The new terror
from the entire expression of her face.
And now I understood what she meant when she wrote: “A portrait should
represent something more than the mere lineaments of a person; it
should convey the expression of the soul.”
She was obviously acquainted therefore with painting like that which
that day had enraptured us, and also doubtless with the painter
himself, who had sent this “offering” for the wedding.
It was no longer possible for me to doubt it!
I bent over the canvas to discover if the portrait was signed. I
deciphered the one letter “P.”
My uncle and Cordélia were not present to satisfy my curiosity. I went
to look for them but could not find them. I was told that Cordélia had
retired to her room in order to have a short rest.
Our guests were beginning to take their leave. My uncle rejoined me.
The pallor which had made such an impression on me was gone. On the
other hand he was in high good humor and very talkative as he wished
good-bye to his guests. He glanced at me from time to time and smiled
broadly as how should say: “Be happy. All goes well.”
What was the cause of his sudden perturbation during that memorable day?
Yielding to a latent impulse which had been growing in me since the
scene over the portrait, I returned to the drawing-room where the
wedding presents were on show. The portrait was gone.
I asked old Surdon what had become of the masterpiece. He made answer
that by “Mademoiselle’s” orders—he could not get accustomed to call her
“Madame”—he had himself taken it down into the cellar.
When I expressed my astonishment, he assured me that it was the very
place for the devil’s own painting.
I stopped him as he was making off and said:
“Do you know the man who painted the portrait?”
“You have other things to do, monsieur, to-day, than to bother about
such nonsense,” he returned, giving me a look and frowning.
He wanted to slip away, but I held him back.
“Look here, Surdon, I am going to ask you one question, but you will
have to answer me if we are to remain good friends. When I went to
Hennequeville I saw a man outside the garden gate looking up at the
empty house. I was told that this man was an English painter whom
people in the district regarded as slightly ‘touched.’ Is this the man
who sent the portrait to your mistress to-day?”
But Surdon stubbornly turned away, answering me in words which
exasperated me:
“I have already told you, monsieur, that the whole thing is nonsense.”
I was raging within myself and did not know what to say.
Surdon was right, however. That was a day on which nothing but my
happiness ought to have occupied my mind, and here was I questioning
a servant in secret upon incidents which, obviously, were not now
serious, and from which, to all appearance, it was desired to spare me
out of good feeling.
I retired in a more or less ill temper to a secluded part of the park,
which I never cared for because of my thinking it was a dreary place. I
was surprised to find myself harboring thoughts which were unworthy of
Cordélia and me. But, as has been said, man is a foolish animal.
Just then my uncle came up to me. He was in traveling clothes. He had
in fact decided to leave that same evening for Caen. He at once said
that he had something to tell me in confidence; something, however, of
no great importance to which he would certainly not have alluded but
for Surdon, who had acquainted him of my curiosity with regard to the
portrait of Cordélia.
CHAPTER VI
PATRICK
I felt somewhat disconcerted, but as occasionally happens in moments of
trepidation, I managed to overcome the difficulty by a bold stroke.
“I say, Uncle, you must excuse me,” I began, “but accident led me
across the path of a man who was gazing gloomily at the house at
Hennequeville, and I was told he was a painter. I thought, perhaps,
that there was some connection between this painter and the portrait
which came to-day, and also certain incidents which caused me, before
our marriage, a great deal of pain.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your hurried departure to....”
“Well, that’s true, and it was about this that I wanted to speak to
you, so that the subject should never again be mentioned between us.
You must know that Cordélia came back to the house one evening with a
stranger whom she had discovered in a farmyard painting some wench
feeding her fowls. She declared that he was a wonderful artist and she
was very grateful to him for agreeing to accept her as a pupil.
“The stranger used to laugh at her youthful enthusiasm and he conducted
himself like a gentleman. He was an Englishman of good family, slightly
eccentric, possessing views on most things which were peculiar to
himself. I did not always follow what he meant, but his ideas cast a
spell over Cordélia for the time being. I saw no reason why they should
not work together either in the house or the country round. Patrick,
for such is his christian name, and the only one by which he signs his
paintings, lived in a cottage on the borders of Tongues forest.
“I was at that time greatly taken up with business which compelled me
to go frequently to Paris, and I failed to perceive the changes which
were taking place in Cordélia.
“It was Surdon and his wife who called my attention to the fact that
she had lost her vivacity, no longer played at farming, or mounted her
horse, but spent her whole time in painting or reading or dreaming,
leaving the house only when the stranger made an appointment to go
sketching in some part of the country, and returning thoughtful and
silent.
“I then took stock of Cordélia and was amazed to discover a new look
on her face. She was now as grave as she used to be gay, and wore a
curious absorbed expression as though lost in a reverie. I bitterly
reproached myself for my carelessness and oversight. However, I said
nothing, the better to keep a watch over her. I soon saw for myself
that Cordélia was living only through the medium of this man Patrick’s
thought.”
“Oh, good Heavens! that’s just what I feared,” I gasped.
