The Crystal City Under the Sea (12 page)

“You are nearer than any one else to my mother and Hélène. Make them understand that I was powerless to disobey the imperious impulse which hurries me on. If I do not come back you will take my place with them.

“Yours ever,

“René Caoudal.

“P. S. It is ten o’clock in the morning. We are Just above the precise point where I have verified the locality of the submarine conservatory. There is just time to close, this letter and to seal up the bottle, which I am going to throw into the Gulf Stream; and I am going to make my great plunge. Adieu, everybody.”

CHAPTER XI
FUNERAL ORATIONS.

D
OCTOR PATRICE lost no time in showing the letter to Madame Caoudal and Helene. At first, on seeing her son’s writing, she believed him safe; but, after reading his letter and realizing that it was ‘dated three weeks back, she found it difficult to cherish any hope. All was over. Her René, her well-beloved, had met his death in this foolish enterprise. Moreover, she had always had a presentiment, or rather had always felt sure, that the rapacious sea would take her son from her, as it had taken his father. Those blue waves, which seemed to smile at the heavens, were to be the grave of all belonging to her. Kismet was written on them. How had she ever hoped for anything different ? Why struggle against fate ? Had she not known for certain how it would be, from the time that Rcne embraced the abhorred career ? Unhappy child! Had she not better have lost him in his cradle?— and not have fondled him, cherished and brought him up, only to suffer his irreparable loss by shipwreck! Was it not enough to drive her to despair? And the weeping mother abandoned herself to grief.

It was in vain that Hélène, forgetting her own .grief in order to combat that which was killing Madame Caoudal under her very eyes, forced herself to find words of consolation, to inspire in her aunt hopes which she herself no longer felt. Not only did Madame Caoudal repulse any arguments in favour of her son’s safety, but was irritated when Hélène timidly suggested that another, later, letter might have miscarried.

“How absurd you are, my dear child!” she cried. “Do letters get lost? In all your existence do you remember more than one instance

Patrice reading Renés letter.

of it, or two at the most? No, no, there are no letters because he has not written, and if he has not written, my poor boy, it is because he is—” And, unable to pronounce the terrible word, the unhappy woman hid her face in her hands,

“But, Aunt Alice,” persisted Hélène, her own eyes full of tears, “you know very well that. I am not speaking of ordinary letters, simply put in the post. This letter has come to us in an unusual way, by an unlooked-for courier. How do we know that he has not sent others that may be now floating on the water, waiting to be picked up?”

“ I tell you there is no chance of it,” cried Madame Caoudal, perhaps in order to hear herself contradicted, and to argue against her secret conviction. “No, I was a widow; I had but one son, and now I have no child — I survive all my loved ones — it is only myself that death does not wish for.”

“Oh, Aunt Alice, do I not belong to you? Are you childless as long as you have your little girl?”

“Forgive me, my dear child. Grief is making me unkind,” said the desolate mother, clasping the young girl in her arms. “Your affection is very sweet to me. You do not doubt it? In mourning him I mourn for you as well as for myself. If I lose a son, do not you lose a lover? And such a lover’ could any young girl wish for one more charming?”

“Nevertheless, I will not weep for him!” replied Hélène, with all the cheerfulness she could muster, not wishing to notice this embarrassing assumption. “Something tells me that he will come back to us— and then —what joy!”

“Poor little thing! you are young, — at your age one can still dare to hope against evidence. But I, you see, have suffered too much. It is all over. Besides, I knew beforehand how it would be.”

These were Madame Caoudal’s best moments. At other times, plunged in gloomy silence, she abandoned herself to grief in a way that wrung Hélène’s heart. The brave girl could find no words with which to heal so cruel a wound; the state of her aunt caused her so much grief and uneasiness, that she, herself, durst not indulge in the relief of tears.

Doctor Patrice did his best to second her affectionate efforts. But what could they say—what could they do—when they really shared her opinion? They thought at first it would be better to take her to “The Poplars,” thinking that in her own house, with all the familiar surroundings, and, above all, as far as possible from the sea, at which she could not look without shuddering, she might regain some degree of calmness, and might come in time to resign herself with less difficulty. But Madame Caoudal very decidedly opposed the suggestion. She would not quit that town till she heard something definite. “It was from this place he left; and it is to this place he will come back, — if he does come back,” she repeated. And they could only yield to a wish so clearly expressed. Hélène, herself, was really glad to stay where she was. It seemed to her that her aunt was right, and that René, if he came back at all, would come there. And then had they not received here the welcome sympathy of their new friends on board the Hercules, and of their old friend Stephen?

His devotion was indefatigable. If any one could have replaced the absent one, it would have been he. Every day she felt increasingly how much his sympathy helped her. Indeed, the young savant must have been blind not to have noticed it, but both he and Madame Caoudal seemed attacked with the same blindness, for, day after day, she persuaded herself still that Rend and Hélène were plighted lovers, while the sadness and reserve of the poor man became more and more marked. If Hélène could have overheard, unobserved, a conversation between the officers of the Hercules, perhaps she would have better understood this reserve. It was one evening when these gentlemen had left Madame Caoudal’s salon, after having spent the evening with her.

“Mademoiselle Rieux is truly charming!” began Harancourt. “She appears to be as good as she is pretty. How touching, her affection is for her sorely tried aunt!”

“True,” said Briant; “if the expression had not become too commonplace, one would say she is her guardian angel.”

