CHAPTER XLIII. THE LETTER.
Some minutes before the entrance of Mdlle. de Cardoville into thegreenhouse, Rodin had been introduced by Faringhea into the presenceof the prince, who, still under the influence of the burning excitementinto which he had been plunged by the words of the half-caste, did notappear to perceive the Jesuit. The latter, surprised at the animatedexpression of Djalma's countenance, and his almost frantic air, made asign of interrogation to Faringhea, who answered him privately in thefollowing symbolical manner:--After laying his forefinger on his headand heart, he pointed to the fire burning in the chimney, signifyingby his pantomimic action that the head and heart of Djalma were bothin flames. No doubt Rodin understood him, for an imperceptible smile ofsatisfaction played upon his wan lips; then he said aloud to Faringhea,"I wish to be alone with the prince. Let down the shade and see that weare not interrupted." The half-caste bowed, and touched a springnear the sheet of plate-glass, which slid into the wall as the blinddescended; then, again bowing, Faringhea left the room. It was shortlyafter that Mdlle. de Cardoville and Florine entered the greenhouse,which was now only separated from the room in which was Djalma, by thetransparent thickness of a shade of white silk, embroidered with largecolored birds. The noise of the door, which Faringhea closed as he wentout, seemed to recall the young Indian to himself; his features, thoughstill animated, recovered their habitual expression of mildness andgentleness; he started, drew his hand across his brow, looked aroundhim, as if waking up from a deep reverie, and then, advancing towardsRodin, with an air as respectful as confused, he said to him, usingthe expression commonly applied to old men in his country, "Pardon me,father." Still following the customs of his nation, so full of deferencetowards age, he took Rodin's hand to raise it to his lips, but theJesuit drew back a step, and refused his homage.
"For what do you ask pardon, my dear prince?" said he to Djalma.
"When you entered, I was in a dream; I did not come to meet you. Oncemore, pardon me, father!"
"Once more, I forgive you with all my heart, my dear prince. But let ushave some talk. Pray resume your place on the couch, and your pipe, too,if you like it."
But Djalma, instead of adopting the suggestion, and throwing himselfon the divan, according to his custom, insisted on seating himself in achair, notwithstanding all the persuasions of "the Old Man with the GoodHeart," as he always called the Jesuit.
"Really, your politeness troubles me, my dear prince," said Rodin; "youare here at home in India; at least, we wish you to think so."
"Many things remind me of my country," said Djalma, in a mild gravetone. "Your goodness reminds me of my father, and of him who was afather to me," added the Indian, as he thought of Marshal Simon, whosearrival in Paris had been purposely concealed from him.
After a moment's silence, he resumed in a tone full of affectionatewarmth, as he stretched out his hand to Rodin, "You are come, and I amhappy!"
"I understand your joy, my dear prince, for I come to take you out ofprison--to open your cage for you. I had begged you to submit to a briefseclusion, entirely for your own interest."
"Can I go out to-morrow?"
"To-day, my dear prince, if you please."
The young Indian reflected for a moment, and then resumed, "I must havefriends, since I am here in a palace that does not belong to me."
"Certainly you have friends--excellent friends," answered Rodin. Atthese words, Djalma's countenance seemed to acquire fresh beauty. Themost noble sentiments were expressed in his fine features; his largeblack eyes became slightly humid, and, after another interval ofsilence, he rose and said to Rodin with emotion: "Come!"
"Whither, dear prince?" said the other, much surprised.
"To thank my friends. I have waited three days. It is long."
"Permit me dear prince--I have much to tell you on this subject--pleaseto be seated."
Djalma resumed his seat with docility. Rodin continued: "It is true thatyou have friends; or rather, you have a friend. Friends are rare."
"What are you?"
"Well, then, you have two friends, my dear prince--myself, whom youknow, and one other, whom you do not know, and who desires to remainunknown to you."
"Why?"
