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<h1>The Deserted Woman,
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The Deserted Woman
by Honore de Balzac
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</pre>
<p>THE DESERTED WOMAN</p>
<p>by HONORE DE BALZAC</p>
<p><br>
Translated By<br>
Ellen Marriage</p>
<p>DEDICATION</p>
<p>To Her Grace the Duchesse d'Abrantes,<br>
from her devoted servant,<br>
Honore de Balzac.<br>
PARIS, August 1835.</p>
<p> </p>
<h1><br>
THE DESERTED WOMAN</h1>
<h1> </h1>
<p>In the early spring of 1822, the Paris doctors sent to Lower
Normandy<br>
a young man just recovering from an inflammatory complaint,
brought on<br>
by overstudy, or perhaps by excess of some other kind. His<br>
convalescence demanded complete rest, a light diet, bracing air,
and<br>
freedom from excitement of every kind, and the fat lands of
Bessin<br>
seemed to offer all these conditions of recovery. To Bayeux,
a<br>
picturesque place about six miles from the sea, the patient
therefore<br>
betook himself, and was received with the cordiality
characteristic of<br>
relatives who lead very retired lives, and regard a new arrival
as a<br>
godsend.</p>
<p><br>
All little towns are alike, save for a few local customs. When
M. le<br>
Baron Gaston de Nueil, the young Parisian in question, had spent
two<br>
or three evenings in his cousin's house, or with the friends who
made<br>
up Mme. de Sainte-Severe's circle, he very soon had made the<br>
acquaintance of the persons whom this exclusive society
considered to<br>
be "the whole town." Gaston de Nueil recognized in them the
invariable<br>
stock characters which every observer finds in every one of the
many<br>
capitals of the little States which made up the France of an
older<br>
day.</p>
<p>First of all comes the family whose claims to nobility are
regarded as<br>
incontestable, and of the highest antiquity in the department,
though<br>
no one has so much as heard of them a bare fifty leagues away.
This<br>
species of royal family on a small scale is distantly, but<br>
unmistakably, connected with the Navarreins and the Grandlieu
family,<br>
and related to the Cadignans, and the Blamont-Chauvrys. The head
of<br>
the illustrious house is invariably a determined sportsman. He
has no<br>
manners, crushes everybody else with his nominal
superiority,<br>
tolerates the sub-prefect much as he submits to the taxes,
and<br>
declines to acknowledge any of the novel powers created by
the<br>
nineteenth century, pointing out to you as a political
monstrosity the<br>
fact that the prime minister is a man of no birth. His wife
takes a<br>
decided tone, and talks in a loud voice. She has had adorers in
her<br>
time, but takes the sacrament regularly at Easter. She brings up
her<br>
daughters badly, and is of the opinion that they will always be
rich<br>
enough with their name.</p>
<p>Neither husband nor wife has the remotest idea of modern
luxury. They<br>
retain a livery only seen elsewhere on the stage, and cling to
old<br>
fashions in plate, furniture, and equipages, as in language and
manner<br>
of life. This is a kind of ancient state, moreover, that
suits<br>
passably well with provincial thrift. The good folk are, in
fact, the<br>
lords of the manor of a bygone age, /minus/ the quitrents and
heriots,<br>
the pack of hounds and the laced coats; full of honor among<br>
themselves, and one and all loyally devoted to princes whom they
only<br>
see at a distance. The historical house /incognito/ is as quaint
a<br>
survival as a piece of ancient tapestry. Vegetating somewhere
among<br>
them there is sure to be an uncle or a brother, a
lieutenant-general,<br>
an old courtier of the Kings's, who wears the red ribbon of the
order<br>
of Saint-Louis, and went to Hanover with the Marechal de
Richelieu:<br>
and here you will find him like a stray leaf out of some old
pamphlet<br>
of the time of Louis Quinze.</p>
<p>This fossil greatness finds a rival in another house,
wealthier,<br>
though of less ancient lineage. Husband and wife spend a couple
of<br>
months of every winter in Paris, bringing back with them its
frivolous<br>
tone and short-lived contemporary crazes. Madame is a woman
of<br>
fashion, though she looks rather conscious of her clothes, and
is<br>
always behind the mode. She scoffs, however, at the ignorance
affected<br>
by her neighbors. /Her/ plate is of modern fashion; she has
"grooms,"<br>
Negroes, a valet-de-chambre, and what-not. Her oldest son drives
a<br>
tilbury, and does nothing (the estate is entailed upon him),
his<br>
younger brother is auditor to a Council of State. The father is
well<br>
posted up in official scandals, and tells you anecdotes of
Louis<br>
XVIII. and Madame du Cayla. He invests his money in the five
per<br>
cents, and is careful to avoid the topic of cider, but has been
known<br>
occasionally to fall a victim to the craze for rectifying
the<br>
conjectural sums-total of the various fortunes of the
department. He<br>
is a member of the Departmental Council, has his clothes from
Paris,<br>
and wears the Cross of the Legion of Honor. In short, he is a
country<br>
gentleman who has fully grasped the significance of the
Restoration,<br>
and is coining money at the Chamber, but his Royalism is less
pure<br>
than that of the rival house; he takes the /Gazette/ and the
/Debats/,<br>
the other family only read the /Quotidienne/.</p>
<p>His lordship the Bishop, a sometime Vicar-General, fluctuates
between<br>
the two powers, who pay him the respect due to religion, but at
times<br>
they bring home to him the moral appended by the worthy
Lafontaine to<br>
the fable of the /Ass laden with Relics/. The good man's origin
is<br>
distinctly plebeian.</p>
<p>Then come stars of the second magnitude, men of family with
ten or<br>
twelve hundred livres a year, captains in the navy or
cavalry<br>
regiments, or nothing at all. Out on the roads, on horseback,
they<br>
rank half-way between the cure bearing the sacraments and the
tax<br>
collector on his rounds. Pretty nearly all of them have been in
the<br>
Pages or in the Household Troops, and now are peaceably ending
their<br>
days in a /faisance-valoir/, more interested in felling timber
and the<br>
cider prospects than in the Monarchy.</p>
<p>Still they talk of the Charter and the Liberals while the
cards are<br>
making, or over a game at backgammon, when they have exhausted
the<br>
usual stock of /dots/, and have married everybody off according
to the<br>
genealogies which they all know by heart. Their womenkind are
haughty<br>
dames, who assume the airs of Court ladies in their basket
chaises.<br>
They huddle themselves up in shawls and caps by way of full
dress; and<br>
twice a year, after ripe deliberation, have a new bonnet from
Paris,<br>
brought as opportunity offers. Exemplary wives are they for the
most<br>
part, and garrulous.</p>
<p>These are the principal elements of aristocratic gentility,
with a few<br>
outlying old maids of good family, spinsters who have solved
the<br>
problem: given a human being, to remain absolutely stationary.
They<br>
might be sealed up in the houses where you see them; their faces
and<br>
their dresses are literally part of the fixtures of the town,
and the<br>
province in which they dwell. They are its tradition, its
memory, its<br>
quintessence, the /genius loci/ incarnate. There is something
frigid<br>
and monumental about these ladies; they know exactly when to
laugh and<br>
when to shake their heads, and every now and then give out
some<br>
utterance which passes current as a witticism.</p>
<p>A few rich townspeople have crept into the miniature Faubourg
Saint-<br>
Germain, thanks to their money or their aristocratic leanings.
But<br>
despite their forty years, the circle still say of them, "Young
So-<br>
and-so has sound opinions," and of such do they make deputies.
As a<br>
rule, the elderly spinsters are their patronesses, not
without<br>
comment.</p>
<p>Finally, in this exclusive little set include two or three<br>
ecclesiastics, admitted for the sake of their cloth, or for
their wit;<br>
for these great nobles find their own society rather dull,
and<br>
introduce the bourgeois element into their drawing-rooms, as a
baker<br>
puts leaven into his dough.</p>
<p>The sum-total contained by all heads put together consists of
a<br>
certain quantity of antiquated notions; a few new inflections
brewed<br>
in company of an evening being added from time to time to the
common<br>
stock. Like sea-water in a little creek, the phrases which
represent<br>
these ideas surge up daily, punctually obeying the tidal laws
of<br>
conversation in their flow and ebb; you hear the hollow echo
of<br>
yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, a year hence, and for evermore. On
all<br>
things here below they pass immutable judgments, which go to
make up a<br>
body of tradition into which no power of mortal man can infuse
one<br>
drop of wit or sense. The lives of these persons revolve with
the<br>
regularity of clockwork in an orbit of use and wont which admits
of no<br>
more deviation or change than their opinions on matters
religious,<br>
political, moral, or literary.</p>
<p>If a stranger is admitted to the /cenacle/, every member of it
in turn<br>
will say (not without a trace of irony), "You will not find
the<br>
brilliancy of your Parisian society here," and proceed forthwith
to<br>
criticise the life led by his neighbors, as if he himself were
an<br>
exception who had striven, and vainly striven, to enlighten the
rest.<br>
But any stranger so ill advised as to concur in any of their
freely<br>
expressed criticism of each other, is pronounced at once to be
an ill-<br>
natured person, a heathen, an outlaw, a reprobate Parisian
"as<br>
Parisians mostly are."</p>
<p>Before Gaston de Nueil made his appearance in this little
world of<br>
strictly observed etiquette, where every detail of life is
an<br>
integrant part of a whole, and everything is known; where the
values<br>
of personalty and real estate is quoted like stocks on the vast
sheet<br>
of the newspaper--before his arrival he had been weighed in
the<br>
unerring scales of Bayeusaine judgment.</p>
<p>His cousin, Mme. de Sainte-Severe, had already given out the
amount of<br>
his fortune, and the sum of his expectations, had produced the
family<br>
tree, and expatiated on the talents, breeding, and modesty of
this<br>
particular branch. So he received the precise amount of
attentions to<br>
which he was entitled; he was accepted as a worthy scion of a
good<br>
stock; and, for he was but twenty-three, was made welcome
without<br>
ceremony, though certain young ladies and mothers of daughters
looked<br>
not unkindly upon him.</p>
<p>He had an income of eighteen thousand livres from land in the
valley<br>
of the Auge; and sooner or later his father, as in duty bound,
would<br>
leave him the chateau of Manerville, with the lands
thereunto<br>
belonging. As for his education, political career, personal
qualities,<br>
and qualifications--no one so much as thought of raising the<br>
questions. His land was undeniable, his rentals steady;
excellent<br>
plantations had been made; the tenants paid for repairs, rates,
and<br>
taxes; the apple-trees were thirty-eight years old; and, to
crown all,<br>
his father was in treaty for two hundred acres of woodland
just<br>
outside the paternal park, which he intended to enclose with
walls. No<br>
hopes of a political career, no fame on earth, can compare with
such<br>
advantages as these.</p>
<p>Whether out of malice or design, Mme. de Sainte-Severe omitted
to<br>
mention that Gaston had an elder brother; nor did Gaston himself
say a<br>
word about him. But, at the same time, it is true that the
brother was<br>
consumptive, and to all appearance would shortly be laid in
earth,<br>
lamented and forgotten.</p>
<p>At first Gaston de Nueil amused himself at the expense of the
circle.<br>
He drew, as it were, for his mental album, a series of portraits
of<br>
these folk, with their angular, wrinkled faces, and hooked
noses,<br>
their crotchets and ludicrous eccentricities of dress, portraits
which<br>
possessed all the racy flavor of truth. He delighted in
their<br>
"Normanisms," in the primitive quaintness of their ideas and<br>
characters. For a short time he flung himself into their
squirrel's<br>
life of busy gyrations in a cage. Then he began to feel the want
of<br>
variety, and grew tired of it. It was like the life of the
cloister,<br>
cut short before it had well begun. He drifted on till he
reached a<br>
crisis, which is neither spleen nor disgust, but combines all
the<br>
symptoms of both. When a human being is transplanted into an<br>
uncongenial soil, to lead a starved, stunted existence, there
is<br>
always a little discomfort over the transition. Then, gradually,
if<br>
nothing removes him from his surroundings, he grows accustomed
to<br>
them, and adapts himself to the vacuity which grows upon him
and<br>
renders him powerless. Even now, Gaston's lungs were accustomed
to the<br>
air; and he was willing to discern a kind of vegetable happiness
in<br>
days that brought no mental exertion and no responsibilities.
