The Crystal City Under the Sea (11 page)

CHAPTER X
HÉLÈNE RIEUX TO BERTHA LUZAN.

Y
OU complain, dear Bertha, that I have forsaken you by coming to Brest, and that I do not write often enough. You implore me to have pity on you and let you have news of us. You suspect me of forgetting my old friends in the midst of the gay doings on board the Hercules and the splendours of the Prefecture Maritime. That everything here interests me intensely I cannot deny; but, far from forgetting my dear Poplars, I hope I shall not be many weeks older before I find myself there, and near you again. I must confess that, if there were any danger of my head being turned, the vortex of entertainments and surprises invented here in our honour would affect me. Aunt Alice, herself, is captivated by it, and at the bottom of her heart: is, I really believe, all but reconciled to the enemy. Certainly she ought to know better than most people what French seamen are worth. Though the officers of the Hercules do not admit it, we agree in thinking the navy brilliantly represented here at present. But it is nothing to meet one of them now and again; to see them in perfection one must meet them all together on board the vessel, taking one by storm with their good-nature, their kind attentions, their liveliness, and chivalric devotion. Captain Harancourt is the most surprising of all; never have I seen more heartiness, more animation, or better waltzing! And they say he is a man of great courage — like all the others, for that matter! A beardless lieutenant, M. des Bruyeres, tells me that he is fifty if he is a day. Only the sea can produce such miracles. Amidst all our enjoyment, that which gives auntie and me the greatest pleasure is to hear the way they speak of our dear René, and to feel that all this display of gallantry is really to show us their esteem for him, their sincere admiration for his intrepidity, and their brotherly pride in him as a mess-mate. I write thus openly to you, dear Bertha, because I know that no one appreciates our sailor boy better than you. Many a time, when, for fear of grieving auntie, I have had to restrain

Hélène and Captain Harancourt.

myself from making a confidante other, I have found in you the faithful echo of my ambitions and hopes on the subject of my adopted brother’s career. Certainly, the path he has chosen is difficult and dangerous. With the taste for adventures which governs him, obstacles and perils multiply under his feet. While we are dancing, and going from fête to fête, one cannot forget that he is exposed to the most fearful risks; that he is all but alone at the bottom of the sea; that any minute the element he has dared to brave may turn upon him, swallow him up and destroy him in a twinkling. These apprehensions of mine, which I combat daily in my aunt, I dare not mention to any one but you. I feel sometimes tempted to speak of them to Stephen; but with his unfortunate mania for considering me as René’s fiancée, he would be sure to misinterpret my fears. And remembering your lectures on the subject, my sage Minerva, while refusing to sue tor his good graces, I refrain from tormenting him uselessly. Still I get very impatient now and then.

“I wish, as I said before, that the suspense was over. Though I do not own it to Aunt Alice, I begin to think that René’s absence is rather a long one. It is true he did not fix any precise time for his return, indeed, he hardly let us know when he intended to set out; but it is now twenty days since we saw the water close over the Titania, and he left us the next day. Ah! it was a beautiful sight, and I did feel proud! I felt nothing but joy and hope that day. How I laughed with Lieutenant Briant (another of these amiable fellows) at the scarcely veiled pretensions of the Prince of Monte Cristo! This noble personage, who is all polite attention to your humble servant, has the weakness to imagine himself— René’s first attempts having been made on board the Cinderella—the real inventor, and consequently the hero of the exploits of the Titania. He established himself here with his yacht for the day of the launching, and it was rare fun to see him strutting about on shore afterwards, boasting in a patronizing way of the merits of his ‘young associate,’ giving all to understand that the veritable explorer of the deep was the Prince of Monte Cristo. Everything was brilliant and gay that day, and I had no fears, for René’s face was full of confidence. I seemed to read success in it. If we only could get news of him! Every minute now seems longer and heavier. Forgive me, dear friend, for thus communicating my fears to you, but it is such a relief to me, since I am obliged to hide them from auntie. If they should prove vain, she may as well be spared them, but if not, heaven grant I may find resources of consolation and comfort for her, or that the need may be long deferred.

“Yours affectionately,

“Hélène.”