"Why?" answered Rodin, after a moment's embarrassment. "Because thehappiness he feels in giving you these proofs of his friendship and evenhis own tranquillity, depend upon preserving this mystery."
"Why should there be concealment when we do good?"
"Sometimes, to conceal the good we do, my dear prince."
"I profit by this friendship; why should he conceal himself from one?"These repeated questions of the young Indian appeared to puzzle Rodin,who, however, replied: "I have told you, my dear prince, that yoursecret friend would perhaps have his tranquillity compromised, if hewere known."
"If he were known--as my friend?"
"Exactly so, dear prince."
The countenance of Djalma immediately assumed an appearance of sorrowfuldignity; he raised his head proudly, and said in a stern and haughtyvoice: "Since this friend hides himself from me, he must either beashamed of me, or there is reason for me to be ashamed of him. I onlyaccept hospitality from those who are worthy of me, and who think meworthy of them. I leave this house." So saying, Djalma rose with suchan air of determination, that Rodin exclaimed: "Listen to me, my dearprince. Allow me to tell you, that your petulance and touchiness arealmost incredible. Though we have endeavored to remind you of yourbeautiful country, we are here in Europe, in France, in the centre ofParis. This consideration may perhaps a little modify your views. Listento me, I conjure you."
Notwithstanding his complete ignorance of certain socialconventionalisms, Djalma had too much good sense and uprightness, notto appreciate reason, when it appeared reasonable. The words of Rodincalmed him. With that ingenuous modesty, with which natures full ofstrength and generosity are almost always endowed, he answered mildly:"You are right, father. I am no longer in my own country. Here thecustoms are different. I will reflect upon it."
Notwithstanding his craft and suppleness, Rodin sometimes found himselfperplexed by the wild and unforseen ideas of the young Indian. Thus hesaw, to his great surprise, that Djalma now remained pensive for someminutes, after which he resumed in a calm but firm tone: "I have obeyedyou, father: I have reflected."
"Well, my dear prince?"
"In no country in the world, under no pretext, should a man of honorconceal his friendship for another man of honor."
"But suppose there should be danger in avowing this friendship?" saidRodin, very uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. Djalma eyedthe Jesuit with contemptuous astonishment, and made no reply.
"I understand your silence, my dear prince: a brave man ought to defydanger. True; but if it should be you that the danger threatens, incase this friendship were discovered, would not your man of honor beexcusable, even praiseworthy, to persist in remaining unknown?"
"I accept nothing from a friend, who thinks me capable of denying himfrom cowardice."
"Dear prince--listen to me."
"Adieu, father."
"Yet reflect!"
"I have said it," replied Djalma, in an abrupt and almost sovereigntone, as he walked towards the door.
"But suppose a woman were concerned," cried Rodin, driven to extremity,and hastening after the young Indian, for he really feared that Djalmamight rush from the house, and thus overthrow all his projects.
At the last words of Rodin the Indian stopped abruptly. "A woman!" saidhe, with a start, and turning red. "A woman is concerned?"
"Why, yes! suppose it were a woman," resumed Rodin, "would you not thenunderstand her reserve, and the secrecy with which she is obliged tosurround the marks of affection she wishes to give you?"
"A woman!" repeated Djalma, in a trembling voice, clasping his hands inadoration; and his beautiful countenance was expressive of the deepestemotion. "A woman!" said he again. "A Parisian?"
"Yes, my dear prince, as you force me to th
is indiscretion, I willconfess to you that your friend is a real Parisian--a noble matron,endowed with the highest virtues--whose age alone merits all yourrespect."
"She is very old, then?" cried poor Djalma, whose charming dream wasthus abruptly dispelled.
"She may be a few years older than I am," answered Rodin, with anironical smile, expecting to see the young man express a sort of comicaldisappointment or angry regret.
But it was not so. To the passionate enthusiasm of love, which had fora moment lighted up the prince's features, there now succeeded arespectful and touching expression. He looked at Rodin with emotion, andsaid to him in a broken voice: "This woman, is then, a mother to me?"
