CHAPTER XIV
THE TRADITION
I had not seen Madame de Fersen from the time that Irene had made the strange prediction which had seemed to alarm her mother so greatly.
The uncommon affection shown to me by this child astonished me very much. As soon as she was alone, she would come close to me. If I were reading in the saloon, fearing doubtless to be troublesome, she would sit on a cushion, resting her chin on her little hands, and I could not raise my eyes without meeting her profound and solemn glance.
Sometimes I endeavoured to amuse her with childish games, but she appeared disinclined for them, and said to me solemnly with her childish treble: "I prefer staying here near you, and looking at you as I used to look at Ivan."
I was formerly much more superstitious than I am now; but in thinking over the strange fascination I seemed to have for this child, I recalled with a certain heart pang (I must confess the weakness) a singular Sanscrit tradition which my father had often read to me, because, he said, he had witnessed two events which confirmed its text.
According to this tradition, "those predestined to an early and violent death have the gift of fascinating children and lunatics."
Now, in fact, Ivan had fascinated Irene, and he died a violent death.
I also fascinated Irene, who, in total ignorance of the tradition, had predicted for me a violent death.
This uncommon analogy was, to say the least, most extraordinary, and sometimes forcibly preoccupied me.
Even now that time has elapsed since these occurrences, Irene's prediction at times comes back to my mind.
This tradition had been translated by my father, and was written with some other notes in a book containing the description of his travels in England and the East Indies. I had brought this manuscript with me from France, with other papers which were saved from the wreck of the yacht.
The day following the one when the princess was confined to her room by indisposition, she came into the saloon about two o'clock; I was there alone with her child.
Madame de Fersen's face was pale and sad.
She saluted me graciously; her smile seemed to me more than usually friendly.
"I very much fear, monsieur, that my daughter is troublesome," said she, seating herself and taking Irene on her lap.
"It is I, rather, madame, who may be accused of being troublesome, for Irene has shown me several times, by the gravity of her demeanour and speech, that she considered me too much of her age, and not enough of mine."
"Poor child!" said Madame de Fersen, embracing her daughter. "Have you no ill-will towards her, for her strange, her absurd prediction?"
"No, madame, for in turn I shall make a forecast, and then we shall be quits. Mlle. Irene," said I, very seriously, taking her little hand in mine, "I shall not tell you that you will go up there, but I promise that ten or twelve years hence a beautiful angel will come down here from up there expressly for you. He will be beautiful like you, good like you, charming like you, and will lead you to a gorgeous palace, all marble and gold, where you will live a long, long time, the happiest of the happy with this beautiful angel, for he will love you as you love your mother; and then, one day, this palace being no longer beautiful enough for you, you and your angel together will fly away to go and occupy a more beautiful one up there."
"And will you be there in that palace, with my mamma?" asked the child, fixing her large, inquiring eyes by turns on Madame de Fersen and on me.
It was folly, but I could not help feeling delighted at the association made by Irene in speaking of her mother and of me.
I know not whether Madame de Fersen noticed the sentiment, but she blushed, and said to her daughter, doubtless to avoid answering her question:
"Yes, my child, I shall be there,—at least I hope so."
"But will you be there with him?" persisted the child pointing at me with her little finger.
Whether she was annoyed at Irene's strange insistence, or whether she felt embarrassed, Madame de Fersen kissed her tenderly, took her in her arms and pressed her to her heart, saying, "You are a little goose; go to sleep, my pet."
Then with an absent air she looked through the window of the saloon, saying, "It is a lovely day! How calm is the sea!"
"Very calm," said I, with some irritation at seeing the conversation taking another turn.
Irene closed her eyes and seemed about to go to sleep. Her mother, with infinite grace, caught some of her child's curls and drew them across her eyes, saying softly with motherly fondness, "Sleep, my child, now that I have closed your pretty curtains."
In the early phases of love, there are entrancing trifles which give delight to sensitive souls.
It seemed to me delightful to be able to speak to Madame de Fersen in a half whisper, under pretext of not waking the child. There was in this apparently slight shade of difference something tender, mysterious, veiled, which entranced me.
Irene soon closed her eyes.
"How beautiful she is!" I whispered to her mother. "How much happiness may be read in that lovely face!"
Shall I say that I waited almost with anxiety Madame de Fersen's reply, to know whether she also would whisper back to me?
Shall I say that I was happy, oh, so very happy to hear her reply in the same tone?
"May you be a true prophet," she said; "may she be happy!"
