X
The Ambassador
M. DE SADE was visibly disturbed. Somewhat late in life he had conceived for Diane de Wimpffen one of those admirations untainted by the desire of possession. He concealed this admiration under an affectation of cynicism which almost deceived himself. But it did not deceive Madame de Wimpffen. Well aware both of the admiration and of its character, she counted upon him as upon an ally with whom a formal treaty is unnecessary.
Like many alliances, this one had had its birth in hostility. But that was long ago.
There had been a wedding at the Madeleine. M. de Sade stood upon the steps as the guests dispersed, thoughtful and undecided. As a man of the world he made light of all expansions of the heart—while secretly cherishing one. During the pauses of the service Madame de Balloy had confided to him that she had the day before asked on behalf of her son the hand of Anne—and Anne was the daughter of Madame de Wimpffen. He was not the guardian of that hand. That some one would some day aspire to it was inevitable. He had foreseen that contingency, but never in the person of M. de Balloy—that idiot who was squandering his fortune at baccarat and flaunting Mademoiselle Luna of the Variétés in the face of all Paris except his mother. The fact that Madame de Balloy's confidential communication had been made at a wedding rendered it the more disagreeable. Anne, so young, so fearless, so innocent—and so like her mother! The thought that if he were younger—but that was only the shadow of a thought which traversed his mind without leaving a trace, as the shadow of a bird passes over a landscape.
Slowly descending the steps, too preoccupied with the enumeration of M. de Balloy's disqualifications even to acknowledge a friendly greeting, he turned up the Boulevard in the direction of the Parc Monceau. To the shop-windows, which generally attracted him, he paid no heed. Absorbed, his cane dangling from the hands crossed behind him, he had the air of a man going nowhere in particular an appearance often presented by one who, knowing well his destination, has not yet confessed it.
Adjoining the park, its tiny garden protected by an iron grille whose gilded spikes were barely visible above the enveloping ivy, was the small hôtel of which M. de Sade was the proprietor. He had recently offered it to his friend de Wimpffen, who, since his promotion to the grade of colonel, had been assigned to duty at the War Office. For M. de Sade, not being burdened with duties, was going to get rid of the summer, and incidentally some of the boredom of living, at the seaside. On reaching the park entrance he took out his watch. It was eleven o'clock. He had no more time than was necessary for breakfast and a change of costume. His seat was reserved in the express which left at two. He had already said farewell. But there was the key to the garden gate, which he had forgotten to deliver. He had intended to send this key by messenger, but fortunately it was still in his pocket—to serve his present purpose. Yes, certainly, he would deliver it in person.
Just within the ivy screen, at the little table laid for breakfast near the foot of the steps leading to the salon windows, M. de Wimpffen was reading "Le Matin." That he was waiting for something more important than breakfast was evident from the glances he directed toward these windows. His orderly had gone for the morning mail. There was also the Abbé d'Arlot, whom Madame de Wimpffen had persuaded to visit her and who might arrive at any moment from Freyr. But it was neither the orderly nor the abbé for whom he was waiting. Only yesterday Madame de Balloy had formally asked for her son the hand of Anne. He had proposed to settle the matter offhand in the blunt, straightforward manner characteristic of him, M. de Balloy 's reputation not being such as to render a favorable answer within even the range of discussion. But Madame de Wimpffen had said, "No, Raoul, leave it to me"; and he had left it to her, with a good nature as characteristic as the bluntness and a confidence justified by long experience.
It was the footstep of Diane he was listening for, and in spite of the confidence, her prolonged absence was beginning to engender misgivings. He had read for the third time the political article in "Le Matin" without comprehending a word of it, when the glass doors opened and Diane came lightly down the steps.
She was smiling. It was a good sign.
"Well," he said confidently.
She was sitting now opposite him, her hands crossed before her on the white cloth, tranquil as the June morning itself.
"She loves him"—"Le Matin" fell to the gravel—"madly, with all her soul."
He stared into the blue eyes, stupefied. Their smile, contrasted with the finality of the reply, perplexed him.
"Not possible—not possible," he repeated.
"But true," said Diane.
Speechless, he continued to search the blue eyes. Twenty years of practice had not enabled him to read them with certainty. As M. de Sade said, "They are too clear."
It was at this instant that the lock grated in the iron gate and M. de Sade himself entered.
"Good-morning, my friends," he said gayly; "I bring you the garden key. I am off by the express at—" He stopped, fingering his gray mustache and looking from one to the other. "What has happened—a quarrel?"