The gloomy presentiments which gradually filled poor Hélène’s courageous soul, and of which she unbosomed herself in her letter to her friend, did not take shape in Madame Caoudal’s mind. The reason of it was that her terror oi the sea and everything to do with it was, so to speak, chronic; and all her friends, out of respectful pity at the thought of what might be in store for her, rivalled each other in the ingenuity with which they sought to lull her possible fears, and to persuade her to pass in comparative quiet the days of suspense in which, while a disaster was dreaded, there was, at least, a chance of good news arriving. And so well did they succeed, that, while Hélène, as the days went by, felt doubt gnawing at her heart, René’s mother had never suspected what all around her were trying to hide from her.

It was by this time twenty-seven days since René and Kermadec had disappeared in search of the unknown. On board the Hercules they said already that some disaster, or at least some accident, must have befallen them. According to their calculation, Caoudal ought to have been able five or six times over to telegraph news of himself, from ports he would touch at. What could have prevented him? Had he exhausted his provisions, or his supply of air? Human strength and endurance have their limits; a man cannot live without rest and food at the bottom of the sea,—and then, he knew with what affectionate anxiety he was looked for at Brest. Surely, unless the Titania had perished with everything belonging to her, she would have given signs of life. This dark silence augured very badly.

Captain Harancourt, himself the least pessimistic of men, was of that opinion, and now, when he saw Madame Caoudal and her niece, did everything in his power in dissimulating the profound compassion he felt for them, and was still to all appearance the amiable and cheery man they knew, speaking without visible constraint about Caoudal’s enterprise, and affecting a confidence of which, in his heart of hearts, he had not a vestige left, Doctor Patrice was by no means the least anxious of them. Near neighbours of the Caoudals, whose domain touched their small property, his parents had always been intimate friends of the family; his father, a surgeon in the navy, like himself, had, when quite young, been present at the death of René’s grandfather, who was mortally wounded before Bo-marsund. Monsieur and Madame Patrice had known and appreciated him for whom Madame Caoudal had mourned the first year of her married life; and the widow, sustained in those cruel moments by the faithful friendship of her neighbours, had always remained attached to them by ties of recollection and gratitude. And when Stephen’s father and mother died, both of them long before the ordinary term nature has assigned to human life, the young man had found in Madame Caoudal a second mother.

She had encouraged him in his studies, and aided him in every way in his career, had always welcomed him at her fireside, and had procured for him the inestimable advantage, which nothing can replace afterwards, the appearance, manner, and tone which a youth learns by friendly intercourse with a well-bred woman. He felt for her a truly filial affection, and, with the full consciousness of all he owed to her, he could hardly help looking upon the irresistible love he felt for Hélène as a breach of confidence. He had been attracted by her, from almost the first Jay when she came to enliven “The Poplars,” by her brightness and gentleness. He had made it a rule to efface himself in favour of René from the time when that young gentleman had manifested the least willingness to satisfy his mother’s wish that he should marry Hélène; and, if sometimes it seemed to him that it was he whom she preferred, he shut his eyes resolutely to the dazzling vision. But, as it happened, all this delicacy was thrown away. Everything, from the first, was against the realization of the good lady’s wishes. Of an imperious nature and with a strong love of ruling, she failed to see that René, her very image in this respect, would object to being coerced in such a matter; and that he reserved to himself, not without a right, the privilege of choosing his future companion. Above all, she could not admit that, beautiful and accomplished as Hélène was, and sharing as she did his tastes, he should not reasonably prefer her to any one else; not understanding that, for an adventurous fellow like René, the strange, the unknown, would have a thousand times more attraction than the perfections he met with in his cousin. Stephen himself had seen and felt this for some time, but would not allow himself to build any hopes upon it. When he had heard René’s glowing description of his incomparable Undine, and had seen how she had become the subject of all his thoughts, a feeling of satisfaction came into his mind, but he quickly repressed it. Good heavens! What would Madame Caoudal say if she should have to face the possibility of receiving, as the future mistress of “The Poplars,” a woman clothed à la Grecque, a person speaking a mysterious language, a nymph, a siren! Truly, without being taxed with having rigorous provincial prejudice, one might be excused for recoiling before such a daughter-in-law, The fears that the doctor felt at this lime as to the fate of the Titania and her two passengers were mixed, therefore, with other confused personal apprehensions; a feverish expectation of some strange thing about to happen, some audacious enterprise, foolish, or, at any rate, out of the beaten track. It was in this state of mind that he received a message from the Prefecture Maritime, accompanied by a sealed packet;

“To Doctor Patrice;

“ Sir: — A tin case containing a bottle carefully corked and sealed, picked up at sea some distance west of this port by a fishing smack, has been handed in this evening at the Prefecture Maritime. When opened, the bottle was found to contain a glass tube, in which had been placed a letter carefully sealed and addressed to you, along with this note: “Please forward this letter without delay.” We hasten to profit by your sojourn at Brest, to send it to you at once. Believe me, sir, Yours, etc., etc,”

The doctor tore the letter open. It was from René!