The<br>
constant stirring of the sap of life, the fertilizing influences
of<br>
mind on mind, after which he had sought so eagerly in Paris,
were<br>
beginning to fade from his memory, and he was in a fair way
of<br>
becoming a fossil with these fossils, and ending his days among
them,<br>
content, like the companions of Ulysses, in his gross
envelope.</p>
<p><br>
One evening Gaston de Nueil was seated between a dowager and one
of<br>
the vicars-general of the diocese, in a gray-paneled
drawing-room,<br>
floored with large white tiles. The family portraits which
adorned the<br>
walls looked down upon four card-tables, and some sixteen
persons<br>
gathered about them, chattering over their whist. Gaston,
thinking of<br>
nothing, digesting one of those exquisite dinners to which
the<br>
provincial looks forward all through the day, found himself
justifying<br>
the customs of the country.</p>
<p>He began to understand why these good folk continued to play
with<br>
yesterday's pack of cards and shuffle them on a threadbare
tablecloth,<br>
and how it was that they had ceased to dress for themselves or
others.<br>
He saw the glimmerings of something like a philosophy in the
even<br>
tenor of their perpetual round, in the calm of their
methodical<br>
monotony, in their ignorance of the refinements of luxury.
Indeed, he<br>
almost came to think that luxury profited nothing; and even now,
the<br>
city of Paris, with its passions, storms, and pleasures, was
scarcely<br>
more than a memory of childhood.</p>
<p>He admired in all sincerity the red hands, and shy, bashful
manner of<br>
some young lady who at first struck him as an awkward
simpleton,<br>
unattractive to the last degree, and surprisingly ridiculous.
His doom<br>
was sealed. He had gone from the provinces to Paris; he had led
the<br>
feverish life of Paris; and now he would have sunk back into
the<br>
lifeless life of the provinces, but for a chance remark which
reached<br>
his ear--a few words that called up a swift rush of such emotion
as he<br>
might have felt when a strain of really good music mingles with
the<br>
accompaniment of some tedious opera.</p>
<p>"You went to call on Mme. de Beauseant yesterday, did you
not?" The<br>
speaker was an elderly lady, and she addressed the head of the
local<br>
royal family.</p>
<p>"I went this morning. She was so poorly and depressed, that I
could<br>
not persuade her to dine with us to-morrow."</p>
<p>"With Mme. de Champignelles?" exclaimed the dowager with
something<br>
like astonishment in her manner.</p>
<p>"With my wife," calmly assented the noble. "Mme. de Beauseant
is<br>
descended from the House of Burgundy, on the spindle side, 'tis
true,<br>
but the name atones for everything. My wife is very much
attached to<br>
the Vicomtesse, and the poor lady has lived alone for such a
long<br>
while, that----"</p>
<p>The Marquis de Champignelles looked round about him while he
spoke<br>
with an air of cool unconcern, so that it was almost impossible
to<br>
guess whether he made a concession to Mme. de Beauseant's
misfortunes,<br>
or paid homage to her noble birth; whether he felt flattered
to<br>
receive her in his house, or, on the contrary, sheer pride was
the<br>
motive that led him to try to force the country families to meet
the<br>
Vicomtesse.</p>
<p>The women appeared to take counsel of each other by a glance;
there<br>
was a sudden silence in the room, and it was felt that their
attitude<br>
was one of disapproval.</p>
<p>"Does this Mme. de Beauseant happen to be the lady whose
adventure<br>
with M. d'Ajuda-Pinto made so much noise?" asked Gaston of
his<br>
neighbor.</p>
<p>"The very same," he was told. "She came to Courcelles after
the<br>
marriage of the Marquis d'Ajuda; nobody visits her. She has,
besides,<br>
too much sense not to see that she is in a false position, so
she has<br>
made no attempt to see any one. M. de Champignelles and a
few<br>
gentlemen went to call upon her, but she would see no one but M.
de<br>
Champignelles, perhaps because he is a connection of the family.
They<br>
are related through the Beauseants; the father of the present
Vicomte<br>
married a Mlle. de Champignelles of the older branch. But though
the<br>
Vicomtesse de Beauseant is supposed to be a descendant of the
House of<br>
Burgundy, you can understand that we could not admit a wife
separated<br>
from her husband into our society here. We are foolish enough
still to<br>
cling to these old-fashioned ideas. There was the less excuse
for the<br>
Vicomtesse, because M. de Beauseant is a well-bred man of the
world,<br>
who would have been quite ready to listen to reason. But his
wife is<br>
quite mad----" and so forth and so forth.</p>
<p>M. de Nueil, still listening to the speaker's voice, gathered
nothing<br>
of the sense of the words; his brain was too full of
thick-coming<br>
fancies. Fancies? What other name can you give to the alluring
charms<br>
of an adventure that tempts the imagination and sets vague
hopes<br>
springing up in the soul; to the sense of coming events and
mysterious<br>
felicity and fear at hand, while as yet there is no substance of
fact<br>
on which these phantoms of caprice can fix and feed? Over
these<br>
fancies thought hovers, conceiving impossible projects, giving
in the<br>
germ all the joys of love. Perhaps, indeed, all passion is
contained<br>
in that thought-germ, as the beauty, and fragrance, and rich
color of<br>
the flower is all packed in the seed.</p>
<p>M. de Nueil did not know that Mme. de Beauseant had taken
refuge in<br>
Normandy, after a notoriety which women for the most part envy
and<br>
condemn, especially when youth and beauty in some sort excuse
the<br>
transgression. Any sort of celebrity bestows an
inconceivable<br>
prestige. Apparently for women, as for families, the glory of
the<br>
crime effaces the stain; and if such and such a noble house is
proud<br>
of its tale of heads that have fallen on the scaffold, a young
and<br>
pretty woman becomes more interesting for the dubious renown of
a<br>
happy love or a scandalous desertion, and the more she is to
be<br>
pitied, the more she excites our sympathies. We are only
pitiless to<br>
the commonplace. If, moreover, we attract all eyes, we are to
all<br>
intents and purposes great; how, indeed, are we to be seen
unless we<br>
raise ourselves above other people's heads? The common herd
of<br>
humanity feels an involuntary respect for any person who can
rise<br>
above it, and is not over-particular as to the means by which
they<br>
rise.</p>
<p>It may have been that some such motives influenced Gaston de
Nueil at<br>
unawares, or perhaps it was curiosity, or a craving for some
interest<br>
in his life, or, in a word, that crowd of inexplicable impulses
which,<br>
for want of a better name, we are wont to call "fatality," that
drew<br>
him to Mme. de Beauseant.</p>
<p>The figure of the Vicomtesse de Beauseant rose up suddenly
before him<br>
with gracious thronging associations. She was a new world for
him, a<br>
world of fears and hopes, a world to fight for and to
conquer.<br>
Inevitably he felt the contrast between this vision and the
human<br>
beings in the shabby room; and then, in truth, she was a woman;
what<br>
woman had he seen so far in this dull, little world, where
calculation<br>
replaced thought and feeling, where courtesy was a
cut-and-dried<br>
formality, and ideas of the very simplest were too alarming to
be<br>
received or to pass current? The sound of Mme. de Beauseant's
name<br>
revived a young man's dreams and wakened urgent desires that had
lain<br>
dormant for a little.</p>
<p>Gaston de Nueil was absent-minded and preoccupied for the rest
of the<br>
evening. He was pondering how he might gain access to Mme.
de<br>
Beauseant, and truly it was no very easy matter. She was
believed to<br>
be extremely clever. But if men and women of parts may be
captivated<br>
by something subtle or eccentric, they are also exacting, and
can read<br>
all that lies below the surface; and after the first step has
been<br>
taken, the chances of failure and success in the difficult task
of<br>
pleasing them are about even. In this particular case, moreover,
the<br>
Vicomtesse, besides the pride of her position, had all the
dignity of<br>
her name. Her utter seclusion was the least of the barriers
raised<br>
between her and the world. For which reasons it was
well-nigh<br>
impossible that a stranger, however well born, could hope
for<br>
admittance; and yet, the next morning found M. de Nueil taking
his<br>
walks abroad in the direction of Courcelles, a dupe of
illusions<br>
natural at his age. Several times he made the circuit of the
garden<br>
walls, looking earnestly through every gap at the closed
shutters or<br>
open windows, hoping for some romantic chance, on which he
founded<br>
schemes for introducing himself into this unknown lady's
presence,<br>
without a thought of their impracticability. Morning after
morning was<br>
spent in this way to mighty purpose; but with each day's walk,
that<br>
vision of a woman living apart from the world, of love's martyr
buried<br>
in solitude, loomed larger in his thoughts, and was enshrined in
his<br>
soul. So Gaston de Nueil walked under the walls of Courcelles,
and<br>
some gardener's heavy footstep would set his heart beating high
with<br>
hope.</p>
<p>He thought of writing to Mme. de Beauseant, but on mature<br>
consideration, what can you say to a woman whom you have never
seen, a<br>
complete stranger? And Gaston had little self-confidence. Like
most<br>
young persons with a plentiful crop of illusions still standing,
he<br>
dreaded the mortifying contempt of silence more than death
itself, and<br>
shuddered at the thought of sending his first tender epistle
forth to<br>
face so many chances of being thrown on the fire. He was
distracted by<br>
innumerable conflicting ideas. But by dint of inventing
chimeras,<br>
weaving romances, and cudgeling his brains, he hit at last upon
one of<br>
the hopeful stratagems that are sure to occur to your mind if
you<br>
persevere long enough, a stratagem which must make clear to the
most<br>
inexperienced woman that here was a man who took a fervent
interest in<br>
her. The caprice of social conventions puts as many barriers
between<br>
lovers as any Oriental imagination can devise in the most
delightfully<br>
fantastic tale; indeed, the most extravagant pictures are
seldom<br>
exaggerations. In real life, as in the fairy tales, the woman
belongs<br>
to him who can reach her and set her free from the position in
which<br>
she languishes. The poorest of calenders that ever fell in love
with<br>
the daughter of the Khalif is in truth scarcely further from his
lady<br>
than Gaston de Nueil from Mme. de Beauseant. The Vicomtesse
knew<br>
absolutely nothing of M. de Nueil's wanderings round her house;
Gaston<br>
de Nueil's love grew to the height of the obstacles to overleap;
and<br>
the distance set between him and his extemporized lady-love
produced<br>
the usual effect of distance, in lending enchantment.</p>
<p><br>
One day, confident in his inspiration, he hoped everything from
the<br>
love that must pour forth from his eyes. Spoken words, in his
opinion,<br>
were more eloquent than the most passionate letter; and,
besides, he<br>
would engage feminine curiosity to plead for him. He went,
therefore,<br>
to M. de Champignelles, proposing to employ that gentleman for
the<br>
better success of his enterprise. He informed the Marquis that
he had<br>
been entrusted with a delicate and important commission
which<br>
concerned the Vicomtesse de Beauseant, that he felt doubtful
whether<br>
she would read a letter written in an unknown handwriting, or
put<br>
confidence in a stranger. Would M. de Champignelles, on his
next<br>
visit, ask the Vicomtesse if she would consent to receive
him--Gaston<br>
de Nueil? While he asked the Marquis to keep his secret in case
of a<br>
refusal, he very ingeniously insinuated sufficient reasons for
his own<br>
admittance, to be duly passed on to the Vicomtesse. Was not M.