"De Sade," exclaimed Raoul, bringing his fist down on the table, "what has happened is this—that fellow De Balloy has asked for the hand of Anne."
M. de Sade deposited his overcoat carefully on the back of a chair, seated himself with deliberation, and took out his cigarette-case.
"I see nothing strange in that," he said. "Monseiur le Préfet has done his best, but the race of beggars is not yet extinct." And, lighting his cigarette, he turned to Diane, "With your permission, madame."
"I was telling Raoul when you came," said Diane.
"Begin at the beginning," interrupted her husband. "I wish de Sade to hear also."
"Well, she was at the paino. 'Anne,' I said, standing beside her, 'I have something to say to you.' She looked up quickly and I knew that she knew. Therefore I went straight to the point. 'Monsieur de Balloy,' I said 'has asked for your hand.' She took both mine in hers and covered her face. Looking down on her bent head, I laughed to myself."
"Diane!" exclaimed Raoul reproachfully.
She spread out her hands.
"At myself, in her. Do you remember nothing? The English express certain things better than we do. They say 'to fall in love'—which is the fact. It is a precipice."
"And no parapet," nodded M. de Sade.
"De Sade," cried Raoul resentfully, "I beg of you."
Diane resumed.
"'Anne,' I said, 'you have seen Monsieur de Balloy twice—once at the opera and once at Madame Texier's ball.' 'Mamma, dear little mamma,' she replied, looking up into my face, 'I adore him.' 'And you are ready to give yourself to a man you have seen but twice?' 'Yes, mamma, I am ready—to-morrow.' 'But, Anne,' I said, 'do you know that this man is a roué and a gambler?' 'To-morrow,' she repeated, burying her face again in my hands."
Raoul made a gesture of incredulity.
"And then you said—"
"I said nothing," replied Diane.
M. de Sade nodded again in approval.
"You did not reason with her—you—"
"Raoul, years ago, in Algeria, if my father had said, 'No, she is not for you—'"
"The case was different," he interrupted. "It would have made no difference."
"Well, then, you see," she replied quietly.
"But, Diane," he protested, "between Monsieur de Balloy and myself—"
"Oh, I know that very well, there is a difference. Confess now, you would like to run him through with your sword this very instant. But"—she hesitated a moment—"between Anne and myself the difference is not so—enormous."
Behind his gray mustache M. de Sade smiled.
"What I wish to know is this," persisted Raoul, tapping the table with his forefinger: "did you tell her plainly, in so many words, what manner of man—"
"Yes, I told her."
"And what answer did she make?"
"Oh, she had an answer. 'Mamma,' she said, 'you once told me that you loved papa without knowing why, without a reason.'"
"You had the imprudence to tell her that!"
"Why not? It is true, is n't it?"
"Diane"—he reached across the table and took her hands—"be serious, you are laughing."
"No, I am not laughing. I am quite serious. You think you have to deal only with Monsieur de Balloy. But you see I was right. We have also to deal with Anne—that is, with you and with me. With her truthfulness and obstinacy, which is you, and with—all the rest, which is me. Do you remember when we were at Freyr how passionately, a mere child, she became attached to the Countess Anne? How she insisted she would no longer be called Diane, but Anne, and wept with rage whenever we said Diane, till we yielded? And now," she said, appealing to M. de Sade, "he wishes me to play the tyrant with her affections, the one liberty tyrants have never been able to suppress!"
"But a roué, a gambler!" expostulated Raoul. "How is it possible!"
"Bah!" said M. de Sade, "the words are not in the catechism. I warrant you she does not know what they mean. Think what a fascination exists in things which we do not understand."
Raoul, walking to and fro on the gravel, stopped abruptly.
"And you wish Monsieur de Balloy to teach Anne the meaning of these words," he exclaimed scornfully.
"My dear friend," replied M. de Sade, "you have not asked me what I wish. But ask madame if there exists a woman who would not prefer to learn from experience what she might learn with less trouble from the dictionary. If you ask my opinion—"
"Yes, we ask it," said Madame de Wimpffen, observing him closely.
M. de Sade looked up from the blue eyes to the blue sky above the roofs, as if his opinion were not within immediate reach.
"Let us recapitulate," he said, addressing Raoul. "There is, on the one hand, Mademoiselle Anne, who, thanks to her mother, has her good points—not to mention the dot promised her by the Countess Anne. And there is Monsieur de Balloy, who possesses all the good qualities of his defects—not to mention his debts. He is young, he is handsome, he is witty, he dances well, and he has the good fortune to present himself precisely at the moment when one feels the imperious necessity of loving some one. What does it matter to the tendrils of the vine what offers! A tree, a leaden gutter, a bit of broken tile—it touches and it clings."
