Part 38

Only a single paragraph of Ludovic's long letter, but that one written in his clumsy hand, informed his master that he had met one evening, and in the condition of a man who hides himself, poor Grillo, his former jailer, who had been imprisoned and then released. This man had asked him for a sequin out of charity, and Ludovic had given him four in the name of the duchess. The former jailers, recently set free, twelve in number, were preparing to give a knife-thrust reception (a trattamento di coltellate) to the new jailers, their successors, if ever they managed to meet them outside the citadel. Grillo had said that almost every day there was a serenade at the fortress, that Mademoiselle Clélia Conti was very pale, often ill, and other such things. This ridiculous word caused Ludovic to receive, courier after courier, the order to return to Locarno. He returned, and the details he gave by word of mouth were even sadder for Fabrice.

One may judge of the affection Fabrice showed toward the poor duchess; he would have suffered a thousand deaths rather than pronounce the name of Clélia Conti in her presence. The duchess abhorred Parma; and, for Fabrice, everything that recalled that city was at once sublime and touching.

The duchess had forgotten her vengeance less than ever; she had been so happy before the incident of Giletti's death! and now, what was her fate! she lived in expectation of a dreadful event, of which she would have been careful not to say a word to Fabrice, she who formerly, at the time of her arrangement with Ferrante, thought to give Fabrice such pleasure by telling him that one day he would be avenged.

Some notion may now be formed of the pleasantness of Fabrice's conversations with the duchess: a gloomy silence almost always reigned between them. To increase the charms of their relations, the duchess had yielded to the temptation of playing a nasty trick on this over-loved nephew. The count wrote to her almost every day; apparently he sent couriers as in the time of their love, for his letters always bore the postmark of some small town in Switzerland. The poor man tortured his mind to avoid speaking too openly of his tenderness, and to construct amusing letters, which were scarce so much as glanced at with a distracted eye. What, alas! is the fidelity of an esteemed lover worth, when one's heart is pierced by the coldness of him one prefers to him?

In two months the duchess answered him only once, and that was to urge him to sound the ground with the princess, and to see whether, despite the insolence of the fireworks, a letter from the duchess would be received with pleasure. The letter he was to present, if he judged it fitting, asked for the office of honorary knight to the princess, vacant of late, for the Marquis Crescenzi, and wished it granted him in consideration of his marriage. The duchess's letter was a masterpiece: it was the most tender and best-expressed respect; not a single word had been admitted into that courtly style whose consequences, even the most remote, could fail to be agreeable to the princess. Thus the reply breathed a tender friendship, tormented by absence.

"My son and I," the princess wrote her, "have not had a tolerable evening since your so abrupt departure. Does my dear duchess no longer remember that it was she who had me given a consultative voice in the nomination of the officers of my household? Does she then think herself obliged to give me reasons for the marquis's post, as if her expressed wish were not for me the first of reasons? The marquis shall have the place, if I can do anything; and there shall always be one in my heart, and the first, for my amiable duchess. My son uses absolutely the same expressions, a little strong however in the mouth of a big lad of twenty-one, and asks you for mineral specimens from the Orta valley, neighbor to Belgirate. You may address your letters, which I hope will be frequent, to the count, who still detests you and whom I love above all for those sentiments. The archbishop too has remained faithful to you. We all hope to see you again one day: remember that it must be. The Marquise Ghisleri, my governess, is preparing to leave this world for a better: the poor woman has done me much harm; she displeases me still in going off untimely; her illness makes me think of the name I would once have put with so much pleasure in her place, if only I could have obtained that sacrifice of independence from that unique woman who, in fleeing us, carried away with her all the joy of my little court, etc."

Thus it was with the consciousness of having sought, as far as in her lay, to hasten the marriage that drove Fabrice to despair, that the duchess saw him every day. They would sometimes spend four or five hours sailing together on the lake, without exchanging a single word. The kindness was entire and perfect on Fabrice's side; but he thought of other things, and his naive and simple soul supplied him with nothing to say. The duchess saw it, and that was her torment.

