by Miss Skelton.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.3 #15 (Apr 1843).
Monsieur Achille was the richest banker in Paris. Born and bred a Jew, he had, when very young, from motives of interest, conformed to the Christian faith; he was now about forty years of age, but looked some years less, short, stout, sallow, with the features peculiar to his tribe, black hair, bushy whiskers, small piercing eyes, dressed in the extreme of the fashion, surrounded by every article of taste and luxury,—in all extraneous circumstances, a gentleman and a "bel esprit;" but in mind and heart, as in face and person, a Jew and a plebeian.
One morning, at the early hour of eleven, while seated at breakfast, he was startled by an announcement from his valet that the Duchess de Montifiore was waiting to see him in the grand saloon; that she had come on foot, and unattended, and had only at last given her name when she found it impossible to obtain admission without doing so. Monsieur Achille's pale cheek flushed, then faded to a double sallowness, then he smiled, then almost trembled,—at last, he desired his valet to return to the Duchess, and announce his speedy arrival; then having carefully revised his toilet, and fortified himself with a glass from one of the bottles of liqueur on the table before him, he descended to the grand saloon.
The Duchess was standing with her back to him, examining a picture of exquisite beauty, which hung on the opposite side of the room; he had time to close the door and advance half way up the apartment before she became aware of his entrance or turned to greet
him. When she did so, what a contrast did she present to him! She, in her calm and smiling beauty—so cold and so proud!—so supremely lovely! He, with his coarse and ordinary features, his ungainly figure, his embarrassed manner! The Duchess was a beautiful woman,—perhaps she had never looked more beautiful than she did at that moment,—her tall form drawn to its full height, her simple white robe and bonnet, her rich, unadorned hair, her pale lip trembling with a smile, the ineffable loveliness of which thrilled to the heart of the man before her, while he winced beneath its deep contempt.
She spoke first. "Monsieur Achille, I have come to beg a favour of you,—but pray sit down." (He obeyed her, and they seated themselves opposite to each other.) "I have come to ask you for money—we know how rich you are. You must know how affairs stand with us,—our revenues barely support our rank, our expenses are enormous; the sale of all my jewels will not raise sufficient to pay this debt of honour of my husband's—but it must be paid, and paid tomorrow. You, who know everything, must know all this; and to you, as the richest man in Paris, I come to request the loan—I might almost say, the gift—of thirty thousand louis d'or."
"Thirty thousand louis, Madam!—you ask half what I possess."
"Not so, Monsieur Achille; one successful speculation will restore it to you. You will scarcely miss it; to me, it will be life—more than life—honour. This, with the sale of my diamonds, will bring us barely through."
Monsieur Achille was silent for some time; then, with a bitter sneer, "Try De Valens and Beaufleur—will not these supply you?"
"You mock me—you know they cannot. Oh! Monsieur Achille, have mercy—have mercy!" and the Duchess, sinking on her knees, clasped her white hands, and laid them on his feet.
"You have had little mercy, Madam—you have had little mercy;" and then there was a pause. At last—"You love your husband, Madam?" "Better than my life," was the reply. "Then rise, Madam; seat yourself, and listen to me."
* * * * *
That evening, about nine o'clock, Monsieur Achille, dressed with the utmost elegance, shrouded in a large cloak, under which he carried a small but heavy packet, entered his cabriolet, and desiring his confidential valet to attend him, drove in the direction of the Hotel Montifiore. The drive was a long one; and he, proceeding at a leisurely pace, had time to reflect upon and ponder over the events of the day. She! whom he had so loved—she, who had so spurned, so despised him—the woman he had once sued and prayed to, whose laugh of derision had rung in his ears so long—she, so worshipped, so respected, whom calumny had never reached, who stood in the centre of a profligate court, purer than falling snow—she to be his, at last—bought, bought—with a price—she, to whom all the nobles of the land had sighed in vain, reserved at last for him!
At the corner of the street in which stood the Hotel Montifiore he stopped, and gave the reins into the hands of his valet; he told him he was going on business to the Duke de Montifiore; that if the nobleman was from home, he should wait until he returned; that he expected his cabriolet to be at that same spot in two hours' time, and that, if he was not there to meet it, wished his servant to take it home, and he would return on foot, and on no account to mention where he had left him, or to give any clue as to the proceedings and destination of that evening.
The valet obeyed these orders to the letter. Monsieur Achille reached the Hotel Montifiore, and pausing at a small side entrance into the court, gave a low whistle; the door was immediately opened by a figure so muffled that it was impossible to distinguish either its sex or age: with a silent movement, it beckoned him to follow; they crossed the court, and reached a small and dark apartment,—they paused.
"I have brought it all, most lovely Duchess. And now—" he took tenderly the extended hand of the figure—the grasp that met his was one of iron.
"Is it all gold?"
"All gold," he answered; and this was the last word he ever uttered.
Monsieur Achille was missing for two days; and great excitement prevailed in consequence; on the third day, his body was found in the river, some miles from the place where his valet stated he had seen him last; his pockets were rifled, his jewels gone; a ghastly wound in his breast shewed how he had died.
His servants were all strictly examined, when the valet made his statement; in consequence of which a visit was instantly paid by the commissioners of police to the Hotel Montifiore, the result of which visit was that the valet was arrested and tried for the murder and robbery of his master. Want of evidence led to his acquittal; but while in confinement, nothing could exceed the kindness of the Duchess towards him, or her liberality after his release. She, so beautiful, so beloved, she was still the same,—as calm, as proud, as apart as ever! Made to adorn the world, to her that world was nothing,—over her it had no power!
Among her intimate friends, she was heard to lament the death of Monsieur Achille, as the means of depriving her husband of a large loan which he was to have received on the night on which the murder was committed, and of which it was supposed Monsieur Achille was robbed while in the act of bringing it to the Hotel Montifiore. She also regretted having been obliged to part with some of her splendid diamonds, in order to raise sufficient to pay her husband's debts of honour.
All these debts were paid; and, after a time, those matchless gems again blazed amid the pale gold of her rich hair, and spanned the snowy circle of her arm: the tresses were like sunlight, the arm like Parian marble, the diamonds without price;—none saw or dreamt of the blood—the blood—that bound them round that bright head, clasped them on that arm, chained them to each other.
Monsieur Achille was soon forgotten. The Duke and Duchess de Montifiore lived long and happy lives; no cloud ever seemed to shade his gay and open brow, or dim the lustre of her glorious beauty. His debts once paid, no future embarrassments darkened their prospects; one bright path of unbroken prosperity alone remained for them: they died as they had lived, honoured, respected, admired, and bequeathed to those around and beneath them the almost singular example of great rank, unblemished descent, unbounded wealth, united with all perfections of mind, character, and conduct.