It is impossible to describe with what a pious, melancholy, and tendercharm the Indian uttered the word mother.
"You have it, my dear prince; this respectable lady wishes to be amother to you. But I may not reveal to you the cause of the affectionshe feels for you. Only, believe me--this affection is sincere, and thecause honorable. If I do not tell you her secret, it is that, with us,the secrets of women, young or old, are equally sacred."
"That is right, and I will respect it. Without seeing her, I will loveher--as I love God, without seeing Him."
"And now, my dear prince, let me tell you what are the intentions ofyour maternal friend. This house will remain at your disposal, as longas you like it; French servants, a carriage, and horses, will be at yourorders; the charges of your housekeeping will be paid for you. Then, asthe son of a king should live royalty, I have left in the next room acasket containing five hundred Louis; every month a similar sum willbe provided: if it should not be found sufficient for your littleamusements, you will tell me, and it shall be augmented."
At a movement of Djalma, Rodin hastened to add: "I must tell you atonce, my dear prince, that your delicacy may be quite at ease. Firstof all, you may accept anything from a mother; next, as in about threemonths you will come into possession of an immense inheritance, it willbe easy for you, if you feel the obligation a burden--and the sumcannot exceed, at the most, four or five thousand Louis--to repay theseadvances. Spare nothing, then, but satisfy all your fancies. You areexpected to appear in the great world of Paris, in a style becoming theson of a king who was called the Father of the Generous. So once again Iconjure you not to be restrained by a false delicacy; if this sum shouldnot be sufficient--"
"I will ask for more. My mother is right; the son of a monarch ought tolive royally."
Such was the answer of the Indian, made with perfect simplicity, andwithout any appearance of astonishment at these magnificent offers. Thiswas natural. Djalma would have done for others what they were doingfor him, for the traditions of the prodigal magnificence and splendidhospitality of Indian princes are well known. Djalma had been as movedas grateful, on hearing that a woman loved him with maternal affection.As for the luxury with which she nought to surround him, he acceptedit without astonishment and without scruple. This resignation, again,somewhat disconcerted Rodin, who had prepared many excellent argumentsto persuade the Indian to accept his offers.
"Well, then, it's all agreed, my dear prince," resumed the Jesuit. "Now,as you must see the world, it's just as well to enter by the best door,as we say. One of the friends of your maternal protectress, the Count deMontbron, an old nobleman of the greatest experience, and belongingto the first society, will introduce you in some of the best houses inParis."
"Will you not introduce me, father?"
"Alas! my dear prince, look at me. Tell me, if you think I am fittedfor such an office. No! no; I live alone and retired from the world.And then," added Rodin, after a short silence, fixing a penetrating,attentive, and curious look upon the prince, as if he would havesubjected him to a sort of experiment by what follows; "and then, yousee, M. de Montbron will be better able than I should, in the world youare about to enter, to enlighten you as to the snares that will belaid for you. For if you have friends, you have also enemies--cowardlyenemies, as you know, who have abused your confidence in an infamousmanner, and have made sport of you. And as, unfortunately, their poweris equal to their wickedness, it would perhaps be more prudent in you totry to avoid them--to fly, instead of resisting them openly."
At the remembrance of his enemies, at the thought of flying from them,Djalma trembled in every limb; his features became of a lurid paleness;his eyes wide open, so that the pupil was encircled with white, sparkledwith lurid fire; never had scorn, hatred, and the desire of vengeance,expressed themselves so terribly on a human face. His upper lip, bloodred, was curled convulsively, exposing a row of small, white, and closeset teeth, and giving to his countenance lately so charming, an air ofsuch animal ferocity, that Rodin started from his seat, and exclaimed:"What is the matter, prince? You frighten me."
Djalma did not answer. Half leaning forward, with his hands clinched inrage, he seemed to cling to one of the arms of the chair, for fearof yielding to a burst of terrific fury. At this moment, the ambermouthpiece of his pipe rolled, by chance, under one of his feet; theviolent tension, which contracted all the muscles of the young Indian,was so powerful, and notwithstanding his youth and his light figure, hewas endowed with such vigor, that with one abrupt stamp he powdered todust the piece of amber, in spite of its extreme hardness.