"De Sade," broke forth Raoul impetuously, "you know very well this marriage is impossible—and you, Diane, you know it also."
"Why, of course, Raoul, dear. I am absolutely of your opinion. The idea of it is so monstrous that you wish to stamp on it with your foot. But let us not stamp at the same time on the heart of Anne. Monsieur de Balloy wishes to marry her—well, let him wish. To wish and to have are not the same thing. I will say to Anne: 'You love Monsieur de Balloy. That being the case, it only remains to be seen whether he loves you. On that point it is better to satisfy yourself, as I did, beforehand. And when you are satisfied you will tell me.' And I will say to Madame de Balloy, 'Let us wait and see if these young birds are ready to fly.' Meantime it is possible that that angel who is said to tell a woman that she is beautiful will tell Anne some of those less obvious things which are far more important."
Raoul gave a sigh of relief.
"You see," he said to de Sade. "Diane and I agree absolutely."
"I foresaw it," he replied dryly, resuming his cane and overcoat. "And, now that we are all agreed, I must be going. Might I see the dear child?" he asked, lifting Diane's hand to his lips. "If you will allow me I will pass out through the salon. Ah, the garden key—I had forgotten it. Here it is. Au revoir, my friends." And he went up the steps.
The salon was empty. But in the mirror between the windows he saw a man, tall, correct, with thin, iron-gray hair. For a long minute he surveyed this man critically, then touched the bell.
"Say to mademoiselle that I have come to take my leave."
Then the door opened and Anne entered. She came forward eagerly, her hands extended.
"You are going! You will not breakfast with us?"
"No, mademoiselle," he said, taking the extended hands and touching the forehead with his lips, "but I could not go without seeing you, without—"
"But you must not go this minute, dear Monsieur de Sade." The clear blue eyes were like her mother's. "I wish to speak to you." She drew him to the sofa. "Tell me, have you seen mamma?"
"Yes, certainly, just now."
"Did she tell you anything?"
"Did she tell me anything? What should she tell me?"
"Nothing." The eyes fell, then rose to his again. "Monsieur, do you gamble?"
"I?" he laughed. "What a question!"
"Answer me, please. I wish to know what it is—it is very important that I should know what it is—to gamble."
"To gamble," he replied, twisting the ends of his gray mustache thoughtfully, "is to risk what one has in the hope of gaining more."
"Does papa gamble?"
"I think not," he said doubtfully. "One must have something to risk—to gamble properly."
"Do not laugh, please. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you why I wish to know about this. Then you will understand how necessary it is. Tell me truly, is it a sin to gamble?"
"A sin to gamble? That depends. There is no sin in moderation. For example, you are about to breakfast, which in itself is quite harmless. But if you should eat to excess—"
"Of course. What is it to gamble to excess?"
"To gamble to excess"—M. de Sade thought for a moment—"is to risk what one cannot afford to lose, to incur a debt one cannot pay."
"Oh, that is frightful," cried Anne. "I should die if I could not pay what I owe."
"That is what happens to some gamblers, my child. They go to some quiet spot and end their lives—or else, sometimes, they look about for a young girl with a dot—in order to commence again."
Anne was silent. Then she said, gravely, "You know that the Countess Anne is to give me a dot when I marry."
"Yes, I know it; and you think I am that gambler," he laughed, "who wishes to pay his debts with it!"
"Oh, no, monsieur," blushing furiously. "What an idea! I only wished to know."
"You will never know truly till you gamble a little yourself, Anne."
She burst into laughter.
"Why, I have only the gold-pieces which the Countess Anne gives me on my birthdays!"
"Ah, she gives you gold-pieces on your birthday? What an excellent idea! Why did I not also think of that?"
"But you gave me my doll Nanette, which I love far better."
"Anne," said M. de Sade, "what a memory you have! It is not possible that you still play with Nanette!"
"I do not exactly play with her," she replied, thoughtfully. "Formerly I played with her, but now—now she is, I would not say a plaything, but a companion. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand. But what I do not understand is that you should love Nanette at all—a thing of papier-mâchéand sawdust."
"One does not think of those things. I assure you Nanette has quite the appearance of a real person."
"I admit that in the case of dolls it is permissible to trust to appearances." He made a movement to go.
"Dear Monsieur de Sade"—she seized his hand, holding him fast—"please, just one little minute more. I have something to tell you."
"I know it. That is why I am going."
She looked at him dismayed, the color deepening in her cheeks again.
