The Blue Duchess

certainty, of the dramatic discovery at the rooms in the Rue Nouvelle she had not revealed the whole truth to me. She had already resolved on an audacious pl

ay and hour of their next meeting. This slender Madam de Bonnivet, in whom I had diagnosed signs of the most immovable coldness—a detail which in parenthesis Molan later on brutally confirmed—was like most women of thi

door of the house, to approach her as she got out of her cab and spit out into her face her hatred and contempt there on the pavement in the street. At the thought of the arrogant Madam de Bonnivet trembling before her like a thief caught in the act, the outraged actress experienced a tremor of satisfied revenge. Her vengeance would be more complete still. The infamous trap into which Jacques and Madam de Bonnivet had lured her, the abominable invitation to perform at her rival’s evening

oman, and when she left the Rue de la Barouillére to go to the Rue Nouvelle, she had neither slept nor eaten for thirty-six hours. At half-past three she was on the pavement in front of the windows of the rooms walking up and down wrapped in her cloak and unrecognizable through her double veil, never losing sight of the door through which her rival must go. There was at the corner of the Rue de Cl

d the time and place of the appointment, and the idea maddened her. They had seen one another so often since she had 195listened to their caresses and familiarity so close to her. Who knows? Perhaps the porter had n

d with sleet, which made her shiver. She cast a desperate glance at the impenetrable windows with their closed shutters from which no gleam of light came, and was preparing to depart, when in searching the short street with her

tive male, the murderous brute, and whose eyes, nostrils, mouth announced his desire to kill whatever happened. He was there scanning the street 196with savage glances. The half turned-up otter-skin collar of his overcoat gave to his red hair and high colour a more sinister look, and the bare ungloved hand with which he lifted the curtain

s a good fellow, who had been well supplied with theatre tickets by his lodger, and was proud of the latter’s fame as an author, the rooms which had seen the poor Blue Duchess so happy and so miserable in turn without doubt would have served as the theatre for a sanguinary dénouement. It was indeed the desire for a tragic vengeance which Camille Favier saw upon the face, in the nostrils, around the mouth, and in the eyes of the man’s 197face she had seen at the carriage window in the dim light furnished by a gas jet in the darkness, looking for a proof of his

her first spite, her furious jealousy, the legitimate sorrow of her wounded passion and her appetite for revenge all combined into one feeling. She realized nothing but the danger Jacques was i

t once without a second’s delay possessed her with irresistible force. What could she do but hasten to the Place Delaborde, where she had a last chance of meeting Molan? She was afraid she would be noticed by Bonnivet, or he might hear her voice, if she took one of the cabs on the rank, so she hurried along the Rue de Clichy like a mad woman, calling cab after cab, and feeling, when at last she took her seat in an empty one, the horrible attack of a fresh hypothesis which almost made her faint. Supposing the two lov

only seconds, but halves and quarters of a second 199are counted, does real sentiment possess a mysterious double sight which decides persons with more certainty than any calculation or reasoning could do? Or are there, as Jacques Molan love

danger sometimes inspires in souls like hers, passive on their own behalf, but all flame and energy in defence of their love. She could see that Bonnivet’s carriage was still in the same place. Her umbrella up to protect her from the sleet was sure to hide her face as she walked bravely along past the car

M. Molan is not here,” he replied when

taking the astonished porter’s arm and pulling him out of the lodge. “Look in that carriage at the corner of the street on the right and take care you are not seen. You will see some one watching the house. He is the woman’s husband. If you want blood here directly when she leaves, all you have

ion and destruction in similar crises, sometimes by the most insignificant of coincidences, that luck whose constant favour to the audacious Jacques I mention

201me if a M. Molan lived here, and when I replied 'No’ according to orders, he took a pocket-book from his pocket. 'What do you take me for?’

n us like automatic mechanism in the confusion of necessity. A plan formed itself in her imagination in which the honest porter would take a part, she knew, for Molan knew the way to make himself liked. “You will not prevent that man from staying there,” she

him he will understand, and if it is his wife, he has the right not to want to be what he is. I meant

