When Madeleine had seated the prince near her, she said to him:
"Listen, monseigneur, I will be frank, so frank that I defy you not to believe me. I came here with the hope of turning your head."
"So," cried the prince, astonished, "you confess it!"
"Entirely. That end attained, I wished to use my influence over you, to obtain, as I told you, monseigneur, at the beginning of our interview, two things, one considered almost impossible, the other as altogether impossible."
"You are right, madame, to defy me not to believe you," replied the prince, with a constrained smile. "I believe you."
"The two deeds that I wished to obtain from you were great, noble, and generous; they would have made you esteemed and respected. That is very far, I think, from wishing to abuse my influence over you to excite you to evil or indignity, as you suppose."
"Well, madame, come to the point; what is it?"
"First, an act of clemency, or rather of justice, which would rally around you a multitude of hearts in Lombardy,—the free and full pardon of Colonel Pernetti."
The prince jumped up from his chair, and exclaimed:
"Never, madame, never!"
"The free and full pardon of Colonel Pernetti, one of the most honoured men in all Italy," pursued Madeleine, without noticing the interruption of the prince. "The reasonable pride of this noble-hearted man will prevent his asking you for the slightest alleviation of his woes, but come generously to his relief, and his gratitude will assure you of his devotion."
"I repeat to you, madame, that important reasons of state oppose your request. It is impossible, altogether impossible."
"To be sure. I began, you know, by telling you that, monseigneur. As to the other thing, doubtless more impossible still, it simply concerns your consent to the marriage of a young man whom you have brought up."
"I!" cried the archduke, as if he could not believe his ears. "I, consent to the marriage of Count Frantz?"
"I do not know if he is a count, but I do know that his name is Frantz, since it was told me this morning by Mlle. Antonine Hubert, an angel of sweetness and beauty, whom I have loved from her childhood, and for whom I feel the tenderness of a mother and a sister."
"Madame, in three hours from this moment Count Frantz will have left Paris,—that is my reply."
"My God, monseigneur, that is admirable! All this is impossible, absolutely impossible. I say again, I admit that it is impossible!"
"Then, madame, why do you ask it?"
"Why, to obtain it, of course, monseigneur."
"What! notwithstanding all I have just said to you, you dare hope still?"
"I have that presumption, monseigneur."
"Such self-conceit—"
"Is very modest because I am not counting on my presence."
"On what, then, madame, do you rely?"
"On my absence, monseigneur," said Madeleine, rising.
"On your absence?"
"On your remembrance, if you prefer it."
"You are going," said the prince, unable to conceal his regret and vexation, "you are going so soon?"
"It is my last and only means of bringing you to an agreement."
"But really, madame——"
"Wait, monseigneur, do you wish me to tell you what is going to happen?"
"Let us hear, madame."
"I am going to leave you. At first you will be relieved of a great burden; my presence will no longer beset you with all sorts of temptations, which have their agony as well as their charm; you will banish me entirely from your thoughts. Unfortunately, by degrees, and in spite of yourself, I will return to occupy your thoughts; my mysterious, veiled figure will follow you everywhere; you will feel still more how little there is of the platonic in your inclination toward me, and these sentiments will become only more irritating and more obstinate. To-morrow, the next day, perhaps, reflecting that, after all, I asked noble and generous actions only of you, you will bitterly regret my departure, but it will be too late, monseigneur."
"Too late?"
"Too late for you; not for me. I have taken it into my head that Colonel Pernetti will have his pardon, and that Count Frantz will marry Antonine. You understand, monseigneur, that it must be."
"In spite of me?"
"In spite of you."
"That would be rather difficult."
"So it is. But, let us see, monseigneur, to mention to you only facts which you already know; when one has known how to induce the cardinal legate to masquerade as a Hungarian hussar, when one has known how to create a great poet by the fire of a single glance, when one has known how to render amorous—and I humbly confess I use the expression in its earthly sense—a man like you, monseigneur, it is evident that one can accomplish something else also. You force, do you not, this poor Count Frantz to leave Paris? But the journey is long, and before he is out of France I have two days before me. A little delay in the pardon of Colonel Pernetti will be nothing for him, and, after all, his pardon does not depend on you alone, monseigneur; you cannot imagine to what point the rebound of influence may reach, and, thank God, here in France I have the means and the liberty to act. Is it war that you wish, monseigneur? Then let it be war. I depart, and I leave you already wounded,—that is to say, in love. Ah, my God! although I have a right to be proud of my success, it is not vanity which makes me insist upon the sudden impression I have made on you; because, to tell the truth, I have not employed the least coquetry in all this; almost always I have kept my veil down, and I am dressed as a veritable grandmother. Well, good-bye, monseigneur. At least do me the favour to accompany me to the door of your front parlour; war does not forbid courtesy."
