuel, gallantly kissing her hand. "And now, mademoiselle, do not fail to tell me if I can be in any way useful to you at any time."

He then took his leave. Madame Wtorkowska conducted him to the antechamber, and then returned to throw herself in her daughter's arms.

She laughed and wept by turns for very joy. Muse was more quiet, but no less delighted, and she pa.s.sed part of the night making plans for the morrow.

The news soon spread through their circle of acquaintances that Mademoiselle Wtorkowska was soon to marry Colonel Sofronof. At first Henri shrugged his shoulders; but he heard it from so many different sources, with details added by this one and that one, that he grew uneasy, and, wishing to hear the rumour denied, hastened to Muse.

She received him coldly, and was so reticent on the subject that it seemed as if she were on her guard, and afraid of committing some indiscretion.

Segel thought that there must be some truth in the rumour. He became furiously angry, and the ingenious coquette soon brought about a quarrel. He took his hat, and she did not detain him; but at the door he paused, then returned, threw his hat on the floor, and seated himself again, filled with wrath.

A violent scene ensued. Her mother appeared as the _deus ex machina_.

She reproached Henri with compromising her daughter, and called him selfish and heartless. The comedy waxed pathetic. Finally, Henri had to choose between a dismissal or a divorce. Vanquished and subdued, he promised to take at once the steps required by them.

Muse then feigned to shed tears, and he tried to console her. Her mother disappeared, leaving the lovers alone. Segel obtained some kisses, and advice to take Monsieur Mann as an intermediary, and he promised to see Mann at once. Mann, well instructed, at first resisted, moralized, and deplored the situation, but ended by consenting.

And yet, when Henri returned home, he experienced a strange feeling of repentance for his haste. Mathilde presented herself to his mind as calm, sweet, and pure; Muse, on the contrary, under a menacing aspect.

The one he did not love, but esteemed; the other he loved, but did not esteem. He loved her, if a pa.s.sion which was entirely sensual merits that name.

He saw himself in the future bound to a new companion, full of coquetry and schemes, and endowed with an unendurable mother-in-law. He saw the luxury with which he would have to surround them, and the slavery to which he would be doomed. He shivered with dread at the very idea.

Unhappily for him, it was now too late to draw back.

Mathilde looked for an outburst the next morning at breakfast; but none came. Henri was unusually reserved, almost timid; he looked at his watch often, and under pretext of important business soon left the house.

Mann came to dinner, and informed Segel of the happy result of his negotiations. At table the couple, already morally divorced, seemed ill at ease. Mathilde taciturn, Henri almost mute, let Mann and two other guests do the talking. At dessert came Samuel, who amused the company for some time with his witty sayings. On leaving the table he took his daughter by the hand to lead her to the garden. He insisted on her putting on her hat, saying the sun was yet warm; then he conducted her to the street, where a carriage awaited them.

"My dear child," said the father, "we will take a short ride. It will do you good, for the air is fresh and agreeable this evening." A half-hour after, the carriage stopped at the door of her father's house.

"Here," said he, embracing Mathilde, "is your home. You will not return to Segel's. I have had your old room prepared for you."

The gordian knot was thus severed with the greatest simplicity. The young woman saw no more of her former husband. Aided by the English governess, she occupied herself with household cares. With what secret satisfaction she renewed her former life! Her springtime revived. But she was at times a prey to deep anxiety, for Jacob had not written since his letter of farewell, and all traces of him were lost.

The revolution, contrary to all expectations, took on larger proportions daily.

Owing to the a.s.sumed names which the chiefs and soldiers of the insurrection bore, all steps to ascertain Jacob's whereabouts proved fruitless.

Mathilde was almost in despair, yet she seemed to hear a voice say to her:--

"G.o.d will give him back to you."

From that time she believed in G.o.d.

Each day she questioned her father, who, without giving her great hopes, encouraged her not to despair. Weeks and months pa.s.sed. At last, early one morning, he entered her chamber, and, in spite of his endeavours to conceal his feelings, appeared much agitated.

"Prepare to leave to-day," said he. "Jacob is at Cracow, wounded, but not dangerously."

Mathilde gave a great cry, and fainted, but soon came to herself, and on the morrow was with her father at the bedside of her beloved.

EPILOGUE.

In the year eighteen hundred and sixty-five a numerous company were reunited at the Albergo della Grotta, where we will finish, as we have begun, our veracious history.

To-day the company a.s.sumed a more cheerful aspect than at the first meeting. It was composed only of persons whose appearance denoted wealth or competence. Here were no unfortunates who fainted from want, like poor Ivas, and on whose faces could be seen traces of misery and care.

In the privileged corner of the grotto, near the murmuring fountain, a sumptuous table was set for the most distinguished travellers.

Instinctively Firpo, the host, gave their t.i.tles in advance to Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse. The choicest wines, the freshest fruits, and a tablecloth whose snowy whiteness was only excelled by the brilliancy of the polished silver knives, forks, and spoons, were for them. The other tables were already occupied by the guests, here singly, there in groups. All belonged to the cla.s.s usually called aristocratic, who lead an easy and luxurious life.