CRUEL TO BE KIND
When René Vincy had got as far as the Museum gates without finding
Suzanne a crowd of contradictory ideas burst so suddenly upon him that
he was lifted, metaphorically speaking, off his feet. Suzanne had not
been mistaken in her calculations, the double blow she had dealt the
young poet paralysing all his powers of analysis and reflection. Had she
simply told him that she loved him he would probably have opened his
eyes and perceived the striking contrast between the angelic attitude
assumed by Suzanne and the bluntness of this declaration. He would have
had to acknowledge that the angel's wings were very loosely attached if
they could be so easily laid aside. But instead of committing the
mistake of laying them aside the angel had spread her bright pinions out
wide and disappeared. 'She loves me, and will never forgive me for
having dragged that confession from her,' said René to himself.
He fully believed that she had gone away resolved never to see him
again, and all his thoughts became concentrated upon that idea. How
could he hope to shake the resolution of a creature so sincere that she
had been unable to conceal her feelings, so saint-like that she had
immediately regarded her involuntary confession as a crime? And René
again saw her before him with terror written on her face and tears
starting from her eyes. Lost in these thoughts, he walked straight
before him, unable to bear the sight of a human being, even were it
Emilie, his dear confidante. Hailing a cab, he told the driver to take
him to Saint-Cloud. This was the first name that rose to his lips,
because Suzanne had described to him two _fêtes_ at which she had been
present in the palace when quite a girl. On getting out of the cab he
felt a savage delight in plunging into the denuded wood. A pale February
sun lit up the bleak wintry landscape and the dry leaves cracked under
his tread as he strode along. Now and then, through a network of
blackened trunks and naked branches, he could see the dreary ruins of
the old palace and the blue waters of the little lake upon which, in
bygone days, Madame Moraines had seen the unhappy Prince, since killed
at the Cape.
The impressions produced by his surroundings and by these memories of a
tragic past did not distract the poet's thoughts from the one idea that
hypnotised him, as it were--by what means he could conquer the will of
this woman whom he loved, who loved him in return, and whom he was
determined to see again at all costs. What was to be done? Call at her
house and demand admittance? Inflict his presence upon her by
frequenting the houses she visited? Waylay her at street corners and at
theatres? No--he felt that he could not do anything that might furnish
Suzanne with a single reason for loving him less. It was to her that he
looked for everything, even for the right of beholding her. The memory
of the ideals he had cherished in the first years of his manhood and the
purer years of his youth inspired him with serious thoughts of doing
absolutely nothing to approach her, of obeying her as Dante would have
obeyed Beatrice, Petrarch his Laura, Cino da Pistoia his Sylvia--those
noble poets of the ages of chivalry who gave voice to the lofty
conceptions of an imaginative and holy love full of ideal devotion. He
had so often dipped with delight into the _Vita Nuova_ and devoured the
sonnets these dreamers wrote their lady-loves. But how could such
literature, of almost ascetic purity, hold its own against the poison of
sensuous passion which, unknown to him, Suzanne's beauty and
surroundings had instilled into his blood? Obey her! No--that he could
not do. Fresh ideas welled up within him, and he sought to calm his
overwrought nerves by exercise, the only palliative for the terrible
mental agonies he was suffering.
Night fell--a wintry night preceded by a short, dismal twilight. Worn
out by the excess of emotion, René at last decided to adopt the only
course that could be put into immediate execution--that of writing to
Suzanne. On reaching the village of Saint-Cloud he entered a _café_,
and there, on a beer-stained blotting-pad, with a spluttering pen,
disgusted with the paper he used and the place he was in, disturbed by
the noise of billiard balls and blinded by the smoke of the players'
pipes, he wrote, under the insolent gaze of a dirty waiter, first one
letter, then another, and finally a third. How horrified he would have
been had Suzanne seen him sitting there! But, on the other hand, he felt
that he could not wait until he got home to tell her what he had to say,
and in the following terms, that would have greatly surprised Baron
Desforges had he read them and been told that they were addressed to his
Suzette of the Rue du Mont-Thabor, he gave vent to his excessive grief:
'I have written you several letters, madame, and torn them up, and I am
not sure that I shall send you this one, so great is my fear of
displeasing you by the crude expression of sentiments which I am sure
would not displease you if you really knew them. Alas! we cannot bare
our hearts, and will you believe me when I tell you that the feelings
which prompt me to write this letter have nothing in them that would
offend the most sensitive and pure-minded woman--not even yourself,
madame? But you know so little of me, and the feeling which, with the
divine sincerity of a soul that abhors concealment, you have permitted
me to see, has been such a surprise that, by the time I am writing these
lines, it has probably been already banished and effaced from your heart
for ever. If that be so, do not answer this letter--do not even read it.