de<br>
Champignelles a man of honor, a loyal gentleman incapable of
lending<br>
himself to any transaction in bad taste, nay, the merest
suspicion of<br>
bad taste! Love lends a young man all the self-possession and
astute<br>
craft of an old ambassador; all the Marquis' harmless vanities
were<br>
gratified, and the haughty grandee was completely duped. He
tried hard<br>
to fathom Gaston's secret; but the latter, who would have been
greatly<br>
perplexed to tell it, turned off M. de Champignelles' adroit<br>
questioning with a Norman's shrewdness, till the Marquis, as a
gallant<br>
Frenchman, complimented his young visitor upon his
discretion.</p>
<p>M. de Champignelles hurried off at once to Courcelles, with
that<br>
eagerness to serve a pretty woman which belongs to his time of
life.<br>
In the Vicomtesse de Beauseant's position, such a message was
likely<br>
to arouse keen curiosity; so, although her memory supplied no
reason<br>
at all that could bring M. de Nueil to her house, she saw no
objection<br>
to his visit--after some prudent inquiries as to his family
and<br>
condition. At the same time, she began by a refusal. Then
she<br>
discussed the propriety of the matter with M. de
Champignelles,<br>
directing her questions so as to discover, if possible, whether
he<br>
knew the motives for the visit, and finally revoked her
negative<br>
answer. The discussion and the discretion shown perforce by
the<br>
Marquis had piqued her curiosity.</p>
<p>M. de Champignelles had no mind to cut a ridiculous figure. He
said,<br>
with the air of a man who can keep another's counsel, that
the<br>
Vicomtesse must know the purpose of this visit perfectly well;
while<br>
the Vicomtesse, in all sincerity, had no notion what it could
be. Mme.<br>
de Beauseant, in perplexity, connected Gaston with people whom
he had<br>
never met, went astray after various wild conjectures, and
asked<br>
herself if she had seen this M. de Nueil before. In truth, no
love-<br>
letter, however sincere or skilfully indited, could have
produced so<br>
much effect as this riddle. Again and again Mme. de Beauseant
puzzled<br>
over it.</p>
<p>When Gaston heard that he might call upon the Vicomtesse, his
rapture<br>
at so soon obtaining the ardently longed-for good fortune was
mingled<br>
with singular embarrassment. How was he to contrive a suitable
sequel<br>
to this stratagem?</p>
<p>"Bah! I shall see /her/," he said over and over again to
himself as he<br>
dressed. "See her, and that is everything!"</p>
<p>He fell to hoping that once across the threshold of Courcelles
he<br>
should find an expedient for unfastening this Gordian knot of
his own<br>
tying. There are believers in the omnipotence of necessity who
never<br>
turn back; the close presence of danger is an inspiration that
calls<br>
out all their powers for victory. Gaston de Nueil was one of
these.</p>
<p>He took particular pains with his dress, imagining, as youth
is apt to<br>
imagine, that success or failure hangs on the position of a
curl, and<br>
ignorant of the fact that anything is charming in youth. And, in
any<br>
case, such women as Mme. de Beauseant are only attracted by the
charms<br>
of wit or character of an unusual order. Greatness of
character<br>
flatters their vanity, promises a great passion, seems to imply
a<br>
comprehension of the requirements of their hearts. Wit amuses
them,<br>
responds to the subtlety of their natures, and they think that
they<br>
are understood. And what do all women wish but to be amused,<br>
understood, or adored? It is only after much reflection on the
things<br>
of life that we understand the consummate coquetry of neglect of
dress<br>
and reserve at a first interview; and by the time we have
gained<br>
sufficient astuteness for successful strategy, we are too old
to<br>
profit by our experience.</p>
<p>While Gaston's lack of confidence in his mental equipment
drove him to<br>
borrow charms from his clothes, Madame de Beauseant herself
was<br>
instinctively giving more attention to her toilette.</p>
<p>"I would rather not frighten people, at all events," she said
to<br>
herself as she arranged her hair.</p>
<p>In M. de Nueil's character, person, and manner there was that
touch of<br>
unconscious originality which gives a kind of flavor to things
that<br>
any one might say or do, and absolves everything that they may
choose<br>
to do or say. He was highly cultivated, he had a keen brain, and
a<br>
face, mobile as his own nature, which won the goodwill of
others. The<br>
promise of passion and tenderness in the bright eyes was
fulfilled by<br>
an essentially kindly heart. The resolution which he made as
he<br>
entered the house at Courcelles was in keeping with his frank
nature<br>
and ardent imagination. But, bold has he was with love, his
heart beat<br>
violently when he had crossed the great court, laid out like
an<br>
English garden, and the man-servant, who had taken his name to
the<br>
Vicomtesse, returned to say that she would receive him.</p>
<p>"M. le Baron de Nueil."</p>
<p>Gaston came in slowly, but with sufficient ease of manner; and
it is a<br>
more difficult thing, be it said, to enter a room where there is
but<br>
one woman, than a room that holds a score.</p>
<p>A great fire was burning on the hearth in spite of the mild
weather,<br>
and by the soft light of the candles in the sconces he saw a
young<br>
woman sitting on a high-backed /bergere/ in the angle by the
hearth.<br>
The seat was so low that she could move her head freely; every
turn of<br>
it was full of grace and delicate charm, whether she bent,
leaning<br>
forward, or raised and held it erect, slowly and languidly, as
though<br>
it were a heavy burden, so low that she could cross her feet and
let<br>
them appear, or draw them back under the folds of a long black
dress.</p>
<p>The Vicomtesse made as if she would lay the book that she was
reading<br>
on a small, round stand; but as she did so, she turned towards
M. de<br>
Nueil, and the volume, insecurely laid upon the edge, fell to
the<br>
ground between the stand and the sofa. This did not seem to
disconcert<br>
her. She looked up, bowing almost imperceptibly in response to
his<br>
greeting, without rising from the depths of the low chair in
which she<br>
lay. Bending forwards, she stirred the fire briskly, and stooped
to<br>
pick up a fallen glove, drawing it mechanically over her left
hand,<br>
while her eyes wandered in search of its fellow. The glance
was<br>
instantly checked, however, for she stretched out a thin, white,
all-<br>
but-transparent right hand, with flawless ovals of rose-colored
nail<br>
at the tips of the slender, ringless fingers, and pointed to a
chair<br>
as if to bid Gaston be seated. He sat down, and she turned her
face<br>
questioningly towards him. Words cannot describe the subtlety of
the<br>
winning charm and inquiry in that gesture; deliberate in its<br>
kindliness, gracious yet accurate in expression, it was the
outcome of<br>
early education and of a constant use and wont of the
graciousness of<br>
life. These movements of hers, so swift, so deft, succeeded each
other<br>
by the blending of a pretty woman's fastidious carelessness with
the<br>
high-bred manner of a great lady.</p>
<p>Mme. de Beauseant stood out in such strong contrast against
the<br>
automatons among whom he had spent two months of exile in that
out-of-<br>
the-world district of Normandy, that he could not but find in
her the<br>
realization of his romantic dreams; and, on the other hand, he
could<br>
not compare her perfections with those of other women whom he
had<br>
formerly admired. Here in her presence, in a drawing-room like
some<br>
salon in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, full of costly trifles
lying<br>
about upon the tables, and flowers and books, he felt as if he
were<br>
back in Paris. It was a real Parisian carpet beneath his feet,
he saw<br>
once more the high-bred type of Parisienne, the fragile outlines
of<br>
her form, her exquisite charm, her disdain of the studied
effects<br>
which did so much to spoil provincial women.</p>
<p>Mme. de Beauseant had fair hair and dark eyes, and the pale
complexion<br>
that belongs to fair hair. She held up her brow nobly like some
fallen<br>
angel, grown proud through the fall, disdainful of pardon. Her
way of<br>
gathering her thick hair into a crown of plaits above the
broad,<br>
curving lines of the bandeaux upon her forehead, added to
the<br>
queenliness of her face. Imagination could discover the ducal
coronet<br>
of Burgundy in the spiral threads of her golden hair; all the
courage<br>
of her house seemed to gleam from the great lady's brilliant
eyes,<br>
such courage as women use to repel audacity or scorn, for they
were<br>
full of tenderness for gentleness. The outline of that little
head, so<br>
admirably poised above the long, white throat, the delicate,
fine<br>
features, the subtle curves of the lips, the mobile face itself,
wore<br>
an expression of delicate discretion, a faint semblance of
irony<br>
suggestive of craft and insolence. Yet it would have been
difficult to<br>
refuse forgiveness to those two feminine failings in her; for
the<br>
lines that came out in her forehead whenever her face was not
in<br>
repose, like her upward glances (that pathetic trick of manner),
told<br>
unmistakably of unhappiness, of a passion that had all but cost
her<br>
her life. A woman, sitting in the great, silent salon, a woman
cut off<br>
from the rest of the world in this remote little valley, alone,
with<br>
the memories of her brilliant, happy, and impassioned youth,
of<br>
continual gaiety and homage paid on all sides, now replaced by
the<br>
horrors of the void--was there not something in the sight to
strike<br>
awe that deepened with reflection? Consciousness of her own
value<br>
lurked in her smile. She was neither wife nor mother, she was
an<br>
outlaw; she had lost the one heart that could set her pulses
beating<br>
without shame; she had nothing from without to support her
reeling<br>
soul; she must even look for strength from within, live her own
life,<br>
cherish no hope save that of forsaken love, which looks forward
to<br>
Death's coming, and hastens his lagging footsteps. And this
while life<br>
was in its prime. Oh! to feel destined for happiness and to
die--never<br>
having given nor received it! A woman too! What pain was this!
These<br>
thoughts flashing across M. de Nueil's mind like lightning, left
him<br>
very humble in the presence of the greatest charm with which
woman can<br>
be invested. The triple aureole of beauty, nobleness, and
misfortune<br>
dazzled him; he stood in dreamy, almost open-mouthed admiration
of the<br>
Vicomtesse. But he found nothing to say to her.</p>
<p>Mme. de Beauseant, by no means displeased, no doubt, by his
surprise,<br>
held out her hand with a kindly but imperious gesture; then,
summoning<br>
a smile to her pale lips, as if obeying, even yet, the woman's
impulse<br>
to be gracious:</p>
<p>"I have heard from M. de Champignelles of a message which you
have<br>
kindly undertaken to deliver, monsieur," she said. "Can it
be<br>
from----"</p>
<p>With that terrible phrase Gaston understood, even more clearly
than<br>
before, his own ridiculous position, the bad taste and bad faith
of<br>
his behavior towards a woman so noble and so unfortunate. He
reddened.<br>
The thoughts that crowded in upon him could be read in his
troubled<br>
eyes; but suddenly, with the courage which youth draws from a
sense of<br>
its own wrongdoing, he gained confidence, and very humbly
interrupted<br>
Mme. de Beauseant.</p>
<p>"Madame," he faltered out, "I do not deserve the happiness of
seeing<br>
you. I have deceived you basely. However strong the motive may
have<br>
been, it can never excuse the pitiful subterfuge which I used to
gain<br>
my end. But, madame, if your goodness will permit me to tell
you----"</p>
<p>The Vicomtesse glanced at M. de Nueil, haughty disdain in her
whole<br>
manner. She stretched her hand to the bell and rang it.</p>
<p>"Jacques," she said, "light this gentleman to the door," and
she<br>
looked with dignity at the visitor.</p>
<p>She rose proudly, bowed to Gaston, and then stooped for the
fallen<br>
volume. If all her movements on his entrance had been
caressingly<br>
dainty and gracious, her every gesture now was no less
severely<br>
frigid. M. de Nueil rose to his feet, but he stood waiting. Mme.