The archduke was in unutterable uneasiness of mind. He felt that Madeleine was speaking the truth, for, already, at the bare thought of seeing her depart, perhaps for ever, he experienced a real sorrow; then, reflecting that if the charm, the singular and almost irresistible attraction of this woman could act so powerfully on him, who for so many reasons believed himself protected from such an influence, as well as from others which might induce him to submit to this control, he felt a sort of vague but bitter and angry jealousy; and while he could not make up his mind to grant the pardon asked of him, or to consent to the marriage of Frantz, he tried, like all undecided minds, to temporise, and said to the marquise, with emotion:
"Since I cannot see you again, at least prolong your visit a little."
"For what purpose, monseigneur?"
"It matters little to you if it makes me happy."
"It would not by any means make you happy, monseigneur, because you have neither the strength to let me depart nor to grant me what I ask of you."
"That is true," answered the prince, sighing, "for one request seems as impossible to me as the other."
"Ah, to-morrow, after my departure, how you will repent!"
The prince, after a long silence, said, with effort, yet with the most insinuating voice:
"Wait, my dear marquise, let us suppose that which is not supposable, that perhaps some day I may think of granting the pardon of Pernetti."
"A supposition? perhaps some day you will think of it? How vague and unsatisfactory all that is, monseigneur! Why not say, positively, 'Admit that I grant you the pardon of Colonel Pernetti.'"
"Very well, then, admit it."
"Good; you grant me this pardon, monseigneur, and you consent to the marriage of Frantz? I must have all or nothing."
"As to the marriage, never, never!"
"Do not say never, monseigneur. Do you know anything about it?"
"After all, a supposition binds me to nothing. Well, to make an end of it, let us admit that I grant all you desire. I will be at least certain of my recompense—"
"You ask it of me, monseigneur? Is not every generous action its own reward?"
"Granted. But there is one, in my eyes the most precious of all, and that one you alone can give."
"Oh, make no conditions, monseigneur."
"Why?"
"Frankly, monseigneur, can I pledge myself to anything? Does not all depend on you and not on me? You must please me, that concerns you."
"Oh! what a woman you are!" said the prince, with vexation. "But, really, shall I please you? Do you think I can please you?"
"My faith, monseigneur, I know nothing about it. You have done nothing so far but receive me with rudeness, I can truthfully say."
"My God! I was wrong, forgive me; if you only knew the uneasiness, I might almost say the fear, that you inspire in me, my dear marquise!"
"Come, I forgive you the past, monseigneur, and promise you to allow myself to be captivated with the best will in the world, and, as I am very frank, I will even add that it does seem to me that I would like you so much that you might succeed."
"Truly!" cried the prince, transported.
"Yes; you are half a sovereign, and you perhaps will be one some day, and there may be all sorts of good and beautiful things for you to order through the influence of this consuming passion you have just branded like a real capuchin,—allow me the expression. Come, monseigneur, if the good God has put this passion in all his creatures, he knew what he was doing. It is an immense power, because, in the hope of satisfying it, those who are under its influence are capable of everything, even the most generous actions, is it not true, monseigneur?"
"So," added the prince, with increasing rapture, "I can hope—"
"Hope all at your ease, monseigneur, but, I tell you plainly, I bind myself to nothing. My faith! fan your flame, make it burn, let it melt my snow."
"But, in a word, suppose that I grant all that you ask, what would you feel for me?"
"Perhaps this first proof of devotion to my wishes would make a deep impression upon me, but I cannot assert it, my power of divination does not extend so far as that, monseigneur."
"Ah, you are pitiless!" cried the archduke, with a vexation that had a touch of sorrow in it, "you only know how to exact."
"Would it be better to make false promises, monseigneur? That would be worthy neither of you nor of me, and then, in a word, let us speak as people who have hearts. Once more, what is it I ask of you? to show justice and mercy to the most honourable of men, and paternal affection for the orphan you have reared! If you only knew how these poor orphans love each other! What innocence! what tenderness! what despair! This morning, as she told me of the ruin of her hopes, Antonine was moved to tears."