“My Dear Stephen:

“It is now a week since I left yon. The Titania has proved all that I could wish; swift, strong, easy to manage, without any defects in her outer shell or her internal arrangements. I am now on good terms with myself, and feel ready to face those who have aided my invention. But that does not mean that I am coming back to Brest, to resume the peaceful monotony of my old life, without a longer cruise.

“You will fully understand me, or I am much mistaken. You know what it has been given to me to have a glimpse of. Having once set foot in this marvellous world, having been admitted to contemplate quasi-divine beings, and to hear the music of their language, having drunk of the cup placed to my lips by the hand of the enchantress, and having received from her a token of remembrance, is it possible, think you, for me to resign myself tamely to the cultivation of cabbages in my garden for the rest of my days, instead of occupying my time by adding something to the page of history? But you know me better. I might as well be stripped at once of youth and health. For reasons which I can guess, and which do you honour, you fear to encourage the hopes and wishes you perceived in me, and you have closed your ear to my confidences. It is all of no use, my dear fellow! No considerations or counsels of prudence can efface that which has happened to me; and that being so, there is only one course open to me: the imperious necessity of a complete understanding, the thirst to know the final outcome of this mystery, even if I burn my wings, or am altogether consumed. From the first day, on my awakening, fastened to the barrel and tossed about by the waves, my intention has been unaltered; I want to see her, speak to her, understand her, make myself understood by her. Night and day I have thought of her. Insane thoughts, some will say— thoughts of a man who should be shut up in a lunatic asylum. What would these wise people say if they knew that I have seen her again! Yes, again! At first, the obstacles seemed unsurmountable, the attempt foolish and hopeless; before the result was obtained it seemed as if I were playing a child’s game. What did I not suffer before arriving so far? Well protected, well caulked in my diving-bell, and quite at my ease, I descended repeatedly to the bottom of the ocean. I have made voyages of exploration in the Sea of the Azores which mortals in love with novelty would envy me. Was that altogether rash and foolish? It seems to me that humanity must be very indifferent, and have very little curiosity, to let the centuries accumulate without trying to penetrate the mystery hidden in our seas, in our globe! However, as I said before, I have seen her again. My divinity inhabits a crystal mansion through whose transparent walls I have been permitted to gaze for a second time upon her unrivalled perfections, I long to find my way into this palace. But how? By what means? I do not know, but I am ready for anything, any chance of accomplishing it. The only thing I am anxious about is the kind of reception I may meet with. I do not forget that the old man in the white robe was determined that my stay should not be prolonged more than was absolutely necessary. At the same time, I am equally sure that his charming daughter pleaded for me, and wished to keep me near her; and that, you see, gives me courage to brave anger much more formidable than that of her majestic guardian. Something tells me that she is waiting for me, that she finds me weak and tardy, armed as I am with her ring, in not yet having opened up some way of getting to her? What is her life like? What are her occupations in this fairy palace, so like a prison, withal? Perhaps she is wearied to death in the midst of the splendour. What is the mystery of this life of hers? A thousand hypotheses come into my brain, each in turn to be destroyed in my endeavours to solve it. I tell you all this, reserving to myself to make known the truth to everybody when I shall have discovered the clue. But when I recall the face which surpasses in beauty anything I could have imagined, and think of the enchanting accents of her voice, the legend of the sirens is no longer a myth to me, but must be based upon an incomplete adventure analogous to mine, of some traveller of ancient times. Any way, whatever comes of it, I will know soon, or perish in the attempt. Do not accuse me of folly or egotism, my dear Stephen. Make excuses for me, if I fail, to those whom I have left on shore. I swear to you that the power which guides me and compels me to act is irresistible. To remain inactive, to resolve never to pierce the mystery partly disclosed to me, would be to give the lie to my vocation, to condemn me to despair, or the folly of delay. I must go where I am called! It is because you will plead my case with those I love best on earth that I have told you this long story.