de<br>
Beauseant flung another glance at him. "Well, why do you not
go?" she<br>
seemed to say.</p>
<p>There was such cutting irony in that glance that Gaston grew
white as<br>
if he were about to faint. Tears came into his eyes, but he
would not<br>
let them fall, and scorching shame and despair dried them. He
looked<br>
back at Madame de Beauseant, and a certain pride and
consciousness of<br>
his own worth was mingled with his humility; the Vicomtesse had
a<br>
right to punish him, but ought she to use her right? Then he
went out.</p>
<p>As he crossed the ante-chamber, a clear head, and wits
sharpened by<br>
passion, were not slow to grasp the danger of his situation.</p>
<p>"If I leave this house, I can never come back to it again," he
said to<br>
himself. "The Vicomtesse will always think of me as a fool. It
is<br>
impossible that a woman, and such a woman, should not guess the
love<br>
that she has called forth. Perhaps she feels a little,
vague,<br>
involuntary regret for dismissing me so abruptly.--But she could
not<br>
do otherwise, and she cannot recall her sentence. It rests with
me to<br>
understand her."</p>
<p>At that thought Gaston stopped short on the flight of steps
with an<br>
exclamation; he turned sharply, saying, "I have forgotten
something,"<br>
and went back to the salon. The lackey, all respect for a baron
and<br>
the rights of property, was completely deceived by the
natural<br>
utterance, and followed him. Gaston returned quietly and
unannounced.<br>
The Vicomtesse, thinking that the intruder was the servant,
looked up<br>
and beheld M. de Nueil.</p>
<p>"Jacques lighted me to the door," he said, with a half-sad
smile which<br>
dispelled any suspicion of jest in those words, while the tone
in<br>
which they were spoken went to the heart. Mme. de Beauseant
was<br>
disarmed.</p>
<p>"Very well, take a seat," she said.</p>
<p>Gaston eagerly took possession of a chair. His eyes were
shining with<br>
happiness; the Vicomtesse, unable to endure the brilliant light
in<br>
them, looked down at the book. She was enjoying a delicious,
ever new<br>
sensation; the sense of a man's delight in her presence is
an<br>
unfailing feminine instinct. And then, besides, he had divined
her,<br>
and a woman is so grateful to the man who has mastered the
apparently<br>
capricious, yet logical, reasoning of her heart; who can track
her<br>
thought through the seemingly contradictory workings of her
mind, and<br>
read the sensations, shy or bold, written in fleeting red, a<br>
bewildering maze of coquetry and self-revelation.</p>
<p>"Madame," Gaston exclaimed in a low voice, "my blunder you
know, but<br>
you do not know how much I am to blame. If you only knew what
joy it<br>
was to----"</p>
<p>"Ah! take care," she said, holding up one finger with an air
of<br>
mystery, as she put out her hand towards the bell.</p>
<p>The charming gesture, the gracious threat, no doubt called up
some sad<br>
thought, some memory of the old happy time when she could be
wholly<br>
charming and gentle without an afterthought; when the gladness
of her<br>
heart justified every caprice, and put charm into every
least<br>
movement. The lines in her forehead gathered between her brows,
and<br>
the expression of her face grew dark in the soft candle-light.
Then<br>
looking across at M. de Nueil gravely but not unkindly, she
spoke like<br>
a woman who deeply feels the meaning of every word.</p>
<p>"This is all very ridiculous! Once upon a time, monsieur,
when<br>
thoughtless high spirits were my privilege, I should have
laughed<br>
fearlessly over your visit with you. But now my life is very
much<br>
changed. I cannot do as I like, I am obliged to think. What
brings you<br>
here? Is it curiosity? In that case I am paying dearly for a
little<br>
fleeting pleasure. Have you fallen /passionately/ in love
already with<br>
a woman whom you have never seen, a woman with whose name
slander has,<br>
of course, been busy? If so, your motive in making this visit is
based<br>
on disrespect, on an error which accident brought into
notoriety."</p>
<p>She flung her book down scornfully upon the table, then, with
a<br>
terrible look at Gaston, she went on: "Because I once was weak,
must<br>
it be supposed that I am always weak? This is horrible,
degrading. Or<br>
have you come here to pity me? You are very young to offer
sympathy<br>
with heart troubles. Understand this clearly, sir, that I would
rather<br>
have scorn than pity. I will not endure compassion from any
one."</p>
<p>There was a brief pause.</p>
<p>"Well, sir," she continued (and the face that she turned to
him was<br>
gentle and sad), "whatever motive induced this rash intrusion
upon my<br>
solitude, it is very painful to me, you see. You are too young
to be<br>
totally without good feeling, so surely you will feel that
this<br>
behavior of yours is improper. I forgive you for it, and, as you
see,<br>
I am speaking of it to you without bitterness. You will not come
here<br>
again, will you? I am entreating when I might command. If you
come to<br>
see me again, neither you nor I can prevent the whole place
from<br>
believing that you are my lover, and you would cause me
great<br>
additional annoyance. You do not mean to do that, I think."</p>
<br>
She said no more, but looked at him with a great dignity which
abashed<br>
him.
<p>"I have done wrong, madame," he said, with deep feeling in his
voice,<br>
"but it was through enthusiasm and thoughtlessness and eager
desire of<br>
happiness, the qualities and defects of my age. Now, I
understand that<br>
I ought not to have tried to see you," he added; "but, at the
same<br>
time, the desire was a very natural one"--and, making an appeal
to<br>
feeling rather than to the intellect, he described the weariness
of<br>
his enforced exile. He drew a portrait of a young man in whom
the<br>
fires of life were burning themselves out, conveying the
impression<br>
that here was a heart worthy of tender love, a heart which,<br>
notwithstanding, had never known the joys of love for a young
and<br>
beautiful woman of refinement and taste. He explained,
without<br>
attempting to justify, his unusual conduct. He flattered Mme.
de<br>
Beauseant by showing that she had realized for him the ideal
lady of a<br>
young man's dream, the ideal sought by so many, and so often
sought in<br>
vain. Then he touched upon his morning prowlings under the walls
of<br>
Courcelles, and his wild thoughts at the first sight of the
house,<br>
till he excited that vague feeling of indulgence which a woman
can<br>
find in her heart for the follies committed for her sake.</p>
<p>An impassioned voice was speaking in the chill solitude; the
speaker<br>
brought with him a warm breath of youth and the charms of a
carefully<br>
cultivated mind. It was so long since Mme. de Beauseant had
felt<br>
stirred by real feeling delicately expressed, that it affected
her<br>
very strongly now. In spite of herself, she watched M. de
Nueil's<br>
expressive face, and admired the noble countenance of a soul,
unbroken<br>
as yet by the cruel discipline of the life of the world,
unfretted by<br>
continual scheming to gratify personal ambition and vanity.
Gaston was<br>
in the flower of his youth, he impressed her as a man with
something<br>
in him, unaware as yet of the great career that lay before him.
So<br>
both these two made reflections most dangerous for their peace
of<br>
mind, and both strove to conceal their thoughts. M. de Nueil saw
in<br>
the Vicomtesse a rare type of woman, always the victim of
her<br>
perfections and tenderness; her graceful beauty is the least of
her<br>
charms for those who are privileged to know the infinite of
feeling<br>
and thought and goodness in the soul within; a woman whose
instinctive<br>
feeling for beauty runs through all the most varied expressions
of<br>
love, purifying its transports, turning them to something almost
holy;<br>
wonderful secret of womanhood, the exquisite gift that Nature
so<br>
seldom bestows. And the Vicomtesse, on her side, listening to
the ring<br>
of sincerity in Gaston's voice, while he told of his
youthful<br>
troubles, began to understand all that grown children of
five-and-<br>
twenty suffer from diffidence, when hard work has kept them
alike from<br>
corrupting influences and intercourse with men and women of the
world<br>
whose sophistical reasoning and experience destroys the fair
qualities<br>
of youth. Here was the ideal of a woman's dreams, a man
unspoiled as<br>
yet by the egoism of family or success, or by that narrow
selfishness<br>
which blights the first impulses of honor, devotion,
self-sacrifice,<br>
and high demands of self; all the flowers so soon wither that
enrich<br>
at first the life of delicate but strong emotions, and keep
alive the<br>
loyalty of the heart.</p>
<p>But these two, once launched forth into the vast of sentiment,
went<br>
far indeed in theory, sounding the depths in either soul,
testing the<br>
sincerity of their expressions; only, whereas Gaston's
experiments<br>
were made unconsciously, Mme. de Beauseant had a purpose in all
that<br>
she said. Bringing her natural and acquired subtlety to the
work, she<br>
sought to learn M. de Nueil's opinions by advancing, as far as
she<br>
could do so, views diametrically opposed to her own. So witty
and so<br>
gracious was she, so much herself with this stranger, with whom
she<br>
felt completely at ease, because she felt sure that they should
never<br>
meet again, that, after some delicious epigram of hers,
Gaston<br>
exclaimed unthinkingly:</p>
<p>"Oh! madame, how could any man have left you?"</p>
<p>The Vicomtesse was silent. Gaston reddened, he thought that he
had<br>
offended her; but she was not angry. The first deep thrill of
delight<br>
since the day of her calamity had taken her by surprise. The
skill of<br>
the cleverest /roue/ could not have made the impression that M.
de<br>
Nueil made with that cry from the heart. That verdict wrung from
a<br>
young man's candor gave her back innocence in her own eyes,
condemned<br>
the world, laid the blame upon the lover who had left her,
and<br>
justified her subsequent solitary drooping life. The world's<br>
absolution, the heartfelt sympathy, the social esteem so longed
for,<br>
and so harshly refused, nay, all her secret desires were given
her to<br>
the full in that exclamation, made fairer yet by the heart's
sweetest<br>
flatteries and the admiration that women always relish eagerly.
He<br>
understood her, understood all, and he had given her, as if it
were<br>
the most natural thing in the world, the opportunity of rising
higher<br>
through her fall. She looked at the clock.</p>
<p>"Ah! madame, do not punish me for my heedlessness. If you
grant me but<br>
one evening, vouchsafe not to shorten it."</p>
<p>She smiled at the pretty speech.</p>
<p>"Well, as we must never meet again," she said, "what signifies
a<br>
moment more or less? If you were to care for me, it would be a
pity."</p>
<p>"It is too late now," he said.</p>
<p>"Do not tell me that," she answered gravely. "Under any
other<br>
circumstances I should be very glad to see you. I will speak
frankly,<br>
and you will understand how it is that I do not choose to see
you<br>
again, and ought not to do so. You have too much magnanimity not
to<br>
feel that if I were so much as suspected of a second trespass,
every<br>
one would think of me as a contemptible and vulgar woman; I
should be<br>
like other women. A pure and blameless life will bring my
character<br>
into relief. I am too proud not to endeavor to live like one
apart in<br>
the world, a victim of the law through my marriage, man's
victim<br>
through my love. If I were not faithful to the position which I
have<br>
taken up, then I should deserve all the reproach that is heaped
upon<br>
me; I should be lowered in my own eyes. I had not enough lofty
social<br>
virtue to remain with a man whom I did not love. I have snapped
the<br>
bonds of marriage in spite of the law; it was wrong, it was a
crime,<br>
it was anything you like, but for me the bonds meant death. I
meant to<br>
live. Perhaps if I had been a mother I could have endured the
torture<br>
of a forced marriage of suitability. At eighteen we scarcely
know what<br>
is done with us, poor girls that we are! I have broken the laws
of the<br>
world, and the world has punished me; we both did rightly. I
sought<br>
happiness. Is it not a law of our nature to seek for happiness?