"Anne," he said, holding to the hand which was slipping away, "you know that I love you."
"I know that you are always kind to me."
"That is not the same thing. No, if I listen to you, if you should tell me that you are about to gamble with what is more precious than the gold-pieces of the Countess Anne,—with yourself,—I should have to tell you what would cause you to say, 'He is unkind to me, he loves me no longer': and to hear that I have not the courage."
The clear, unflinching eyes filled with tears. "Monsieur, I will have the courage for two."
"Oh, Anne, my child," he cried, "how like your mother you are!" He had risen and stood looking down on the rigid little figure on the sofa. One of those expansions of the heart which he affected to despise had nearly mastered him. "But no, believe me, I am right. Tell me nothing. I should bring against you all that belongs to my age—experience, knowledge, prudence—and you would answer me with all that belongs to yours—faith, and ignorance, and enthusiasm, and, alas! also indignation, and I should be defeated." Midway across the room he turned. "Anne, you have said you would die if you could not pay what you owe. You cost the woman whom you call mother pain and blood and tears—do not forget to pay that debt—it is a debt of honor."
She spoke as one stunned. "No, monsieur, I will not forget it."
"I am sure of it. Good-bye, my child."
She followed him with her eyes to the door. But he did not turn again.
Pain and blood and tears! What did it mean?
Precisely at the moment M. de Sade's valet was frantically searching for his master in the northern station, the latter was standing hat in hand in a little Louis XV salon, admiring the taste of its decoration. At the door the servant had said, "Madame is not receiving"; and M. de Sade had replied, "Take in my card just the same"; and the servant, with that fine instinct which knows when to disobey orders, had bowed in acquiescence.
M. de Sade in the mean time examined the territory of the enemy. An open book on the canapé bore the title "Causeries du Lundi," an indication which both surprised and reassured him. A vitrine filled with Sèvres and Saxe figurines interested him immensely, for he was a connoisseur of precious trifles. Its pendant on the other side of the console was devoted to jade, amid whose curious branched designs elephants with jeweled eyes paraded and Buddhas slept on teakwood pedestals.
At the rustle of a dress he turned to see a little figure with Venetian hair, whose complexion rivaled that of the shepherdess in the cabinet, holding his card in its hand and inspecting him with a frank curiosity. For a moment he was possessed by the illusion that one of the figurines in the vitrine had stepped down from its glass shelf to confront him.
"Madame," he said, bowing, "I owe you a thousand apologies for disturbing you at this hour."
The little figure dropped into the chair of Aubusson tapestry, self-poised and expectant.
"I have not the honor to know you, monsieur," it said.
"That happens often in the case of celebrities," replied M. de Sade gallantly. "I am only one of the orchestra chairs. But I have something serious to say to you, and when I have a serious thought in my head I have no peace till its ghost is laid."
"Monsieur," the little figure replied in a business-like manner foreign to Dresden shepherdesses, "I give you fifteen minutes to lay your ghost, for I also have a serious matter in hand. At half-past two I have an appointment at Drécoll's for a last fitting."
"Let us, then, come quickly to the point," said M. de Sade, sitting down beside the morocco-bound "Causeries." "But first I must confess to you that I am an ambassador without credentials. For when one is deeply interested in the welfare of any one, in an emergency one does not wait for the formality of documents. Moreover, in this case they would not be forthcoming."
"Monsieur counts, then, on his superior judgment."
"And on your indulgence. Imagine a young girl, fearless, innocent, at that age when one defies the world in order to commit a folly. For madame who is herself so near that age, to imagine such a—"
"They exist in every forest. Proceed, I beg of you."
"Into the forest in question," continued M. de Sade, "comes a man—I might even say a hunter—"
"And the folly is committed."
"Oh, no, madame, you proceed too rapidly. But on some bright morning, at Saint-Roch, or under the patronage of some other distinguished member of the company of saints—"
"I understand. But I? Why should this folly interest me?"
"Because, madame, the name of this hunter is Monsieur de Balloy."
The figure in the Aubusson chair did not move, but a look of quick intelligence passed over the face.
"Ah! So you wish me to assume the rôle of la Dame aux Camélias—to surrender Monsieur de Balloy to Mademoiselle Innocence."
"On the contrary, madame, I wish you to keep him."
"Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, you come too late. Monsieur de Balloy and I have quarreled."
Here M. de Sade lost one of his precious minutes in reflection.