"Frantz is of illustrious birth. I have other plans and other views for him," replied the prince, impatiently. "He ought not to make a misalliance."
"The word is a pretty one. And then who am I, monseigneur? Magdalena Pérès, daughter of an honest Mexican merchant, ruined by failures in business, and a marquise by chance. You love me, nevertheless, without fear of misalliance."
"Ah, madame! I! I!"
"You, you, it is another thing, is it not? as the comedy says."
"At least, I am free in my actions."
"And why should not Frantz be free in his, when his tastes restrain him to a modest and honourable life, adorned by a pure and noble love? Come, monseigneur, if you were, as you say, smitten with me, how tenderly you would compassionate the despairing love of those two poor children, who adore each other with all the ardour and innocence of their age! If passion does not render you better and more generous, this passion is not true, and if I am to share it I must begin by believing in it, which I cannot do when I see your relentless cruelty to Frantz."
"Ah, my God, if I loved him less I would not be relentless!"
"A singular way to love people!"
"Have I not told you that I intended him for a high destiny?"
"And I tell you, monseigneur, that the high destiny you reserve for him would be odious to him. He is born for a happy, sweet, and modest life; his tastes are simple, the timidity of his character, his qualities even, separate him from all that is showy and pompous; is it not true?"
"Then," said the prince, greatly surprised, "you are acquainted with him?"
"I have never seen him."
"How, then, do you know?"
"Has not this dear Antonine given me all her confidence? Is it not true that, according to the way you love people, you are able to divine their true character? In a word, monseigneur, the character of Frantz is such as I have described, is it not,—yes or no?"
"It is true, such is his character."
"And you would have the cruelty to impose upon him an existence which would be insupportable to him, when there under his hand he would find the happiness of his life?"
"But, know that I love Frantz as my own son, and I will never consent to be separated from him."
"Great pleasure for you to have constantly under your eyes the sad face of a poor creature whose eternal misery you have caused! Besides, Antonine is an orphan; nothing forbids her accompanying Frantz; in the place of one child, you would have two. What a relief from your grandeur, from the adulations of a false and selfish and artificial society would the sight of this sweet and smiling happiness be to you; with what joy would you go to refresh your heart and soul in the home of these two children who would cherish you with all the happiness they would owe to you!"
"Stop, leave me," cried the prince, more and more moved. "I do not know what inconceivable power your words have, but I feel my firmest resolutions give way, I feel the convictions of my whole life growing weak."
"Do you complain of that, monseigneur! Hold! Between us, without detracting from princes, I think they would often do well to renounce the convictions of all their life, for God knows what these convictions may be. Come, believe me, yield to the impression which now dominates you, it is good and generous."
"Ah, my God, in this moment do I know how to distinguish good from evil?"
"For that, monseigneur, interrogate the faces of those whose happiness you have assured; when you will say to one, 'Go, poor exile, return to the country that you weep; your brothers wait for you with open arms,' and to the other, 'My beloved child, be happy, marry Antonine,' then look well at both, monseigneur, and if tears moisten their eyes, as at this moment they moisten yours and mine, be tranquil, monseigneur, you have done good, and for this good, to encourage you because your emotion touches me, I promise you to accompany Antonine to Germany."
"Truly," cried the prince, "you promise me?"
"I must, monseigneur," said Madeleine, smiling, "give you the opportunity to captivate me."
"Ah, well, whatever may happen, whatever you may do, for perhaps you are making sport of me," said the prince, throwing himself at Madeleine's knees, "I give you my royal word that I will pardon the exile, that I—"
The archduke was suddenly interrupted by a violent noise outside the door of his study, a noise which revealed the sharp contention of several voices, above which rose distinctly the words:
"I tell you, sir, you shall not enter!"
The archduke got up from his position suddenly, turned pale with anger, and said to Madeleine, who was listening also to the noise with great surprise:
"I beseech you, go into the next chamber; something extraordinary is taking place. In an instant I will rejoin you."
At that moment a violent blow resounded behind the door.
The prince added, as he went to open the adjacent room for Madeleine:
"Enter there, please."
Then, closing the door, and wishing in his anger to know the cause of this insolent and unusual noise, he went out of his study quickly, and saw M. Pascal, whom two exasperated officers were trying to restrain.