I was<br>
young, I was beautiful . . . I thought that I had found a nature
as<br>
loving, as apparently passionate. I was loved indeed; for a
little<br>
while . . ."</p>
<p>She paused.</p>
<p>"I used to think," she said, "that no one could leave a woman
in such<br>
a position as mine. I have been forsaken; I must have offended
in some<br>
way. Yes, in some way, no doubt, I failed to keep some law of
our<br>
nature, was too loving, too devoted, too exacting--I do not
know. Evil<br>
days have brought light with them! For a long while I blamed
another,<br>
now I am content to bear the whole blame. At my own expense, I
have<br>
absolved that other of whom I once thought I had a right to
complain.<br>
I had not the art to keep him; fate has punished me heavily for
my<br>
lack of skill. I only knew how to love; how can one keep oneself
in<br>
mind when one loves? So I was a slave when I should have sought
to be<br>
a tyrant. Those who know me may condemn me, but they will
respect me<br>
too. Pain has taught me that I must not lay myself open to this
a<br>
second time. I cannot understand how it is that I am living yet,
after<br>
the anguish of that first week of the most fearful crisis in a
woman's<br>
life. Only from three years of loneliness would it be possible
to draw<br>
strength to speak of that time as I am speaking now. Such
agony,<br>
monsieur, usually ends in death; but this--well, it was the
agony of<br>
death with no tomb to end it. Oh! I have known pain indeed!"</p>
<p>The Vicomtesse raised her beautiful eyes to the ceiling; and
the<br>
cornice, no doubt, received all the confidences which a stranger
might<br>
not hear. When a woman is afraid to look at her interlocutor,
there is<br>
in truth no gentler, meeker, more accommodating confidant than
the<br>
cornice. The cornice is quite an institution in the boudoir;
what is<br>
it but the confessional, /minus/ the priest?</p>
<p>Mme. de Beauseant was eloquent and beautiful at that moment;
nay,<br>
"coquettish," if the word were not too heavy. By justifying
herself<br>
and love, she was stimulating every sentiment in the man before
her;<br>
nay, more, the higher she set the goal, the more conspicuous it
grew.<br>
At last, when her eyes had lost the too eloquent expression
given to<br>
them by painful memories, she let them fall on Gaston.</p>
<p>"You acknowledge, do you not, that I am bound to lead a
solitary,<br>
self-contained life?" she said quietly.</p>
<p>So sublime was she in her reasoning and her madness, that M.
de Nueil<br>
felt a wild longing to throw himself at her feet; but he was
afraid of<br>
making himself ridiculous, so he held his enthusiasm and his
thoughts<br>
in check. He was afraid, too, that he might totally fail to
express<br>
them, and in no less terror of some awful rejection on her part,
or of<br>
her mockery, an apprehension which strikes like ice to the most
fervid<br>
soul. The revulsion which led him to crush down every feeling as
it<br>
sprang up in his heart cost him the intense pain that diffident
and<br>
ambitious natures experience in the frequent crises when they
are<br>
compelled to stifle their longings. And yet, in spite of
himself, he<br>
broke the silence to say in a faltering voice:</p>
<p>"Madame, permit me to give way to one of the strongest
emotions of my<br>
life, and own to all that you have made me feel. You set the
heart in<br>
me swelling high! I feel within me a longing to make you forget
your<br>
mortifications, to devote my life to this, to give you love for
all<br>
who ever have given you wounds or hate. But this is a very
sudden<br>
outpouring of the heart, nothing can justify it to-day, and I
ought<br>
not----"</p>
<p>"Enough, monsieur," said Mme. de Beauseant; "we have both of
us gone<br>
too far. By giving you the sad reasons for a refusal which I
am<br>
compelled to give, I meant to soften it and not to elicit
homage.<br>
Coquetry only suits a happy woman. Believe me, we must
remain<br>
strangers to each other. At a later day you will know that ties
which<br>
must inevitably be broken ought not to be formed at all."</p>
<p>She sighed lightly, and her brows contracted, but almost
immediately<br>
grew clear again.</p>
<p>"How painful it is for a woman to be powerless to follow the
man she<br>
loves through all the phases of his life! And if that man loves
her<br>
truly, his heart must surely vibrate with pain to the deep
trouble in<br>
hers. Are they not twice unhappy?"</p>
<p>There was a short pause. Then she rose smiling.</p>
<p>"You little suspected, when you came to Courcelles, that you
were to<br>
hear a sermon, did you?"</p>
<p>Gaston felt even further than at first from this extraordinary
woman.<br>
Was the charm of that delightful hour due after all to the
coquetry of<br>
the mistress of the house? She had been anxious to display her
wit. He<br>
bowed stiffly to the Vicomtesse, and went away in
desperation.</p>
<p>On the way home he tried to detect the real character of a
creature<br>
supple and hard as a steel spring; but he had seen her pass
through so<br>
many phases, that he could not make up his mind about her. The
tones<br>
of her voice, too, were ringing in his ears; her gestures, the
little<br>
movements of her head, and the varying expression of her eyes
grew<br>
more gracious in memory, more fascinating as he thought of them.
The<br>
Vicomtesse's beauty shone out again for him in the darkness;
his<br>
reviving impressions called up yet others, and he was enthralled
anew<br>
by womanly charm and wit, which at first he had not perceived.
He fell<br>
to wandering musings, in which the most lucid thoughts grow
refractory<br>
and flatly contradict each other, and the soul passes through a
brief<br>
frenzy fit. Youth only can understand all that lies in the
dithyrambic<br>
outpourings of youth when, after a stormy siege, of the most
frantic<br>
folly and coolest common-sense, the heart finally yields to
the<br>
assault of the latest comer, be it hope, or despair, as some<br>
mysterious power determines.</p>
<p>At three-and-twenty, diffidence nearly always rules a man's
conduct;<br>
he is perplexed with a young girl's shyness, a girl's trouble;
he is<br>
afraid lest he should express his love ill, sees nothing but<br>
difficulties, and takes alarm at them; he would be bolder if he
loved<br>
less, for he has no confidence in himself, and with a growing
sense of<br>
the cost of happiness comes a conviction that the woman he
loves<br>
cannot easily be won; perhaps, too, he is giving himself up
too<br>
entirely to his own pleasure, and fears that he can give none;
and<br>
when, for his misfortune, his idol inspires him with awe, he
worships<br>
in secret and afar, and unless his love is guessed, it dies
away. Then<br>
it often happens that one of these dead early loves lingers on,
bright<br>
with illusions in many a young heart. What man is there but
keeps<br>
within him these virgin memories that grow fairer every time
they rise<br>
before him, memories that hold up to him the ideal of perfect
bliss?<br>
Such recollections are like children who die in the flower
of<br>
childhood, before their parents have known anything of them but
their<br>
smiles.</p>
<p>So M. de Nueil came home from Courcelles, the victim of a mood
fraught<br>
with desperate resolutions. Even now he felt that Mme. de
Beauseant<br>
was one of the conditions of his existence, and that death would
be<br>
preferable to life without her. He was still young enough to
feel the<br>
tyrannous fascination which fully-developed womanhood exerts
over<br>
immature and impassioned natures; and, consequently, he was to
spend<br>
one of those stormy nights when a young man's thoughts travel
from<br>
happiness to suicide and back again--nights in which youth
rushes<br>
through a lifetime of bliss and falls asleep from sheer
exhaustion.<br>
Fateful nights are they, and the worst misfortune that can
happen is<br>
to awake a philosopher afterwards. M. de Nueil was far too
deeply in<br>
love to sleep; he rose and betook to inditing letters, but none
of<br>
them were satisfactory, and he burned them all.</p>
<p>The next day he went to Courcelles to make the circuit of her
garden<br>
walls, but he waited till nightfall; he was afraid that she
might see<br>
him. The instinct that led him to act in this way arose out of
so<br>
obscure a mood of the soul, that none but a young man, or a man
in<br>
like case, can fully understand its mute ecstasies and its
vagaries,<br>
matter to set those people who are lucky enough to see life only
in<br>
its matter-of-fact aspect shrugging their shoulders. After
painful<br>
hesitation, Gaston wrote to Mme. de Beauseant. Here is the
letter,<br>
which may serve as a sample of the epistolary style peculiar
to<br>
lovers, a performance which, like the drawings prepared with
great<br>
secrecy by children for the birthdays of father or mother, is
found<br>
insufferable by every mortal except the recipients:--</p>
<p>"MADAME,--Your power over my heart, my soul, myself, is so
great<br>
that my fate depends wholly upon you to-day. Do not throw
this<br>
letter into the fire; be so kind as to read it through.
Perhaps<br>
you may pardon the opening sentence when you see that it is
no<br>
commonplace, selfish declaration, but that it expresses a
simple<br>
fact. Perhaps you may feel moved, because I ask for so little,
by<br>
the submission of one who feels himself so much beneath you,
by<br>
the influence that your decision will exercise upon my life. At
my<br>
age, madame, I only know how to love, I am utterly ignorant
of<br>
ways of attracting and winning a woman's love, but in my own
heart<br>
I know raptures of adoration of her. I am irresistibly drawn
to<br>
you by the great happiness that I feel through you; my
thoughts<br>
turn to you with the selfish instinct which bids us draw nearer
to<br>
the fire of life when we find it. I do not imagine that I am<br>
worthy of you; it seems impossible that I, young, ignorant,
and<br>
shy, could bring you one-thousandth part of the happiness that
I<br>
drink in at the sound of your voice and the sight of you. For
me<br>
you are the only woman in the world. I cannot imagine life
without<br>
you, so I have made up my mind to leave France, and to risk
my<br>
life till I lose it in some desperate enterprise, in the
Indies,<br>
in Africa, I care not where. How can I quell a love that knows
no<br>
limits save by opposing to it something as infinite? Yet, if
you<br>
will allow me to hope, not to be yours, but to win your<br>
friendship, I will stay. Let me come, not so very often, if
you<br>
require it, to spend a few such hours with you as those
stolen<br>
hours of yesterday. The keen delight of that brief happiness to
be<br>
cut short at the least over-ardent word from me, will suffice
to<br>
enable me to endure the boiling torrent in my veins. Have I<br>
presumed too much upon your generosity by this entreaty to
suffer<br>
an intercourse in which all the gain is mine alone? You could
find<br>
ways of showing the world, to which you sacrifice so much, that
I<br>
am nothing to you; you are so clever and so proud! What have
you<br>
to fear? If I could only lay bare my heart to you at this
moment,<br>
to convince you that it is with no lurking afterthought that
I<br>
make this humble request! Should I have told you that my love
was<br>
boundless, while I prayed you to grant me friendship, if I had
any<br>
hope of your sharing this feeling in the depths of my soul?
No,<br>
while I am with you, I will be whatever you will, if only I may
be<br>
with you. If you refuse (as you have the power to refuse), I
will<br>
not utter one murmur, I will go. And if, at a later day, any
other<br>
woman should enter into my life, you will have proof that you
were<br>
right; but if I am faithful till death, you may feel some
regret<br>
perhaps. The hope of causing you a regret will soothe my
agony,<br>
and that thought shall be the sole revenge of a slighted<br>
heart. . . ."</p>
<p>Only those who have passed through all the exceeding
tribulations of<br>
youth, who have seized on all the chimeras with two white
pinions, the<br>
nightmare fancies at the disposal of a fervid imagination, can
realize<br>
the horrors that seized upon Gaston de Nueil when he had reason
to<br>
suppose that his ultimatum was in Mme. de Beauseant's hands. He
saw<br>
the Vicomtesse, wholly untouched, laughing at his letter and his
love,<br>
as those can laugh who have ceased to believe in love. He could
have<br>
wished to have his letter back again. It was an absurd letter.
There<br>
were a thousand and one things, now that he came to think of it,
that<br>
he might have said, things infinitely better and more moving
than<br>
those stilted phrases of his, those accursed, sophisticated,<br>
pretentious, fine-spun phrases, though, luckily, the punctuation
had<br>
been pretty bad and the lines shockingly crooked. He tried not
to<br>
think, not to feel; but he felt and thought, and was wretched.