“Don’t worry yourself,” went on my uncle, “for as you will see, the
whole business is of no consequence. Do you know the sort of man
Cordélia had to do with?”
“A rogue,” I returned.
“That’s just it. A sort of mountebank who tried to persuade her that
the moon was made of green cheese, and told her a pack of silly tales
about his psychic powers and such-like nonsense, which ended by turning
her head.”
“But did she still love me?” I inquired.
“I believe she still loved you, only she didn’t want to be married!”
“Oh, good Heavens!” I exclaimed.
“I will tell you what happened, and you will see that the whole thing
is of no consequence.”
“Forgive me, Uncle, but I can plainly see that what you tell me is of
the utmost consequence. I never dreamt that it was going to be of so
much consequence!”
“Look here, my boy, you make me ill. Are you a man or not? Aren’t
you married to a girl whom you adore and who loves you now that her
eyes have been opened? If to-morrow morning there is any question of
this imposter of a Patrick may the devil take me! I’ll never shake
you by the hand again. So listen to me, for we must have done with
this business.... I discovered in a desk in the studio a regular
correspondence carried on between Cordélia and Patrick in secret.”
“Well, that’s about the limit!”
“This correspondence,” continued my uncle, “is what these people call a
correspondence between souls. And I can assure you, my dear Hector, it
is not this psychic communion, to use their own words, that will make
me a grandfather one of these days!... Almost at the same time I found
in Cordélia’s room, in addition to this rubbish, a new bookcase crammed
with works on magic. Yes, a library of occult science. An incredible
number of books on the unseen world, on faces and souls. Can’t you
picture a book on ‘faces and souls’? Oh and an illustrated work on
stigmatism, mediums, thaumaturgy and what not....
“To prove to you, my dear fellow, that the whole business is of no
consequence, I must tell you that I had no need even to see Patrick
to get rid of him. Everything came out in the most natural way from
Cordélia, who was always a sensible girl, and herself realized the
danger which she was incurring by listening to this charlatan. When she
discovered me in the thick of all these books and Patrick’s letters
before me, she threw her arms round my neck and cried: ‘Save me,
Papa!’”
“Dear, dear, dear Cordélia!” I could not help interjecting. “That’s
like her old self. I recognize her there!”
“‘Yes, I’ll save you from that madman, my Cordélia,’ I replied. ‘Hector
will soon be home from America, and you shall be married.’ And it was
then, my dear Hector, that she said: ‘But I can’t marry Hector. Patrick
has forbidden me.’”
“Ah, yes!” I said, gasping anew. “Ah yes!... This is too thick....
Really this Patrick having the cheek to forbid her to marry me!”
“Yes, she declared that she was morally bound to obey Patrick, as her
mind belonged to him.”
“Her mind belonged to him! Why hang it all, this beats everything. And
what reply did you make, pray?”
“I said to her: ‘Pack up your things, my dear, and we’ll make a trip
to some part of Europe where there will be no danger of meeting this
delightful gentleman, and above all, let’s have no more letter
writing. We’ll talk about all this again in a couple of months’
time’.... Well, we left here as you know and there was no need to wait
a couple of months. At the end of six weeks this Patrick was forgotten,
and Cordélia thought only of you. And now, my dear boy, say good-by.
Cordélia is yours, and I hope that you won’t have any difficulty in
keeping her. Bless my soul, do your best to make her happy!”
Having said which, he clasped me in his arms almost stifling me, and
left me, muttering between his teeth:
“Stuff and nonsense. Stuff and nonsense.”
When I got back to the house Mathilde, old Surdon’s wife, told me that
her mistress was expecting me in her room. I entered, and my eyes fell
on a dainty little champagne supper which lay ready for us, and it
was none too soon, for Cordélia and I had eaten nothing or scarcely
anything during the day, our attention being fully occupied in greeting
our guests and returning their civilities.
The table was set in the boudoir, and the door leading to Cordélia’s
room was closed. I stood there like a great stupid. I dared not knock
at the door, and I began to cough as I stared fatuously at the walls
which I myself had papered.
At that moment the door was softly opened and I heard Cordélia say once
more in her laughing voice: “Gracious, how ugly! Gracious, how ugly!”
I looked round and joined in the laugh, for this time I knew that she
was not alluding to me.
I was surprised to see her muffled up in a fur cloak.
“Hallo, have you caught cold?” I exclaimed.
“I haven’t caught cold,” she made answer. “I am cold. Don’t you find it
bitterly cold?”
I thought she was jesting, for as a matter of fact, the day had been
unusually warm for the time of the year, and a pleasant wood fire was
blazing in the boudoir which I could very well have dispensed with.
“You know that those sables suit you to perfection, and it’s a little
affectation on your part. Not that I have the faintest objection, but
you’ll be suffocated in them.”
She replied with a shiver and summoned Mathilde to put more wood on the
fire.
My heart sank within me, for I imagined that she must be really out of
sorts.
“I tell you there’s nothing the matter with me,” she said, taking
things very simply, “I feel cold. It might happen to any one to feel
cold. I won’t have you worrying yourself about me. I can’t pretend to