I shall know what to make of your silence, and will bow to your
decision. I shall suffer cruelly, but my gratitude to you will be
eternal for having procured me the absolute and unalloyed delight of
seeing the Ideal of all my youthful dreams in the flesh. For such
happiness I can never be sufficiently grateful, even were I to die of
grief through having met you only to lose you. You crossed my path, and
by your existence alone you have proved that my ideal was no myth.
However hard my lot may one day be, this dear, divine memory will be to
me a talisman, a magic charm.
'But, unworthy as I am, should the feeling that I read in your eyes this
morning--how beautiful they were at that moment, and how I shall always
remember them!--should, I say, that feeling conquer your virtuous
indignation, should that sympathy with which you reproached yourself
still live in your heart, should you remain, in spite of yourself, the
woman who wept when she heard me confess my love and adoration--then I
conjure you, madame, to wrest some pity from that sympathy. Before
confirming the sentence to which I am quite ready to submit--that
terrible sentence never to see you more--let me ask you to put me to one
single proof. My request is so humble, and so subservient to your will.
Hear it, I beg. If I have guessed rightly from the all too short and
fleeting conversations we have had, your life, though apparently so
complete, is devoid of many things. Have you never felt the need of
having near you a friend to whom you could confide your troubles, a
friend who would never speak to you again as he once dared to do, but
who would be content to breathe the same air as yourself, and to share
your joys and sorrows--a friend on whom you could rely, whom you could
take or leave at your sweet will--in a word, a thing of your own, whose
very thoughts would be yours? Such a friend, with no desire beyond that
of serving you, regretting only that he has not always done so, and
entertaining no criminal hopes whatever, is what I dreamt of becoming
before that interview in which my feelings were stronger than my will.
And I feel that I love you sufficiently to realise that dream even now.
Nay, do not shake your head. I am sincere in my entreaties, sincere in
my determination never to utter a word which will make you repent your
forbearance if you decide to put me to this proof. Will it not be time
enough to banish me from your presence when you think me in danger of
breaking the promise I now make?
'My God! how empty my phrases seem! I tremble at the thought that you
will read these lines, and that is why I can scarcely write them. What
will your answer be? Will you call me back to that shrine in the Rue
Murillo where you have already been so kind and so full of indulgence
that the memory of the minutes spent there falls like balm upon my
aching heart? That poor heart beats only for you in obedient and humble
admiration. Say--oh! say that you forgive me. Say that you will let me
see you once more. Say that you will let us try to be friends. You would
say all this, I know, if you could read what is in my heart. And even if
you do not speak those blessed words, there shall be no murmuring, no
reproaches, nothing but eternal gratitude--gratitude as deep in
martyrdom as it would have been in ecstasy. I have learnt to-day how
sweet it is to suffer through those one loves!'
It was six o'clock when René posted this letter. He gazed after it as
it disappeared in the box, and no sooner had it left his hand than he
began to regret having sent it, the anguish of suspense respecting the
result being greater than his sufferings of the afternoon. In his
disturbed state of mind he had entirely forgotten his daily habits and
the fact that he had never stayed from home a whole day without giving
some previous explanation. He sat down to dinner in the first restaurant
he came across, without a thought of his people at home, and completely
absorbed in speculations as to what Suzanne would do after reading his
effusion. The first thing that awoke him from his state of
semi-somnambulism was the exclamation of Françoise when, having reached
home on foot about half-past nine, he opened the door and found himself
face to face with the big, clumsy maid, who nearly dropped the lamp with
fright.
'Oh! sir,' she cried; 'if you only knew how uneasy you've made Madame
Fresneau--it's sent her into fits.'
As Emilie ran out into the passage to meet him René said, 'You don't
mean to say that you've been upset by my not coming home? I couldn't
help it,' he added in an undertone as he kissed her; 'it was on _her_
account.'
Emilie, who had really spent a most wretched evening, looked at her
brother. She saw that he too had been greatly agitated, and that his
eyes were burning feverishly; she had not the courage to reproach him
with selfishness in paying no regard to her own unreasonable
susceptibilities--though he knew them so well--and replied in a whisper,
as she pointed to the half-open door of the dining-room: 'The Offarels
are here.'
These simple words sufficed to give a sudden turn to René's feelings.
His fever of suspense was dispelled by a more pressing fear. During the
sweetest moments of his walk through the Louvre that morning the memory
of Rosalie had been able to give him pain--even when he was with
Suzanne! And now he was obliged to unexpectedly face--not a vision--but
the girl herself, to meet those eyes which he had avoided in such
cowardly fashion for days past, to gaze upon that pallor which he
himself had caused. A sense of his treachery once more came over him,
but this time it was more painful and acute than ever. He had spoken
words of love to another woman before breaking off his engagement with
her whom he justly regarded as his betrothed.