If he<br>
had been thirty years old, he might have got drunk, but the
innocence<br>
of three-and-twenty knew nothing of the resources of opium nor
of the<br>
expedients of advanced civilization. Nor had he at hand one of
those<br>
good friends of the Parisian pattern who understand so well how
to say<br>
/Poete, non dolet!/ by producing a bottle of champagne, or
alleviate<br>
the agony of suspense by carrying you off somewhere to make a
night of<br>
it. Capital fellows are they, always in low water when you are
in<br>
funds, always off to some watering-place when you go to look
them up,<br>
always with some bad bargain in horse-flesh to sell you; it is
true,<br>
that when you want to borrow of them, they have always just lost
their<br>
last louis at play; but in all other respects they are the
best<br>
fellows on earth, always ready to embark with you on one of the
steep<br>
down-grades where you lose your time, your soul, and your
life!</p>
<p><br>
At length M. de Nueil received a missive through the
instrumentality<br>
of Jacques, a letter that bore the arms of Burgundy on the
scented<br>
seal, a letter written on vellum notepaper.</p>
<p>He rushed away at once to lock himself in, and read and
re-read /her/<br>
letter:--</p>
<p>"You are punishing me very severely, monsieur, both for
the<br>
friendliness of my effort to spare you a rebuff, and for the<br>
attraction which intellect always has for me. I put confidence
in<br>
the generosity of youth, and you have disappointed me. And yet,
if<br>
I did not speak unreservedly (which would have been
perfectly<br>
ridiculous), at any rate I spoke frankly of my position, so
that<br>
you might imagine that I was not to be touched by a young soul.
My<br>
distress is the keener for my interest in you. I am
naturally<br>
tender-hearted and kindly, but circumstances force me to act<br>
unkindly. Another woman would have flung your letter, unread,
into<br>
the fire; I read it, and I am answering it. My answer will make
it<br>
clear to you that while I am not untouched by the expression
of<br>
this feeling which I have inspired, albeit unconsciously, I
am<br>
still far from sharing it, and the step which I am about to
take<br>
will show you still more plainly that I mean what I say. I
wish<br>
besides, to use, for your welfare, that authority, as it
were,<br>
which you give me over your life; and I desire to exercise it
this<br>
once to draw aside the veil from your eyes.</p>
<p>"I am nearly thirty years old, monsieur; you are barely
two-and-<br>
twenty. You yourself cannot know what your thoughts will be at
my<br>
age. The vows that you make so lightly to-day may seem a
very<br>
heavy burden to you then. I am quite willing to believe that
at<br>
this moment you would give me your whole life without a
regret,<br>
you would even be ready to die for a little brief happiness;
but<br>
at the age of thirty experience will take from you the very
power<br>
of making daily sacrifices for my sake, and I myself should
feel<br>
deeply humiliated if I accepted them. A day would come when<br>
everything, even Nature, would bid you leave me, and I have<br>
already told you that death is preferable to desertion.
Misfortune<br>
has taught me to calculate; as you see, I am arguing
perfectly<br>
dispassionately. You force me to tell you that I have no love
for<br>
you; I ought not to love, I cannot, and I will not. It is too
late<br>
to yield, as women yield, to a blind unreasoning impulse of
the<br>
heart, too late to be the mistress whom you seek. My
consolations<br>
spring from God, not from earth. Ah, and besides, with the<br>
melancholy insight of disappointed love, I read hearts too
clearly<br>
to accept your proffered friendship. It is only instinct. I<br>
forgive the boyish ruse, for which you are not responsible as
yet.<br>
In the name of this passing fancy of yours, for the sake of
your<br>
career and my own peace of mind, I bid you stay in your own<br>
country; you must not spoil a fair and honorable life for an<br>
illusion which, by its very nature, cannot last. At a later
day,<br>
when you have accomplished your real destiny, in the fully<br>
developed manhood that awaits you, you will appreciate this
answer<br>
of mine, though to-day it may be that you blame its hardness.
You<br>
will turn with pleasure to an old woman whose friendship
will<br>
certainly be sweet and precious to you then; a friendship
untried<br>
by the extremes of passion and the disenchanting processes
of<br>
life; a friendship which noble thoughts and thoughts of
religion<br>
will keep pure and sacred. Farewell; do my bidding with the<br>
thought that your success will bring a gleam of pleasure into
my<br>
solitude, and only think of me as we think of absent
friends."</p>
<p>Gaston de Nueil read the letter, and wrote the following
lines:--</p>
<p>"MADAME,--If I could cease to love you, to take the chances
of<br>
becoming an ordinary man which you hold out to me, you must
admit<br>
that I should thoroughly deserve my fate. No, I shall not do
as<br>
you bid me; the oath of fidelity which I swear to you shall
only<br>
be absolved by death. Ah! take my life, unless indeed you do
not<br>
fear to carry a remorse all through your own----"</p>
<p>When the man returned from his errand, M. de Nueil asked him
with whom<br>
he left the note?</p>
<p>"I gave it to Mme. la Vicomtesse herself, sir; she was in her
carriage<br>
and just about to start."</p>
<p>"For the town?"</p>
<p>"I don't think so, sir. Mme. la Vicomtesse had
post-horses."</p>
<p>"Ah! then she is going away," said the Baron.</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," the man answered.</p>
<p>Gaston de Nueil at once prepared to follow Mme. de Beauseant.
She led<br>
the way as far as Geneva, without a suspicion that he followed.
And<br>
he? Amid the many thoughts that assailed him during that
journey, one<br>
all-absorbing problem filled his mind--"Why did she go away?"
Theories<br>
grew thickly on such ground for supposition, and naturally he
inclined<br>
to the one that flattered his hopes--"If the Vicomtesse cares
for me,<br>
a clever woman would, of course, choose Switzerland, where
nobody<br>
knows either of us, in preference to France, where she would
find<br>
censorious critics."</p>
<p>An impassioned lover of a certain stamp would not feel
attracted to a<br>
woman clever enough to choose her own ground; such women are
too<br>
clever. However, there is nothing to prove that there was any
truth in<br>
Gaston's supposition.</p>
<p>The Vicomtesse took a small house by the side of the lake. As
soon as<br>
she was installed in it, Gaston came one summer evening in
the<br>
twilight. Jacques, that flunkey in grain, showed no sign of
surprise,<br>
and announced /M. le Baron de Nueil/ like a discreet domestic
well<br>
acquainted with good society. At the sound of the name, at the
sight<br>
of its owner, Mme. de Beauseant let her book fall from her
hands; her<br>
surprise gave him time to come close to her, and to say in tones
that<br>
sounded like music in her ears:</p>
<p>"What a joy it was to me to take the horses that brought you
on this<br>
journey!"</p>
<p>To have the inmost desires of the heart so fulfilled! Where is
the<br>
woman who could resist such happiness as this? An Italian woman,
one<br>
of those divine creatures who, psychologically, are as far
removed<br>
from the Parisian as if they lived at the Antipodes, a being who
would<br>
be regarded as profoundly immoral on this side of the Alps, an
Italian<br>
(to resume) made the following comment on some French novels
which she<br>
had been reading. "I cannot see," she remarked, "why these poor
lovers<br>
take such a time over coming to an arrangement which ought to be
the<br>
affair of a single morning." Why should not the novelist take a
hint<br>
from this worthy lady, and refrain from exhausting the theme and
the<br>
reader? Some few passages of coquetry it would certainly be
pleasant<br>
to give in outline; the story of Mme. de Beauseant's demurs and
sweet<br>
delayings, that, like the vestal virgins of antiquity, she might
fall<br>
gracefully, and by lingering over the innocent raptures of first
love<br>
draw from it its utmost strength and sweetness. M. de Nueil was
at an<br>
age when a man is the dupe of these caprices, of the fence which
women<br>
delight to prolong; either to dictate their own terms, or to
enjoy the<br>
sense of their power yet longer, knowing instinctively as they
do that<br>
it must soon grow less. But, after all, these little boudoir<br>
protocols, less numerous than those of the Congress of London,
are too<br>
small to be worth mention in the history of this passion.</p>
<p>For three years Mme. de Beauseant and M. de Nueil lived in the
villa<br>
on the lake of Geneva. They lived quite alone, received no
visitors,<br>
caused no talk, rose late, went out together upon the lake,
knew, in<br>
short, the happiness of which we all of us dream. It was a
simple<br>
little house, with green shutters, and broad balconies shaded
with<br>
awnings, a house contrived of set purpose for lovers, with its
white<br>
couches, soundless carpets, and fresh hangings, everything
within it<br>
reflecting their joy. Every window looked out on some new view
of the<br>
lake; in the far distance lay the mountains, fantastic visions
of<br>
changing color and evanescent cloud; above them spread the sunny
sky,<br>
before them stretched the broad sheet of water, never the same
in its<br>
fitful changes. All their surroundings seemed to dream for them,
all<br>
things smiled upon them.</p>
<p>Then weighty matters recalled M. de Nueil to France. His
father and<br>
brother died, and he was obliged to leave Geneva. The lovers
bought<br>
the house; and if they could have had their way, they would
have<br>
removed the hills piecemeal, drawn off the lake with a siphon,
and<br>
taken everything away with them.</p>
<p><br>
Mme. de Beauseant followed M. de Nueil. She realized her
property, and<br>
bought a considerable estate near Manerville, adjoining
Gaston's<br>
lands, and here they lived together; Gaston very graciously
giving up<br>
Manerville to his mother for the present in consideration of
the<br>
bachelor freedom in which she left him.</p>
<p>Mme. de Beauseant's estate was close to a little town in one
of the<br>
most picturesque spots in the valley of the Auge. Here the
lovers<br>
raised barriers between themselves and social intercourse,
barriers<br>
which no creature could overleap, and here the happy days of<br>
Switzerland were lived over again. For nine whole years they
knew<br>
happiness which it serves no purpose to describe; happiness
which may<br>
be divined from the outcome of the story by those whose souls
can<br>
comprehend poetry and prayer in their infinite
manifestations.</p>
<p>All this time Mme. de Beauseant's husband, the present Marquis
(his<br>
father and elder brother having died), enjoyed the soundest
health.<br>
There is no better aid to life than a certain knowledge that
our<br>
demise would confer a benefit on some fellow-creature. M. de
Beauseant<br>
was one of those ironical and wayward beings who, like holders
of<br>
life-annuities, wake with an additional sense of relish every
morning<br>
to a consciousness of good health. For the rest, he was a man of
the<br>
world, somewhat methodical and ceremonious, and a calculator
of<br>
consequences, who could make a declaration of love as quietly as
a<br>
lackey announces that "Madame is served."</p>
<p>This brief biographical notice of his lordship the Marquis
de<br>
Beauseant is given to explain the reasons why it was impossible
for<br>
the Marquise to marry M. de Nueil.</p>
<p>So, after a nine years' lease of happiness, the sweetest
agreement to<br>
which a woman ever put her hand, M. de Nueil and Mme. de
Beauseant<br>
were still in a position quite as natural and quite as false as
at the<br>
beginning of their adventure. And yet they had reached a fatal
crisis,<br>
which may be stated as clearly as any problem in
mathematics.</p>
<p>Mme. la Comtesse de Nueil, Gaston's mother, a strait-laced
and<br>
virtuous person, who had made the late Baron happy in strictly
legal<br>
fashion would never consent to meet Mme. de Beauseant. Mme.
de<br>
Beauseant quite understood that the worthy dowager must of
necessity<br>
be her enemy, and that she would try to draw Gaston from his<br>
unhallowed and immoral way of life. The Marquise de Beauseant
would<br>
willingly have sold her property and gone back to Geneva, but
she<br>
could not bring herself to do it; it would mean that she
distrusted M.<br>
de Nueil. Moreover, he had taken a great fancy to this very
Valleroy<br>
estate, where he was making plantations and improvements. She
would<br>
not deprive him of a piece of pleasurable routine-work, such as
women<br>
always wish for their husbands, and even for their lovers.</p>
<p>A Mlle. de la Rodiere, twenty-two years of age, an heiress
with a<br>
rent-roll of forty thousand livres, had come to live in the<br>
neighborhood. Gaston always met her at Manerville whenever he
was<br>
obliged to go thither. These various personages being to each
other as<br>
the terms of a proportion sum, the following letter will throw
light<br>
on the appalling problem which Mme. de Beauseant had been trying
for<br>
the past month to solve:--</p>
<p>"My beloved angel, it seems like nonsense, does it not, to
write<br>
to you when there is nothing to keep us apart, when a caress
so<br>
often takes the place of words, and words too are caresses?
