The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 5 of 6

"Now, master mine," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country. We do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative, without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and pastoral, and I am sure, master, it will please you."

And Cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. Some soft and vibrating chords served as accompaniment. This was Cecily's song:

"Flowers – still flowers, everywhere.
My lover is coming – my hope of happiness unnerves me.
Let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer shade.
My lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest flowers.
The brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses will keep them closed.
Come – come – come – come, love! Come – come – come!"

These words, uttered with animation, as if the creole was addressing an unseen lover, were rendered by her the theme of a delicious melody; her charming fingers produced from the guitar, an instrument of no great power, vibrations full of harmony. The impassioned look of Cecily, her half closed, humid eyes fastened on Jacques Ferrand, were full of the expression of expectation. Words of love, delicious music, together conspired at the moment to bereave Jacques Ferrand of his reason; and, half frenzied, he exclaimed:

"Mercy, Cecily, mercy! You will drive me distracted! Oh, be silent, or I die! Oh, that I were mad!"

"Listen to the second couplet, master," said the creole, again touching the chords; and she thus continued her impassioned recitative:

"If my lover were here, and his hand touched my bare shoulder, I should tremble and die.
If he were here, and his curly hair touched my cheek, my pale cheek would become purple – my pale cheek would be on fire.
Soul of my Soul, if thou wert here, my parched lips would not utter a word.
Life of my Life, if thou wert here, I should expiring ask thy pardon.
'Tis sweet to die for and with those we love.
Angel, come – come to my heart – come – come – come!"

If the creole had rendered the first strophe with languid pleasure, she put in her last words all the enthusiasm of antique love; and as if the music had been powerless to express her intense passion, she threw her guitar from her, and, half rising and extending her arms towards the door, where Jacques Ferrand stood, she repeated, in a faltering, dying tone, "Oh, come – come – come!" It would be impossible to depict the electric look with which she accompanied these words. Jacques Ferrand uttered a terrible cry.

"Oh, death! Death to him whom you could thus love!" he cried, shaking the door in a burst of jealousy and furious rage.

Agile as a panther, Cecily was at the door with one bound; and, as if she with difficulty repressed her feigned transports, she said to Jacques Ferrand, in a low, concentrated, palpitating voice:

"Well, then, I will confess I am excited by my song. I did not mean to approach the door again, yet here I am, in spite of myself; for I hear still the words you said just now, 'If you bade me strike, I would strike.' You love me, then?"

"Will you have gold, – all my gold?"

"No, I have enough."

"Have you an enemy? I will kill him."

"I have no enemy."

"Will you be my wife? I'll marry you."

"I am married."

"What would you, then? Oh, what would you?"

"Prove to me that your passion for me is blind, – furious! And that you would sacrifice all to it."

"Ah! – yes – all. But how?"

"I do not know, – but a moment since your eyes fascinated me. If again you give me one of those marks of intense love, which excite the imagination of a woman to madness, I know not of what I should not be capable. Make haste, then, for I am capricious, and to-morrow, perhaps, all the impression will be effaced."

"But what proof can I give you at this moment?" cried the notary.

"You are but a fool, after all!" replied Cecily, retreating from the aperture with an air of disdain. "I was deceived, – I believed you capable of energetic devotion. Goodnight! It's a pity!"

"Cecily, do not leave me! Return! What can I do?"

"I was but too much disposed to listen to you; you will never have such another opportunity."

"But oh, tell me what you would have!" cried the notary, half mad.

"Eh! If you were as passionately in love as you say, you would find means to persuade me. Good night!"

"Cecily."

"I will shut the door, instead of opening it."

"Cecily, – listen! I will give you yet another proof of my devotion."

"What is this proof of your love?" said the creole, who, having approached the mantelpiece to resume her dagger, returned slowly towards the door, lighted by the flame of the hearth. Then, unobserved by the notary, she made sure of the action of an iron chain, which terminated in two small knobs, one of which was screwed into the door, and the other into the door-post.

"Listen!" said Jacques Ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice, "listen! If I place my honour, my fortune, my life, at your mercy, – now, this very instant, – will you then believe I love you?"

"Your honour, your fortune, your life! I do not comprehend you."

"If I confide to you a secret which may bring me to the scaffold, will you then believe me?"

"You a criminal? You do but jest. What, then, of your austere life, – your piety, – your honesty?"

"All – all a lie!"

"You pass for a saint, and yet you boast of these iniquities! No, there is no man so craftily skilful, so fortunately bold, as thus to captivate the confidence and respect of men; that were, indeed, a fearful defiance cast in the teeth of society!"

"I am that man, – I have cast that sarcasm, that defiance, in the face of society!" exclaimed the monster, in a tone of ecstatic pride.

"Jacques! Jacques! Do not speak thus!" said Cecily, with a tone of emotion. "You make me mad!"

"My head for your love, – will you have it so?"

"Ah, this, indeed, is love! Here, take my poniard, – you disarm me!"

Jacques Ferrand took, through the wicket, the dangerous weapon, with due precaution, and flung it from him to a distance in the corridor.

"Cecily, you believe me, then!" he exclaimed with transport.

"Do I believe you?" said the creole, energetically pressing her beautiful fingers on the clasped hands of Jacques Ferrand. "Oh, yes, I do! For now, again, you look as you did a short time since, when my very soul seemed fascinated by your gaze."

"Cecily, you will speak the words of, truth – and truth only – to me?"