We forgot to relate in its place that the duchess had taken a house at Belgirate, a charming village, and which fulfills all that its name promises (see a fine bend of the lake). From the French window of her salon, the duchess could step into her boat. She had taken a very ordinary one, for which four rowers would have sufficed; she engaged twelve, and arranged to have a man from each of the villages around Belgirate. The third or fourth time she found herself in the middle of the lake with all these well-chosen men, she had the rowing stop.

"I regard you all as friends," she said to them, "and I wish to confide a secret to you. My nephew Fabrice has escaped from prison; and perhaps, by treachery, they will seek to recapture him, though he is on your lake, a land of franchise. Keep your ears open, and warn me of all you learn. I authorize you to enter my chamber by day and by night."

The rowers answered with enthusiasm; she knew how to make herself loved. But she did not think it was a question of recapturing Fabrice: all these cares were for her, and before the fatal order to open the reservoir of the Sanseverina palace, she would not have thought of it.

Her prudence had also led her to take an apartment at the port of Locarno for Fabrice; every day he came to see her, or she herself went into Switzerland. One may judge of the pleasantness of their perpetual tete-a-tetes by this detail: The marchioness and her daughters came to see them twice, and the presence of these strangers pleased them; for, despite the ties of blood, one may call a stranger a person who knows nothing of our dearest interests, and whom one sees but once a year.

The duchess found herself one evening at Locarno, at Fabrice's, with the marchioness and her two daughters. The archpriest of the place and the curate had come to present their respects to the ladies: the archpriest, who was interested in a commercial house, and kept well abreast of the news, happened to say:

"The Prince of Parma is dead!"

The duchess turned extremely pale; she scarce had the courage to say:

"Are any details given?"

"No," answered the archpriest; "the news is limited to the death, which is certain."

The duchess looked at Fabrice. "I did that for him," she said to herself; "I would have done a thousand times worse, and there he is before me, indifferent and thinking of another!" It was beyond the duchess's strength to bear this frightful thought; she fell into a deep swoon. Everyone hastened to help her; but, on coming to, she noticed that Fabrice was making less commotion than the archpriest and the curate; he was dreaming as usual.

"He is thinking of returning to Parma," said the duchess to herself, "and perhaps of breaking Clélia's marriage with the marquis; but I shall know how to prevent it."

Then, remembering the presence of the two priests, she hastened to add:

"He was a great prince, and much calumniated! It is an immense loss for us!"

The two priests took their leave, and the duchess, to be alone, announced that she was going to bed.

"No doubt," she said to herself, "prudence bids me wait a month or two before returning to Parma; but I feel I shall never have that patience; I suffer too much here. This continual reverie, this silence of Fabrice, are for my heart an intolerable spectacle. Who would have told me that I should be bored strolling on this charming lake, tete-a-tete with him, and at the moment when I have done for his vengeance more than I can tell him! After such a spectacle, death is nothing. It is now that I pay for the transports of happiness and childlike joy I found in my palace at Parma when I received there Fabrice returning from Naples. If I had spoken a word, all had been ended, and perhaps, bound to me, he would not have thought of that little Clélia; but that word filled me with horrible repugnance. Now she prevails over me. What more simple? she is twenty; and I, changed by cares, ill, have twice her age!... I must die, I must end! A woman of forty is no longer anything save for the men who loved her in her youth! Now I shall find only vanity's pleasures; and is that worth living for? So much the more reason to go to Parma, and amuse myself. If things turned a certain way, they would take my life. Well! where is the harm? I shall make a magnificent death, and, before ending, but only then, I shall say to Fabrice: Ungrateful one! it is for thee!... Yes, I can find no occupation for this little life left me but at Parma; there I shall play the great lady. What happiness if I could now be sensible to all those distinctions which once made the misery of the Raversi! Then, to see my happiness, I needed to look into the eyes of envy... My vanity has a happiness; with the exception of the count perhaps, no one will have guessed what was the event that put an end to the life of my heart... I shall love Fabrice, I shall be devoted to his fortune, but he must not break Clélia's marriage, and end by marrying her... No, that shall not be!"

The duchess was at this point in her sad monologue when she heard a great noise in the house.

"Good!" said she to herself, "here they come to arrest me; Ferrante will have let himself be taken, he will have spoken. Well! so much the better! I shall have an occupation; I shall dispute my head with them. But primo, one must not let oneself be taken."