Ah,<br>
well, no, love. There are some things that a woman cannot say
when<br>
she is face to face with the man she loves; at the bare thought
of<br>
them her voice fails her, and the blood goes back to her
heart;<br>
she has no strength, no intelligence left. It hurts me to
feel<br>
like this when you are near me, and it happens often. I feel
that<br>
my heart should be wholly sincere for you; that I should
disguise<br>
no thought, however transient, in my heart; and I love the
sweet<br>
carelessness, which suits me so well, too much to endure
this<br>
embarrassment and constraint any longer. So I will tell you
about<br>
my anguish--yes, it is anguish. Listen to me! do not begin
with<br>
the little 'Tut, tut, tut,' that you use to silence me, an<br>
impertinence that I love, because anything from you pleases
me.<br>
Dear soul from heaven, wedded to mine, let me first tell you
that<br>
you have effaced all memory of the pain that once was crushing
the<br>
life out of me. I did not know what love was before I knew
you.<br>
Only the candor of your beautiful young life, only the purity
of<br>
that great soul of yours, could satisfy the requirements of
an<br>
exacting woman's heart. Dear love, how very often I have
thrilled<br>
with joy to think that in these nine long, swift years, my<br>
jealousy has not been once awakened. All the flowers of your
soul<br>
have been mine, all your thoughts. There has not been the
faintest<br>
cloud in our heaven; we have not known what sacrifice is; we
have<br>
always acted on the impulses of our hearts. I have known<br>
happiness, infinite for a woman. Will the tears that drench
this<br>
sheet tell you all my gratitude? I could wish that I had knelt
to<br>
write the words!--Well, out of this felicity has arisen
torture<br>
more terrible than the pain of desertion. Dear, there are
very<br>
deep recesses in a woman's heart; how deep in my own heart, I
did<br>
not know myself until to-day, as I did not know the whole
extent<br>
of love. The greatest misery which could overwhelm us is a
light<br>
burden compared with the mere thought of harm for him whom
we<br>
love. And how if we cause the harm, is it not enough to make
one<br>
die? . . . This is the thought that is weighing upon me. But<br>
it brings in its train another thought that is heavier far,
a<br>
thought that tarnishes the glory of love, and slays it, and
turns<br>
it into a humiliation which sullies life as long as it lasts.
You<br>
are thirty years old; I am forty. What dread this difference
in<br>
age calls up in a woman who loves! It is possible that, first
of<br>
all unconsciously, afterwards in earnest, you have felt the<br>
sacrifices that you have made by renouncing all in the world
for<br>
me. Perhaps you have thought of your future from the social
point<br>
of view, of the marriage which would, of course, increase
your<br>
fortune, and give you avowed happiness and children who
would<br>
inherit your wealth; perhaps you have thought of reappearing
in<br>
the world, and filling your place there honorably. And then,
if<br>
so, you must have repressed those thoughts, and felt glad to<br>
sacrifice heiress and fortune and a fair future to me without
my<br>
knowledge. In your young man's generosity, you must have
resolved<br>
to be faithful to the vows which bind us each to each in the
sight<br>
of God. My past pain has risen up before your mind, and the
misery<br>
from which you rescued me has been my protection. To owe your
love<br>
to your pity! The thought is even more painful to me than the
fear<br>
of spoiling your life for you. The man who can bring himself
to<br>
stab his mistress is very charitable if he gives her her
deathblow<br>
while she is happy and ignorant of evil, while illusions are
in<br>
full blossom. . . . Yes, death is preferable to the two
thoughts<br>
which have secretly saddened the hours for several days.
To-day,<br>
when you asked 'What ails you?' so tenderly, the sound of
your<br>
voice made me shiver. I thought that, after your wont, you
were<br>
reading my very soul, and I waited for your confidence to
come,<br>
thinking that my presentiments had come true, and that I had<br>
guessed all that was going on in your mind. Then I began to
think<br>
over certain little things that you always do for me, and I<br>
thought I could see in you the sort of affection by which a
man<br>
betrays a consciousness that his loyalty is becoming a burden.
And<br>
in that moment I paid very dear for my happiness. I felt
that<br>
Nature always demands the price for the treasure called
love.<br>
Briefly, has not fate separated us? Can you have said, 'Sooner
or<br>
later I must leave poor Claire; why not separate in time?' I
read<br>
that thought in the depths of your eyes, and went away to cry
by<br>
myself. Hiding my tears from you! the first tears that I have
shed<br>
for sorrow for these ten years; I am too proud to let you
see<br>
them, but I did not reproach you in the least.</p>
<p>"Yes, you are right. I ought not to be so selfish as to bind
your<br>
long and brilliant career to my so-soon out-worn life. . . .
And<br>
yet--how if I have been mistaken? How if I have taken your
love<br>
melancholy for a deliberation? Oh, my love, do not leave me
in<br>
suspense; punish this jealous wife of yours, but give her back
the<br>
sense of her love and yours; the whole woman lies in
that--that<br>
consciousness sanctifies everything.</p>
<br>
"Since your mother came, since you paid a visit to Mlle. de<br>
Rodiere, I have been gnawed by doubts dishonoring to us both.
Make<br>
me suffer for this, but do not deceive me; I want to know<br>
everything that your mother said and that you think! If you
have<br>
hesitated between some alternative and me, I give you back
your<br>
liberty. . . . I will not let you know what happens to me; I
will<br>
not shed tears for you to see; only--I will not see you
again.<br>
. . . Ah! I cannot go on, my heart is breaking . . . . . . . . .
.<br>
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I have been
sitting<br>
benumbed and stupid for some moments. Dear love, I do not
find<br>
that any feeling of pride rises against you; you are so kind-<br>
hearted, so open; you would find it impossible to hurt me or
to<br>
deceive me; and you will tell me the truth, however cruel it
may<br>
be. Do you wish me to encourage your confession? Well, then,
heart<br>
of mine, I shall find comfort in a woman's thought. Has not
the<br>
youth of your being been mine, your sensitive, wholly
gracious,<br>
beautiful, and delicate youth? No woman shall find henceforth
the<br>
Gaston whom I have known, nor the delicious happiness that he
has<br>
given me. . . . No; you will never love again as you have
loved,<br>
as you love me now; no, I shall never have a rival, it is<br>
impossible. There will be no bitterness in my memories of our<br>
love, and I shall think of nothing else. It is out of your
power<br>
to enchant any woman henceforth by the childish provocations,
the<br>
charming ways of a young heart, the soul's winning charm, the<br>
body's grace, the swift communion of rapture, the whole
divine<br>
cortege of young love, in fine.
<p>"Oh, you are a man now, you will obey your destiny, weighing
and<br>
considering all things. You will have cares, and anxieties,
and<br>
ambitions, and concerns that will rob /her/ of the
unchanging<br>
smile that made your lips fair for me. The tones that were
always<br>
so sweet for me will be troubled at times; and your eyes
that<br>
lighted up with radiance from heaven at the sight of me,
will<br>
often be lustreless for /her/. And besides, as it is impossible
to<br>
love you as I love you, you will never care for that woman as
you<br>
have cared for me. She will never keep a constant watch over<br>
herself as I have done; she will never study your happiness
at<br>
every moment with an intuition which has never failed me. Ah,
yes,<br>
the man, the heart and soul, which I shall have known will
exist<br>
no longer. I shall bury him deep in my memory, that I may have
the<br>
joy of him still; I shall live happy in that fair past life
of<br>
ours, a life hidden from all but our inmost selves.</p>
<p>"Dear treasure of mine, if all the while no least thought
of<br>
liberty has risen in your mind, if my love is no burden on you,
if<br>
my fears are chimerical, if I am still your Eve--the one woman
in<br>
the world for you--come to me as soon as you have read this<br>
letter, come quickly! Ah, in one moment I will love you more
than<br>
I have ever loved you, I think, in these nine years. After<br>
enduring the needless torture of these doubts of which I am<br>
accusing myself, every added day of love, yes, every single
day,<br>
will be a whole lifetime of bliss. So speak, and speak openly;
do<br>
not deceive me, it would be a crime. Tell me, do you wish for
your<br>
liberty? Have you thought of all that a man's life means? Is
there<br>
any regret in your mind? That /I/ should cause you a regret!
I<br>
should die of it. I have said it: I love you enough to set
your<br>
happiness above mine, your life before my own. Leave on one
side,<br>
if you can, the wealth of memories of our nine years'
happiness,<br>
that they may not influence your decision, but speak! I
submit<br>
myself to you as to God, the one Consoler who remains if you<br>
forsake me."</p>
<p>When Mme. de Beauseant knew that her letter was in M. de
Nueil's<br>
hands, she sank in such utter prostration, the over-pressure of
many<br>
thoughts so numbed her faculties, that she seemed almost drowsy.
At<br>
any rate, she was suffering from a pain not always proportioned
in its<br>
intensity to a woman's strength; pain which women alone know.
And<br>
while the unhappy Marquise awaited her doom, M. de Nueil,
reading her<br>
letter, felt that he was "in a very difficult position," to use
the<br>
expression that young men apply to a crisis of this kind.</p>
<p>By this time he had all but yielded to his mother's
importunities and<br>
to the attractions of Mlle. de la Rodiere, a somewhat
insignificant,<br>
pink-and-white young person, as straight as a poplar. It is true
that,<br>
in accordance with the rules laid down for marriageable young
ladies,<br>
she scarcely opened her mouth, but her rent-roll of forty
thousand<br>
livres spoke quite sufficiently for her. Mme. de Nueil, with
a<br>
mother's sincere affection, tried to entangle her son in
virtuous<br>
courses. She called his attention to the fact that it was a
flattering<br>
distinction to be preferred by Mlle. de la Rodiere, who had
refused so<br>
many great matches; it was quite time, she urged, that he should
think<br>
of his future, such a good opportunity might not repeat itself,
some<br>
day he would have eighty thousand livres of income from land;
money<br>
made everything bearable; if Mme. de Beauseant loved him for his
own<br>
sake, she ought to be the first to urge him to marry. In short,
the<br>
well-intentioned mother forgot no arguments which the
feminine<br>
intellect can bring to bear upon the masculine mind, and by
these<br>
means she had brought her son into a wavering condition.</p>
<p>Mme. de Beauseant's letter arrived just as Gaston's love of
her was<br>
holding out against the temptations of a settled life
conformable to<br>
received ideas. That letter decided the day. He made up his mind
to<br>
break off with the Marquise and to marry.</p>
<p>"One must live a man's life," said he to himself.</p>
<p>Then followed some inkling of the pain that this decision
would give<br>
to Mme. de Beauseant. The man's vanity and the lover's
conscience<br>
further exaggerated this pain, and a sincere pity for her seized
upon<br>
him. All at once the immensity of the misery became apparent to
him,<br>
and he thought it necessary and charitable to deaden the deadly
blow.<br>
He hoped to bring Mme. de Beauseant to a calm frame of mind
by<br>
gradually reconciling her to the idea of separation; while Mlle.
de la<br>
Rodiere, always like a shadowy third between them, should be<br>
sacrificed to her at first, only to be imposed upon her later.
