“It cannot be, it must not be too late!” she added, in the tone of a despot.
Women, pretty women, in the position of Madame de Serizy, are the spoiled children of French civilization.
If the women of other countries knew what a woman of fashion is in Paris, a woman of wealth and rank, they would all want to come and enjoy that splendid royalty.
The women who recognize no bonds but those of propriety, no law but the petty charter which has been more than once alluded to in this Comedie Humaine as the ladies’ Code, laugh at the statutes framed by men.
They say everything, they do not shrink from any blunder or hesitate at any folly, for they all accept the fact that they are irresponsible beings, answerable for nothing on earth but their good repute and their children.
They say the most preposterous things with a laugh, and are ready on every occasion to repeat the speech made in the early days of her married life by pretty Madame de Bauvan to her husband, whom she came to fetch away from the Palais:
“Make haste and pass sentence, and come away.”
“Madame,” said the public prosecutor, “Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre is not guilty either of robbery or of poisoning; but Monsieur Camusot has led him to confess a still greater crime.”
“What is that?” she asked.
“He acknowledged,” said Monsieur Camusot in her ear, “that he is the friend and pupil of an escaped convict.
The Abbe Carlos Herrera, the Spaniard with whom he has been living for the last seven years, is the notorious Jacques Collin.”
Madame de Serizy felt as if it were a blow from an iron rod at each word spoken by the judge, but this name was the finishing stroke.
“And the upshot of all this?” she said, in a voice that was no more than a breath.
“Is,” Monsieur de Granville went on, finishing the Countess’ sentence in an undertone, “that the convict will be committed for trial, and that if Lucien is not committed with him as having profited as an accessory to the man’s crimes, he must appear as a witness very seriously compromised.”
“Oh! never, never!” she cried aloud, with amazing firmness. “For my part, I should not hesitate between death and the disaster of seeing a man whom the world has known to be my dearest friend declared by the bench to be the accomplice of a convict. — The King has a great regard for my husband ——”
“Madame,” said the public prosecutor, also aloud, and with a smile, “the King has not the smallest power over the humblest examining judge in his kingdom, nor over the proceedings in any court of justice.
That is the grand feature of our new code of laws.
I myself have just congratulated M. Camusot on his skill ——”
“On his clumsiness,” said the Countess sharply, though Lucien’s intimacy with a scoundrel really disturbed her far less than his attachment to Esther.
“If you will read the minutes of the examination of the two prisoners by Monsieur Camusot, you will see that everything is in his hands ——”
After this speech, the only thing the public prosecutor could venture to say, and a flash of feminine — or, if you will, lawyer-like — cunning, he went to the door; then, turning round on the threshold, he added:
“Excuse me, madame; I have two words to say to Bauvan.”
Which, translated by the worldly wise, conveyed to the Countess:
“I do not want to witness the scene between you and Camusot.”
“What is this examination business?” said Leontine very blandly to Camusot, who stood downcast in the presence of the wife of one of the most important personages in the realm.
“Madame,” said Camusot, “a clerk writes down all the magistrate’s questions and the prisoner’s replies. This document is signed by the clerk, by the judge, and by the prisoner.
This evidence is the raw material of the subsequent proceedings; on it the accused are committed for trial, and remanded to appear before the Criminal Court.”
“Well, then,” said she, “if the evidence were suppressed ——?”
“Oh, madame, that is a crime which no magistrate could possibly commit — a crime against society.”
“It is a far worse crime against me to have ever allowed it to be recorded; still, at this moment it is the only evidence against Lucien.
Come, read me the minutes of his examination that I may see if there is still a way of salvation for us all, monsieur.
I do not speak for myself alone — I should quite calmly kill myself — but Monsieur de Serizy’s happiness is also at stake.”
“Pray, madame, do not suppose that I have forgotten the respect due you,” said Camusot.
“If Monsieur Popinot, for instance, had undertaken this case, you would have had worse luck than you have found with me; for he would not have come to consult Monsieur de Granville; no one would have heard anything about it.
I tell you, madame, everything has been seized in Monsieur Lucien’s lodging, even your letters ——”
“What! my letters!”
“Here they are, madame, in a sealed packet.”
The Countess in her agitation rang as if she had been at home, and the office-boy came in.
“A light,” said she.
The boy lighted a taper and placed it on the chimney-piece, while the Countess looked through the letters, counted them, crushed them in her hand, and flung them on the hearth.
In a few minutes she set the whole mass in a blaze, twisting up the last note to serve as a torch.
Camusot stood, looking rather foolish as he watched the papers burn, holding the legal documents in his hand.
The Countess, who seemed absorbed in the work of destroying the proofs of her passion, studied him out of the corner of her eye.
She took her time, she calculated her distance; with the spring of a cat she seized the two documents and threw them on the flames. But Camusot saved them; the Countess rushed on him and snatched back the burning papers.
A struggle ensued, Camusot calling out:
“Madame, but madame!
This is contempt — madame!”
A man hurried into the room, and the Countess could not repress a scream as she beheld the Comte de Serizy, followed by Monsieur de Granville and the Comte de Bauvan.
Leontine, however, determined to save Lucien at any cost, would not let go of the terrible stamped documents, which she clutched with the tenacity of a vise, though the flame had already burnt her delicate skin like a moxa.
At last Camusot, whose fingers also were smarting from the fire, seemed to be ashamed of the position; he let the papers go; there was nothing left of them but the portions so tightly held by the antagonists that the flame could not touch them.