"In the name of heaven, what is the matter, prince?" cried Rodin.
"Thus would I crush my cowardly enemies!" exclaimed Djalma, withmenacing and excited look. Then, as if these words had brought his rageto a climax, he bounded from his seat, and, with haggard eyes, strodeabout the room for some seconds in all directions, as if he soughtfor some weapon, and uttered from time to time a hoarse cry, which heendeavored to stifle by thrusting his clinched fist against his mouth,whilst his jaws moved convulsively. It was the impotent rage of a wildbeast, thirsting for blood. Yet, in all this, the young Indian preserveda great and savage beauty; it was evident that these instincts ofsanguinary ardor and blind intrepidity, now excited to this pitch byhorror of treachery and cowardice, when applied to war, or to thosegigantic Indian hunts, which are even more bloody than a battle, mustmake of Djalma what he really was a hero.
Rodin admired, with deep and ominous joy, the fiery impetuosityof passion in the young Indian, for, under various conceivablecircumstances, the effect must be terrible. Suddenly, to the Jesuit'sgreat surprise, the tempest was appeased. Djalma's fury was calmed thusinstantaneously, because refection showed him how vain it was: ashamedof his childish violence, he cast down his eyes. His countenanceremained pale and gloomy; and, with a cold tranquillity, far moreformidable than the violence to which he had yielded, he said to Rodin:"Father, you will this day lead me to meet my enemies."
"In what end, my dear prince? What would you do?"
"Kill the cowards!"
"Kill them! you must not think of it."
"Faringhea will aid me."
"Remember, you are not on the banks of the Ganges, and here one does notkill an enemy like a hunted tiger."
"One fights with a loyal enemy, but one kills a traitor like an accurseddog," replied Djalma, with as much conviction as tranquillity.
"Ah, prince, whose father was the Father of the Generous," said Rodin,in a grave voice; "what pleasure can you find in striking down creaturesas cowardly as they are wicked?"
"To destroy what is dangerous, is a duty."
"So prince, you seek for revenge."
"I do not revenge myself on a serpent," said the Indian, with haughtybitterness; "I crush it."
"But, my dear prince, here we cannot get rid of our enemies in thatmanner. If we have cause of complaint--"
"Women and children complain," said Djalma, interrupting Rodin: "menstrike."
"Still on the banks of the Ganges, my dear prince. Here society takesyour cause into its own hands, examines, judges, and if there be goodreason, punishes."
"In my own quarrel, I am both judge and executioner."
"Pray listen to me; you have escaped the odious snares of your enemies,have you not?--Well! suppo
se it were thanks to the devotion of thevenerable woman who has for you the tenderness of a mother, and thatshe were to ask you to forgive them--she, who saved you from theirhands--what would you do then?"
The Indian hung his head, and was silent. Profiting by his hesitation,Rodin continued: "I might say to you that I know your enemies, but thatin the dread of seeing you commit some terrible imprudence, I wouldconceal their names from you forever. But no! I swear to you, that ifthe respectable person, who loves you as her son, should find it eitherright or useful that I should tell you their names, I will do so--untilshe has pronounced, I must be silent."
Djalma looked at Rodin with a dark and wrathful air. At this moment,Faringhea entered, and said to Rodin: "A man with a letter, not findingyou at home, has been sent on here. Am I to receive it? He says it comesfrom the Abbe d'Aigrigny.
"Certainly," answered Rodin. "That is," he added, "with the prince'spermission."
Djalma nodded in reply; Faringhea went out.
"You will excuse what I have done, dear prince. I expected this morninga very important letter. As it was late in coming to hand, I ordered itto be sent on."
A few minutes after, Faringhea returned with the letter, which hedelivered to Rodin--and the half-caste again withdrew.