The duchess, half dressed, fled to the bottom of her garden: she was already thinking of getting over a little wall and escaping into the countryside; but she saw that someone was entering her chamber. She recognized Bruno, the count's trusted man: he was alone with her chambermaid. She approached the French window. This man was telling the chambermaid of the wounds he had received. The duchess went back into her room, Bruno threw himself almost at her feet, beseeching her not to tell the count the ridiculous hour at which he arrived.

"As soon as the prince died," he added, "the count gave orders at all the post-stations not to furnish horses to subjects of the Parma states. Accordingly, I went as far as the Po with the house horses; but on leaving the boat, my carriage was overturned, broken, wrecked, and I received such grave bruises that I could not mount a horse, as was my duty."

"Well!" said the duchess, "it is three in the morning: I shall say you arrived at noon; you are not going to contradict me."

"I recognize well the goodness of Madame."

Politics in a literary work is like a pistol-shot in the middle of a concert, something coarse and yet to which one cannot refuse attention.

We are about to speak of very ugly things, which, for more than one reason, we should like to keep silent; but we are forced to come to events that are of our domain, since they have for their stage the hearts of the characters.

"But, good God! how did this great prince die?" the duchess asked Bruno.

"He was fowling for passing birds, in the marshes, along the Po, two leagues from Sacca. He fell into a hole hidden by a tuft of grass: he was all in a sweat, and the cold seized him; he was carried to an isolated house, where he died after a few hours. Others pretend that Messieurs Catena and Borone are dead too, and that the whole accident comes from the copper saucepans of the peasant in whose house they entered, which were full of verdigris. They breakfasted at this man's. Finally, the exalted heads, the Jacobins, who tell what they wish, speak of poison. I know that my friend Toto, a court quartermaster, would have perished but for the generous care of a clown who seemed to have great knowledge in medicine, and made him take very singular remedies. But they no longer speak of the prince's death: to be sure, he was a cruel man. When I left, the people were gathering to massacre the attorney-general Rassi: they also wanted to go set fire to the citadel gates, to try to free the prisoners. But it was said that Fabio Conti would fire his cannon. Others asserted that the citadel gunners had poured water on their powder and would not massacre their fellow-citizens. But here is something far more interesting: while the surgeon of Sandolaro was dressing my poor arm, a man arrived from Parma, who said that the people, having found in the streets Barbone, that famous citadel clerk, knocked him senseless, and then went and hanged him on the promenade tree nearest the citadel. The people were marching to go break that fine statue of the prince which is in the court gardens. But the count took a battalion of the guard, ranged it before the statue, and had it told to the people that none who entered the gardens would leave alive, and the people were afraid. But what is very singular, and what this man arriving from Parma, and who is a former gendarme, repeated to me several times, is that the count kicked General P..., commander of the prince's guard, and had him led out of the garden by two fusiliers, after tearing off his epaulettes."

"I recognize the count well there," cried the duchess with a transport of joy she would not have foreseen a minute before: "he will never suffer our princess to be outraged; and as for General P..., through devotion to his legitimate masters, he never would serve the usurper, while the count, less delicate, made all the Spanish campaigns, which was often reproached to him at court."

The duchess had opened the count's letter, but broke off reading it to put a hundred questions to Bruno.

The letter was quite droll; the count employed the most lugubrious terms, and yet the liveliest joy broke out at every word; he avoided details on the manner of the prince's death, and ended his letter with these words:

Thou wilt return no doubt, my dear angel! but I advise thee to wait a day or two for the courier the princess will send thee, as I hope, today or tomorrow; thy return must be magnificent as thy departure was bold. As for the great criminal who is with thee, I mean well to have him judged by twelve judges summoned from all parts of this state. But, to have this monster punished as he deserves, I must first be able to make papillotes with the first sentence, if it exists.

The count had reopened his letter:

Here is quite another matter: I have just had cartridges distributed to the two battalions of the guard; I am going to fight and deserve as best I can that surname of Cruel with which the liberals have gratified me so long. That old mummy of a General P... dared to speak in the barracks of entering into parley with the half-revolted people. I write thee from the middle of the street; I am going to the palace, where none shall enter but over my corpse. Adieu! If I die, it will be adoring thee nonetheless, as I have lived! Forget not to have the 300,000 francs deposited in thy name with D..., at Lyons, taken up.