"I could not tell her all I could foresee, madame, she would not have understood; but will you permit me to tell you what I would dream for her?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then, madame, let us not speak of the happiness which is assured to her so long as she lives by your side; that would be too easy a prophecy. Let us speak of the moment so cruel to a mother's heart, when she must abandon her idolised child to the care of an unknown family, of an unknown man. Poor mother! she can scarcely believe it. Her daughter, so timid, so retiring, so sensitive a nature, that to her mother alone she spoke without blushing, and with joyous assurance! Her daughter,—whom she has never left by day or by night! Her daughter,—her pride, her care, her solicitude, and her glory! Her daughter,—that angel of grace and candour, whom she alone can understand, whose joys and sorrows, susceptibility and diffidence she alone can divine! She is now in the power of a stranger, one who has ingratiated himself solely by coming daily for two months under the eyes of her parents to talk to her of conventional trifles, or, perhaps, of the duty that a wife owes her husband. They are now united; and here, madame, I spare you the horribly vulgar and suggestive pageantry with which we lead a young girl to the altar, under the eyes of an unblushing crowd, with great parade, in the glare of daylight, and with the blare of music and of pomp. In Otähiti they act with more modesty, or at least with more reserve. At length, after the ceremony, this man carries off his prey to his home, saying, 'Follow me, wife!' Well, madame, should my predictions be realised, he who before God and before men would have the right to say so harshly to your daughter, 'Wife, follow me!' should rather say to her, in a soft, timid, supplicating voice, 'Come, my betrothed!'"
Madame de Fersen looked at me with astonishment.
"Yes, madame, above all, that man will respect with pious adoration, with religious veneration, the chastely sublime terror of the maiden, torn from her mother's arms, from her virgin couch, to be thrown suddenly in a strange household. That deep and instinctive fear, that sorrowful regret which his wife feels, he will calm by degrees, with charming attention, with simple kindness, which will tame that poor shrinking heart. He will know how to make himself beloved as the best of brothers, in the hope of being some day the happiest of lovers."
"What a pity that dream is only a charming folly!" said Madame de Fersen, with a sigh.
"Is it not a pity? Confess that nothing would be more adorable than the mysterious phases of such a love, exalted as hope, passionate as desire, and yet legitimate and authorised. The day on which the young wife, after a prolonged courtship, inspired by passion, should confirm by a tender avowal those rights so ardently desired, which her husband would accept solely from her,—that day would be treasured in her heart as an entrancing and enduring memory. When she had thus freely bestowed herself she would find later that the gallantry and temptations of the world pale before the memory of that dazzling, ardent happiness ever present to her mind. Such a memory would assuredly protect a woman from all sinful allurements, which could never offer to her the ineffable rapture which she had found in a sacred and legitimate union."
Whilst I was talking, Madame de Fersen regarded me with increasing astonishment. At last she said:
"Do you really hold on marriage views of such excessive delicacy?"
"Assuredly, madame, or at least I borrow them for my prediction from the man who some day shall be so fortunate as to be entrusted with your daughter's happiness. Do you not think that a husband such as I predict for her, handsome, young, well born, intellectual, attractive, who should hold these opinions, do you not think that he would offer the greatest possibilities for durable happiness? I am sure that Mlle. Irene is endowed with all those precious gifts of the soul which can inspire and appreciate such a love."
"Of course, it is but a beautiful dream; but I must repeat that I am greatly astonished that you should have such dreams," she said to me, with a slightly mocking air.
"And why, madame?"
"What! you, monsieur, who came to the Orient to seek the idealisation of material life!"
"It is true," I murmured, gazing at her fixedly; "but I renounced that life from the moment when chance brought to my knowledge, and gave me the opportunity of adoring, an idealisation of its opposites, of intellect, grace, and love."
Madame de Fersen looked at me severely.
I do not know what she was about to say, when her husband entered and asked me if I knew an air called "Anacreon and Polycrates."
Since the day on which the avowal passed my lips, Madame de Fersen seemed carefully to avoid remaining alone with me, although before our travelling companions her manner was unchanged.
Thanks to the singular affection, however, with which I had inspired Irene, the princess found it difficult to carry out her project.
Whether I appeared on deck or in the saloon, the child took me by the hand, and led me to Madame de Fersen, saying:
"Come, I like to see you with my mother."
At first I could hardly refrain from smiling at Madame de Fersen's vexation at being thus forced into a tête-à-tête which she desired to avoid.
But I feared that this vexation of which I was the involuntary cause might make her take a dislike to me, and I tried to repulse Irene's advances. When she insisted, I refused brusquely two or three times.
The poor child said not a word, two great tears trickled down her cheeks, and she went silently and sat down at a distance from me and her mother.
The latter tried to approach her, to console her, but Irene gently repulsed her caresses.
That evening she ate nothing, and her nurse, who passed the night at her bedside, said that she had hardly slept, and had had several fits of silent weeping.
M. de Fersen, who was not aware of the cause of his daughter's trifling ailment, made light of it and attributed it to the child's excessive nervous susceptibility.
But Madame de Fersen gave me a look of irritation.
I understood her.
My avowal, by placing her on her guard, had made her avoid opportunities of being alone with me.
Irene felt considerably aggrieved at this apparent coldness; the princess naturally looked upon me as the primary cause of her daughter's grief, and she loved her with mad devotion.
Madame de Fersen had therefore good cause to dislike me. I resolved to end Irene's unhappiness.
I took advantage of a moment when I was alone with Madame de Fersen to say to her:
"Madame, forgive an insensate avowal. I regret it the more that it has not been alien to the sorrow and suffering of poor little Irene. I pledge you my word that I will never again say a single word which might trouble your maternal joys and thus expose me to forfeit your good graces which I so highly value."
Madame de Fersen gave me her hand, with charming gratitude, and said:
"I believe you, and thank you with all my heart, for you will thus no longer separate me from my daughter!"