Now go and call a cab, but do not bring it 202into the c

had opened so many times with such sweet emotion, she had, in spite of the imminent danger, a moment’s weakness. The woman in her in a momentary flash revolted against the devotion love had suggested in such a rapid, almost animal, way, just as she would have jumped into the water to save Jacques if she had seen him drowning. Alas! she was not saving him alo

longed ring which gives an accent of mad insistence to the bell. She could see in her mind as clearly as if she were in the room the two lovers, attracted by the bell, first laughing at the thought that it was an inopportune visitor, then exchanging glances in silence, Madam de Bonnivet in affright, and Jacques trying to reassure her, as they both got up. How she would have liked to have shouted “qu

pen the door, I beg of you, your life is in danger.

the risk of attracting the attention of some other resident in the house; she knocked at the door and called out: “Jacques, Jacques, open the door!” and she repeated: “Pierre de Bonnivet is below!”

appens we shall get discharged. Where shall

” she said, “and see if th

see,” he said, “you are going to slip the note under the door. But that won’t get the lady out. If I had a row with the fellow,

ty of the danger, help smiling at the idea of a struggle between the man of the peopl

r on which she had written: “Jacques, I want to save you. At least believe in the love you have betrayed. What more can I say? Open the door. I swear to you

eart she watched her white note immediately disappear! A hand drew it inside. She could hear the rustle of the paper as the hand unfolded it and the noise of a window opening. Jacques was looking into the street, as she had told him to do, to verify for himself, in spite of the increasing darkness, the accuracy of the information contained in the strange missive. To the poor Duchess, although she had indicated the method of verificat

what is it? You know if you are ly

es, I was in that room, there behind the alcove, and I heard everything; do you understand? everything, I did not come out and I let you go. There is no question of that. The husband of that woman is at the

of slanderous articles, fought very unnecessarily and very bravely. Perhaps too, for the idea of playing to the gallery is never absent from certain minds even in solemn moments, he was thinking of the report of the drama, if drama there was, which the newspapers would publish far and wide. A few words he said to me later make one think so: “You

you. It is enough. I kn

onceal herself. He must follow the cab and leave this street clear for her to escape during that time. Ah, well! you must go out with me. There is a cab waiting. I have had it fetched. We will get into it; do not refuse and do not argue. Bonnivet will see us do so and will follow us in his carriage. He will expect to surprise you with her; he will surprise you with me, and you will

able and inevitable. Jacques went into the drawing-room into which the anteroom opened, while Camille remained standing against the wall in the outer room. “I had a knife in my heart,” she told me afterwards, “and also a savage joy at the idea that I was overwhelming her by what I was doing; it was a sorrowful

king place in the other room between the traitor for whom her devotion was meant and the accomplice in his treachery. At last the door opened and Jacques reappeared. He had his hat on his head and his fur collar turned up to conceal half his face. He had in his hand Madam de Bonnivet’s astra

ning of the window after the note to make sure that Bonnivet was really there. They descended the staircase without exchanging a word. At the lodge, while Jacques was telling the porter to call

very well with this millionairess’ jacket. But at this distance and this time in the evening it will not be noticeable.

owing us,”

He could still find no words to thank her, and to relieve 210his embarrassment he tried, as he had often done when they were in a cab together, and had had a quarrel, to put

er, neve

lling her by a pet name he

ted, “the woman of whom you are ta

d. “Ah! how you love me to ha

ne without the two lovers exchanging any other words than this question which Camil

en the sound of the bell surprised him in Madam de Bonnivet’s arms. Would the husband be duped by the plan Camille had thought out? The fact of his waiting till their cab stopped to approach 211the two fugitives testified to his uncertainty, or else, sure of not losing sigh

ther carriage stop too and Bonnivet get out. He will rush towards us, and then we shall need all ou

Life is like that, oscillating from one to the other of these two poles with an instantaneousness which has never been expressed, I think, by any writer and never will be. The change is too

cowered against Molan who had by this time also got out of the cab, and who, as if surprised at reco

is M. de

ion a sudden, immense and unhoped-for joy quivered. The jealous husband had a proof that his suspicions were false. “I thought I recognized the friend of a friend of mine, and in Molan the friend hims

to face with a real danger: “I live quite close here. I asked the famous author to see me home after rehearsal, and I had scruples about letting him return alone and on foot to civilization. I am going to get into my c

vely smile, and 213made towards the left side of the church where the sa

her mother

hom he had all day been planning to kill, and he pushed him into his carriage, which was splashed with mud right up to the box through this fierce pursuit across Paris, saying as he did so: “Where shall I drop you? You know your Mademoiselle Favier is quite charming, with such distinction of ma