Here is that poor devil Rassi pale as death, and without his wig; thou hast no idea of that face! The people absolutely want to hang him; it would be a great wrong to do him, he deserves to be quartered. He was taking refuge at my palace, and ran after me in the street; I scarce know what to do with him... I will not take him to the prince's palace, that would make the revolt burst out on this side. F... shall see if I love him; my first word to Rassi was: I must have the sentence against M. del Dongo, and all the copies thou canst have of it, and tell all those iniquitous judges, who are the cause of this revolt, that I shall have them all hanged, as well as thee, my dear friend, if they breathe a word of that sentence, which never existed. In Fabrice's name, I send a company of grenadiers to the archbishop. Adieu, dear angel! my palace is going to be burned, and I shall lose the charming portraits I have of thee. I run to the palace to have that infamous General P... dismissed, who is up to his tricks; he basely flatters the people, as formerly he flattered the late prince. All these generals are scared to death; I believe I shall have myself named general-in-chief.

The duchess had the malice not to send to wake Fabrice; she felt for the count an access of admiration very like love. "On all reflections," said she to herself, "I must marry him." She wrote him so at once, and sent off one of her people. That night, the duchess had no time to be unhappy.

The next day, toward noon, she saw a boat manned by ten rowers and cleaving rapidly the lake waters; Fabrice and she soon recognized a man wearing the livery of the Prince of Parma: it was indeed one of his couriers who, before landing, cried to the duchess:

"The revolt is quelled!"

This courier handed her several letters from the count, an admirable letter from the princess, and a commission under parchment from Prince Ranuce-Ernest V, naming her Duchess of San Giovanni and grand mistress of the dowager princess. This young prince, a mineralogy scholar, and whom she thought an imbecile, had had the sense to write her a little note; but there was love at the end. The note began thus:

The count says, Madame la Duchesse, that he is pleased with me; the fact is that I caught some musket-shots at his side and that my horse was hit: to see the fuss made for so little, I vividly desire to assist at a real battle, but that it be not against my subjects. I owe all to the count; all my generals, who have not made war, behaved like hares; I believe two or three fled as far as Bologna. Since a great and deplorable event gave me power, I have signed no commission so agreeable to me as that naming thee grand mistress of my mother. My mother and I remembered that one day thou admired the fine view one has from the palazzetto of San Giovanni, which once belonged to Petrarch, or so it is said; my mother wished to give thee this little estate; and I, knowing not what to give thee, and not daring to offer thee all that is thine, have made thee duchess in my land; I know not if thou art learned enough to know that Sanseverina is a Roman title. I have just given the grand cordon of my order to our worthy archbishop, who showed a firmness rare indeed in a man of seventy. Thou wilt not blame me for having recalled all the exiled ladies. I am told I must sign henceforth only after writing the words thy affectionate: I am sorry they make me lavish an assurance which is wholly true only when I write to thee.

Thy affectionate, Ranuce-Ernest. Who would not have said, from this language, that the duchess was about to enjoy the highest favor? Yet she found something very singular in other letters from the count, which she received two hours later. He explained himself no further, but advised her to delay her return to Parma a few days, and to write the princess that she was quite unwell. The duchess and Fabrice nonetheless set off for Parma immediately after dinner. The duchess's aim, which however she did not avow to herself, was to press the Marquis Crescenzi's marriage: Fabrice, for his part, made the journey in fits of mad happiness, which seemed ridiculous to his aunt. He hoped soon to see Clélia again; he counted well on carrying her off, even against her will, if there were no other way to break her marriage.

The journey of the duchess and her nephew was very gay. At a post before Parma, Fabrice stopped a moment to resume the ecclesiastical habit; usually he was dressed like a man in mourning. When he re-entered the duchess's chamber:

"I find something suspicious and inexplicable," she said to him, "in the count's letters. If thou wouldst believe me, thou wouldst spend a few hours here; I will send thee a courier as soon as I have spoken to this great minister."

It was with much difficulty that Fabrice yielded to this reasonable advice. Transport of joy worthy of a child of fifteen marked the reception the count gave the duchess, whom he called his wife. He was long unwilling to speak politics, and, when at last they came to the sad reason:

“Stories of the world, in your language.”