"Pardon me," he said at last,—"pardon me if I am about to commit an indiscretion. But quarrels proceed from grievances. Those of Monsieur de Balloy do not interest me—but yours, if perchance they were of such a nature as to excite in you a sympathy for those who have not yet quarreled but are sure to do so hereafter—if you whose eyes are opened would consent to touch those that are yet blind—"
"Monsieur, there remain exactly eleven minutes. What do you wish of me?"
"Madame," said M. de Sade, "if your charity toward Monsieur de Balloy does not exceed that for my friend—I say friend because, as you perceive, I am too old for the rôle of lover—"
"Really, Monsieur de Sade, I believe you would make an excellent one."
"On the stage possibly. But permit me to remind you that we have but ten minutes left. You have had the grace to ask what I wish of you. In so doing you use a word which is not in the vocabulary of suppliants—but if you will allow me—" He went to the desk by the window, took a sheet of note-paper from the portfolio, and began to write rapidly, conscious meanwhile that the figurine had left its seat and was standing over him.
"Mademoiselle,—Monsieur de Balloy aspires to your hand. In exchange he offers you—what! A heart without honor. But black as is that heart, it is mine, and I will not surrender it to you."
"You wish me to sign that?" said a voice over his shoulder. "Oh, how little you understand us! Give me the pen."
She took his place and wrote in turn:—
"Mademoiselle, Monsieur de Balloy aspires to your hand. The heart which he offers you I, who once believed in its promises, give you willingly. It is too black for even me."
"There," she said, looking up into his face, "is what I will sign. Are you satisfied?"
Tears are not becoming to Dresden complexions, but the lips quivered.
"Madame," said M. de Sade, whose voice also trembled a little, "if in the three minutes which remain to us you would consent to sign the other also—a mother will know better than we which to deliver."
"Willingly—since you are a man of honor."
She rewrote the first, signed and folded both and gave them to him.
"Madame," said M. de Sade, whose voice still trembled, "you have left me but one minute in which to do what is more difficult than to ask—to thank you. Whatever the result of your"—he hesitated a moment for a word—"of your charity—"
"Oh, as to that I am indifferent."
"No, I do not believe it."
"Monsieur de Sade," she said, pointing to the clock, "the mauvais quart-d'heure de Rabelais is over."
"You are right. I renounce the effort—to thank you is useless."
For the first time a faint smile came into the eyes.
"Since you are one of the orchestra chairs, you might come to-morrow night to admire my new costume."
"No—after realities one does not seek illusions. But—"
She raised her hand. "No promises, I beg of you. One can do everything with promises but rely upon them." And before he could reply she had vanished through the portières.
M. de Sade took up his hat and cane, glanced once more at the desk by the window, the open book, the figurines on the glass shelves of the cabinet, at the still swaying portières. No, it was not an illusion—he held the two notes in his hand.
On the beach at Ostend M. de Sade had found a Bath chair which sheltered him from the fresh breeze off the Channel. Children were playing in the sand, erecting bastions against the invading sea. Men and women sat in groups in the warm sun or strolled along the seawall to meet the incoming steamer. But none of these attracted his attention. One by one he took up the letters on his knee, reading them leisurely and consigning them again to their envelopes, till one—the one long waited for—remained unopened. For a long time he looked at the firm, clear handwriting of the superscription, like one who listens to a voice calling from out the past. The mere address of a letter may contain a message. Then he broke the seal.
My Friend,—What did you say to Anne that after you had gone she should fling herself into my arms with such a passion of weeping and affection? She has gone with the Abbé d'Arlot to make a visit in Freyr. Do not worry about her. At her age hearts bleed, but do not break.
"Oh, my friend— No, I will not attempt to—my heart is too full.
"Of curiosity also! By what process did you extract from that drôlesse— Ah, I know what you are saying—that my world never forgives that other. It is true.
"There was a time when your sarcasm, your irony, your nature, oppressed and fascinated me. You produced in me a kind of pain of which you alone possessed the secret—which stings and yet gives pleasure. How is it that you reverse the order of time? that years soften instead of hardening you? Would for your sake—oh, and Anne's also—that these years—
"Forgive me—what is written is written. Do you know what Raoul said to me to-day? 'There is more good in De Sade than I imagined!'
Far beyond the sea flecked with white sails, beyond the horizon banded with trails of smoke, he saw the writer as plainly as he saw the written.
"Would monsieur," said the voice of a boatman, "like to take a sail? I have a good boat and the sea is fine."
"No, my friend," said M. de Sade; "at my age one prefers havens to horizons."
The letter which he mailed that evening contained a single sentence:—
"Oh, woman, woman! not to tell me which note you made use of!"
THE END
The Riverside press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
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