His<br>
marriage should take place later, in obedience to Mme. de
Beauseant's<br>
expressed wish. He went so far as to enlist the Marquise's
nobleness<br>
and pride and all the great qualities of her nature to help him
to<br>
succeed in this compassionate design. He would write a letter at
once<br>
to allay her suspicions. /A letter!/ For a woman with the
most<br>
exquisite feminine perception, as well as the intuition of
passionate<br>
love, a letter in itself was a sentence of death.</p>
<p>So when Jacques came and brought Mme. de Beauseant a sheet of
paper<br>
folded in a triangle, she trembled, poor woman, like a snared
swallow.<br>
A mysterious sensation of physical cold spread from head to
foot,<br>
wrapping her about in an icy winding sheet. If he did not rush
to her<br>
feet, if he did not come to her in tears, and pale, and like a
lover,<br>
she knew that all was lost. And yet, so many hopes are there in
the<br>
heart of a woman who loves, that she is only slain by stab after
stab,<br>
and loves on till the last drop of life-blood drains away.</p>
<p>"Does madame need anything?" Jacques asked gently, as he went
away.</p>
<p>"No," she said.</p>
<p>"Poor fellow!" she thought, brushing a tear from her eyes, "he
guesses<br>
my feelings, servant though he is!"</p>
<p>She read: "My beloved, you are inventing idle terrors for<br>
yourself . . ." The Marquise gazed at the words, and a thick
mist<br>
spread before her eyes. A voice in her heart cried, "He
lies!"--Then<br>
she glanced down the page with the clairvoyant eagerness of
passion,<br>
and read these words at the foot, "/Nothing has been decided
as<br>
yet . . ./" Turning to the other side with convulsive quickness,
she<br>
saw the mind of the writer distinctly through the intricacies of
the<br>
wording; this was no spontaneous outburst of love. She crushed
it in<br>
her fingers, twisted it, tore it with her teeth, flung it in the
fire,<br>
and cried aloud, "Ah! base that he is! I was his, and he had
ceased to<br>
love me!"</p>
<br>
She sank half dead upon the couch.
<p>M. de Nueil went out as soon as he had written his letter.
When he<br>
came back, Jacques met him on the threshold with a note. "Madame
la<br>
Marquise has left the chateau," said the man.</p>
<p>M. de Nueil, in amazement, broke the seal and read:--</p>
<p>"MADAME,--If I could cease to love you, to take the chances
of<br>
becoming an ordinary man which you hold out to me, you must
admit<br>
that I should thoroughly deserve my fate. No, I shall not do
as<br>
you bid me; the oath of fidelity which I swear to you shall
only<br>
be absolved by death. Ah! take my life, unless indeed you do
not<br>
fear to carry a remorse all through your own . . ."</p>
<p>It was his own letter, written to the Marquise as she set out
for<br>
Geneva nine years before. At the foot of it Claire de Bourgogne
had<br>
written, "Monsieur, you are free."</p>
<p>M. de Nueil went to his mother at Manerville. In less than
three weeks<br>
he married Mlle. Stephanie de la Rodiere.</p>
<p>If this commonplace story of real life ended here, it would be
to some<br>
extent a sort of mystification. The first man you meet can tell
you a<br>
better. But the widespread fame of the catastrophe (for,
unhappily,<br>
this is a true tale), and all the memories which it may arouse
in<br>
those who have known the divine delights of infinite passion,
and lost<br>
them by their own deed, or through the cruelty of fate,--these
things<br>
may perhaps shelter the story from criticism.</p>
<p>Mme. la Marquise de Beauseant never left Valleroy after her
parting<br>
from M. de Nueil. After his marriage she still continued to
live<br>
there, for some inscrutable woman's reason; any woman is at
liberty to<br>
assign the one which most appeals to her. Claire de Bourgogne
lived in<br>
such complete retirement that none of the servants, save Jacques
and<br>
her own woman, ever saw their mistress. She required absolute
silence<br>
all about her, and only left her room to go to the chapel on
the<br>
Valleroy estate, whither a neighboring priest came to say mass
every<br>
morning.</p>
<p>The Comte de Nueil sank a few days after his marriage into
something<br>
like conjugal apathy, which might be interpreted to mean
happiness or<br>
unhappiness equally easily.</p>
<p>"My son is perfectly happy," his mother said everywhere.</p>
<p>Mme. Gaston de Nueil, like a great many young women, was a
rather<br>
colorless character, sweet and passive. A month after her
marriage she<br>
had expectations of becoming a mother. All this was quite in<br>
accordance with ordinary views. M. de Nueil was very nice to
her; but<br>
two months after his separation from the Marquise, he grew
notably<br>
thoughtful and abstracted. But then he always had been serious,
his<br>
mother said.</p>
<p>After seven months of this tepid happiness, a little thing
occurred,<br>
one of those seemingly small matters which imply such great<br>
development of thought and such widespread trouble of the soul,
that<br>
only the bare fact can be recorded; the interpretation of it
must be<br>
left to the fancy of each individual mind. One day, when M. de
Nueil<br>
had been shooting over the lands of Manerville and Valleroy,
he<br>
crossed Mme. de Beauseant's park on his way home, summoned
Jacques,<br>
and when the man came, asked him, "Whether the Marquise was as
fond of<br>
game as ever?"</p>
<p>Jacques answering in the affirmative, Gaston offered him a
good round<br>
sum (accompanied by plenty of specious reasoning) for a very
little<br>
service. Would he set aside for the Marquise the game that the
Count<br>
would bring? It seemed to Jacques to be a matter of no great<br>
importance whether the partridge on which his mistress dined had
been<br>
shot by her keeper or by M. de Nueil, especially since the
latter<br>
particularly wished that the Marquise should know nothing about
it.</p>
<p>"It was killed on her land," said the Count, and for some days
Jacques<br>
lent himself to the harmless deceit. Day after day M. de Nueil
went<br>
shooting, and came back at dinner-time with an empty bag. A
whole week<br>
went by in this way. Gaston grew bold enough to write a long
letter to<br>
the Marquise, and had it conveyed to her. It was returned to
him<br>
unopened. The Marquise's servant brought it back about
nightfall. The<br>
Count, sitting in the drawing-room listening, while his wife at
the<br>
piano mangled a /Caprice/ of Herold's, suddenly sprang up and
rushed<br>
out to the Marquise, as if he were flying to an assignation. He
dashed<br>
through a well-known gap into the park, and went slowly along
the<br>
avenues, stopping now and again for a little to still the loud
beating<br>
of his heart. Smothered sounds as he came nearer the chateau
told him<br>
that the servants must be at supper, and he went straight to
Mme. de<br>
Beauseant's room.</p>
<p>Mme. de Beauseant never left her bedroom. M. de Nueil could
gain the<br>
doorway without making the slightest sound. There, by the light
of two<br>
wax candles, he saw the thin, white Marquise in a great
armchair; her<br>
head was bowed, her hands hung listlessly, her eyes gazing
fixedly at<br>
some object which she did not seem to see. Her whole attitude
spoke of<br>
hopeless pain. There was a vague something like hope in her
bearing,<br>
but it was impossible to say whither Claire de Bourgogne was
looking--<br>
forwards to the tomb or backwards into the past. Perhaps M. de
Nueil's<br>
tears glittered in the deep shadows; perhaps his breathing
sounded<br>
faintly; perhaps unconsciously he trembled, or again it may have
been<br>
impossible that he should stand there, his presence unfelt by
that<br>
quick sense which grows to be an instinct, the glory, the
delight, the<br>
proof of perfect love. However it was, Mme. de Beauseant slowly
turned<br>
her face towards the doorway, and beheld her lover of bygone
days.<br>
Then Gaston de Nueil came forward a few paces.</p>
<p>"If you come any further, sir," exclaimed the Marquise,
growing paler,<br>
"I shall fling myself out of the window!"</p>
<p>She sprang to the window, flung it open, and stood with one
foot on<br>
the ledge, her hand upon the iron balustrade, her face turned
towards<br>
Gaston.</p>
<p>"Go out! go out!" she cried, "or I will throw myself
over."</p>
<p>At that dreadful cry the servants began to stir, and M. de
Nueil fled<br>
like a criminal.</p>
<p>When he reached his home again he wrote a few lines and gave
them to<br>
his own man, telling him to give the letter himself into Mme.
de<br>
Beauseant's hands, and to say that it was a matter of life and
death<br>
for his master. The messenger went. M. de Nueil went back to
the<br>
drawing-room where his wife was still murdering the /Caprice/,
and sat<br>
down to wait till the answer came. An hour later, when the
/Caprice/<br>
had come to an end, and the husband and wife sat in silence
on<br>
opposite sides of the hearth, the man came back from Valleroy
and gave<br>
his master his own letter, unopened.</p>
<p>M. de Nueil went into a small room beyond the drawing-room,
where he<br>
had left his rifle, and shot himself.</p>
<p>The swift and fatal ending of the drama, contrary as it is to
all the<br>
habits of young France, is only what might have been expected.
Those<br>
who have closely observed, or known for themselves by
delicious<br>
experience, all that is meant by the perfect union of two
beings, will<br>
understand Gaston de Nueil's suicide perfectly well. A woman
does not<br>
bend and form herself in a day to the caprices of passion.
The<br>
pleasure of loving, like some rare flower, needs the most
careful<br>
ingenuity of culture. Time alone, and two souls attuned each to
each,<br>
can discover all its resources, and call into being all the
tender and<br>
delicate delights for which we are steeped in a thousand<br>
superstitions, imagining them to be inherent in the heart
that<br>
lavishes them upon us. It is this wonderful response of one
nature to<br>
another, this religious belief, this certainty of finding
peculiar or<br>
excessive happiness in the presence of one we love, that
accounts in<br>
part for perdurable attachments and long-lived passion. If a
woman<br>
possesses the genius of her sex, love never comes to be a matter
of<br>
use and wont. She brings all her heart and brain to love,
clothes her<br>
tenderness in forms so varied, there is such art in her most
natural<br>
moments, or so much nature in her art, that in absence her
memory is<br>
almost as potent as her presence. All other women are as
shadows<br>
compared with her. Not until we have lost or known the dread of
losing<br>
a love so vast and glorious, do we prize it at its just worth.
And if<br>
a man who has once possessed this love shuts himself out from it
by<br>
his own act and deed, and sinks to some loveless marriage; if by
some<br>
incident, hidden in the obscurity of married life, the woman
with whom<br>
he hoped to know the same felicity makes it clear that it will
never<br>
be revived for him; if, with the sweetness of divine love still
on his<br>
lips, he has dealt a deadly wound to /her/, his wife in truth,
whom he<br>
forsook for a social chimera,--then he must either die or take
refuge<br>
in a materialistic, selfish, and heartless philosophy, from
which<br>
impassioned souls shrink in horror.</p>
<p>As for Mme. de Beauseant, she doubtless did not imagine that
her<br>
friend's despair could drive him to suicide, when he had drunk
deep of<br>
love for nine years. Possibly she may have thought that she
alone was<br>
to suffer. At any rate, she did quite rightly to refuse the
most<br>
humiliating of all positions; a wife may stoop for weighty
social<br>
reasons to a kind of compromise which a mistress is bound to
hold in<br>
abhorrence, for in the purity of her passion lies all its<br>
justification.</p>
<p>ANGOULEME, September 1832.</p>
<h2><br>
ADDENDUM</h2>
<p>The following personages appear in other stories of the Human
Comedy.</p>
<p>Beauseant, Marquis and Comte de<br>
Father Goriot<br>
An Episode under the Terror</p>
<p>Beauseant, Marquise de<br>
Letters of Two Brides</p>
<p>Beauseant, Vicomte de<br>
Father Goriot</p>
<p>Beauseant, Vicomtesse de<br>
Father Goriot<br>
Albert Savarus</p>
<p>Champignelles, De<br>
The Seamy Side of History</p>
<p>Jacques (M. de Beauseant's butler)<br>
Father Goriot</p>
<p>Nueil, Gaston de<br>
The Deserted Woman<br>
Albert Savarus</p>
<p> </p>
<p>End of Project Gutenberg Etext The Deserted Woman, by Honore
de Balzac</p>
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