“A very pretty little angel, who employs a very good dressmaker,” said that frivolous youth Bruyeres. “You know these ladies well, Patrice?”

“Very well,” replied the doctor, coldly.

“Happy mortal! And, I imagine. Mademoiselle Rieux has a very good income.”

“Probably,” answered Patrice, still more icily.

“Poor Caoudal! If he should not come back as is to be feared, his cousin will inherit his fortune?”

The doctor was silent.

“Will she inherit it?” repeated Bruyeres, lightly. “ Do not take offence at my question, I beg, for I bear no grudge against Caoudal, and do him no harm in merely stating what, after all, is the fact.”

“The devil!” ejaculated the captain. “If, indeed, Mademoiselle Rieux is the poor boy’s heiress, she will certainly be one of the wealthiest heiresses in the country. You know I come from their neighbourhood; I know their property.”

“Well, tell us, Patrice, what are the prospects of this charming guardian angel?” inquired Bruyeres, who seemed to take a malicious pleasure in tormenting the doctor.

“I know nothing whatever about the prospects of Mademoiselle Rieux,” replied Patrice, exasperated. “And, to speak plainly, I do not think the question concerns either you or me.”

Upon this, he turned on his heel, and made his way down a side street. Des Bruyeres burst into a laugh.

“Well, well, well! Can it be that he has designs in that quarter himself?” cried he. “We seem to be touching on delicate ground.”

“We must admit,” said the captain, “that the discussion is not in the best taste, and we cannot be surprised if an old friend of the family resents it.”

“On my honour that is true,” replied Bruyeres, frankly. “But I did not think I was sinning against propriety in proclaiming aloud my admiration for the charming young girl or in inquiring (quite disinterestedly, I assure you) the amount of her fortune.”

“The life of the poor mother will be crushed if that unhappy boy does not turn up,” said the captain, by way of changing the subject. “Can there be a more pitiable lot than that of sailors’ wives, mothers, sweethearts, sisters? There is always mourning hanging over them.”

“Oh, captain! I hope you are not going to spread such pessimistic views among marriageable young ladies,” said Bruyeres, with assumed anxiety. “That would handicap us all cruelly.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, my boy,” said Monsieur Harancourt; “it is not such as you that are likely to be regretted. Why did you worry poor Patrice like that?”

“Why does he worry himself at what I said? A cat may look at a king, they say, much more a lieutenant at an amiable young girl, it seems to me.”

“No matter,” interrupted Monsieur Briant, “ I am of the captain’s opinion, that such questions must trouble Patrice. Has he not shown himself a good fellow in declining to answer them?”

“Well, if everybody is of that opinion, good evening, I’m off. But I stick to what I have said. Mademoiselle Rieux is charming, and if she is rich into the bargain, the navy should enter the lists! And I, for one—I say it without any false modesty am ready to do my duty as an officer and a Frenchman,”

And, with a hearty laugh, he left his companions, who were in too serious a mood this evening to suit his taste.

As for Patrice, this new idea, presented in such a thoughtless manner by the lieutenant, was like a stab to him. If René were lost, Hélène would inherit his fortune! She would be, as the captain said, one of the richest heiresses in the country. He was, therefore, more than ever bound to watch over himself, lest he should betray his secret. If Hélène’s fortune were doubled, there was nothing for it but to fly, to leave nothing undone to stifle the love he felt for her. Oh, how he wished, more and more, that René would come safe and sound out of this unlucky adventure! Des Bruyeres had spoken as if he suspected something. Could it be that he, Patrice, looked as if he were seeking her for the sake of her money? Better that he never saw

The officers of the “Hercules”.

her again. What a pity it was! What a pity! She was so sweet! And Patrice was more sure than ever that their affection for one another was only that of brother and sister. Hence the grave, almost cold formality, which the doctor manifested from day to day, added an element of sadness and restraint to their existence, painful enough before.

Among all the friends of the ladies, he who affected to take the deepest interest in their fears and hopes was, beyond, a doubt, the Prince of Monte Cristo. At first, wherever he went, his one aim was to monopolize everybody’s attention. Whatever was going on, whether happy or unhappy, war, shipwreck, victory, or horse-racing, the marriage or decease of friends, his highness made it his business, wherever he found himself, to play the most prominent rôle. And, from the first, the worthy man had taken René’s disappearance in hand, so to speak. Every day he came, officious, important, talkative, to announce—that he had no news for them. Every day he perambulated the port, offering princely rewards to any one who would bring him news of the lost boat. He wrote letters to the papers informing them that “The Prince of Monte Cristo, deeply affected by the probable loss of his young collaborator, Lieutenant Caoudal (whom he had to some extent incited to the hazardous enterprise), intended to forego his usual summer cruise, and to institute ‘in person’ a search for him on board his yacht Cinderella.” Dead or alive, he announced, nobly, he would find his friend. The Monte Cristos, as every one knew, were faithful to their high birth. Their motto compelled them to be so. Everybody knew that it comprised the simple words: “Till Death.” And the last of his race would not jeopardize in his person the renown of his royal house.

Intoxicated by all this self-satisfaction, the worthy man became ubiquitous. He was either in the town, in the harbour, or in Madame Caoudal’s drawing-room; and the poor woman was nearly worn out. She had learnt to dread his ring at the door-bell, and the way in which he seated himself in front of her, throwing his gloves into his hat with a peremptory gesture, and slapping his knees after the manner of a man much pleased with himself.