He entered the dining-room as if he were walking to the scaffold, and
had no sooner come under the full light of the lamp than he saw by the
look in Rosalie's eyes that she read his heart like an open book. She
was seated between Fresneau and Madame Offarel, working as usual, her
feet resting on the supports of an empty chair upon which she had placed
her ball of wool and her father's hat; this, as René knew well enough,
was only an innocent ruse to get him to sit near her when he came home.
She and her mother were knitting some long mittens for old Offarel, who
had now got hold of an idea that he was going to have gout in his
wrists. Her fanciful parent was there, too, drinking, in spite of his
imaginary ills, a glass of good strong grog and playing piquet with the
professor. It was Emilie who had proposed the game in order to
discourage general conversation, and so be able to give herself up to
thoughts of her absent brother, whilst Angélique Offarel had been
helping her to unravel some skeins of silk. A soft light illumined this
quiet, peaceful scene, symbolical, in the poet's eyes, of all that had
so long constituted his happiness, and which he had now given up for
ever. Fortunately for him the professor immediately made his loud voice
heard, and so put an end to his further reflections.
'Young man,' cried Fresneau, 'you can boast of having a sister who
thinks something of you, I can tell you! She was actually proposing to
sit up all night! "Something must have happened to him. He would have
sent a wire." For two pins she would have sent me off to the Morgue. It
was no use my suggesting that some one had kept you to dinner. Come,
Offarel, it's your deal.'
'I had to go into the country,' replied René, 'and I lost the train.'
'How badly he tells them!' thought Emilie, admiring her brother as much
for his unskilfulness, which in this case was a sign of honesty, as she
would have admired him for Machiavelian cleverness.
'You look rather pale,' observed Madame Offarel aggressively, 'aren't
you well?'
'Shall I make room for you here, Monsieur René?' asked Rosalie, with a
timid smile; 'I'll take away papa's hat.'
'Give it to me,' said old Offarel, perceiving a place for it on the
sideboard; 'it will be safer here. It's my Number One, and mamma would
scold me if any harm came to it.'
'It's been Number One for such a long time,' cried Angélique, with a
laugh. 'Look here, papa, here's a real Number One,' she added, holding
up René's hat under the lamp-light and comparing its glossy nap with the
shabby silk and old-fashioned shape of her father's headgear, much to
the latter's disadvantage.
'But nothing is too good for Monsieur René now,' observed Madame
Offarel with her usual acrimony, venting the rest of her displeasure
upon Angélique, whose action had annoyed her. 'You'll be lucky if your
husband is always as well dressed as your father.'
René was seated by Rosalie's side, and let the epigram of the terrible
_bourgeoise_ pass unnoticed, taking no part either in the rest of the
conversation, which Emilie wisely led round to cookery topics. Madame
Offarel was almost as keen on this subject as she was on that of her
feline pets. Not content with having recipes of her own for all kinds of
dishes, such as _coulis d'écrevisses_, her triumph, and _canard sauce
Offarel_, as she had proudly named it, she also kept a list of addresses
where specialities might be obtained. Treating Paris like Robinson
Crusoe treated his island, she would, from time to time, start out on a
foraging expedition to the most remote quarters of the capital, going to
some particular shop for her coffee and to another for her _pâtes
d'Italie._ She knew the exact date on which a certain man received his
consignment of Bologna sausages, and when another got his Spanish olives
in.
The slightest incidents of these excursions were magnified by her into
events. Sometimes she would go on foot, and then her comments on the
improvements she had noticed, on the increase in the traffic, and on the
superiority of the air in the Rue de Bagneux were inexhaustible. At
other times she would go by omnibus, and then her fellow-passengers
formed the subject of her remarks. She had met a very nice woman who was
very fat, or a young man who was very impertinent; the conductor had
recognised her and said good morning; the 'bus had nearly been upset
three times; an old gentleman--'decorated'--had had some trouble in
alighting. 'I really thought he would fall, poor, dear old man!'
The insignificant and superfluous details upon which it pleased the poor
woman's simple mind to dilate generally amused René, for the
_bourgeoise_ sometimes hit upon some curious figures of speech in her
flow of words. She would say, for instance, when speaking of a
fellow-passenger who was paying attentions to a cook laden with
provisions, 'Some people like their pockets greasy,' or of two persons
quarrelling, 'They fought like Darnajats'--a mysterious expression which
she had always refused to translate.
But that evening there was too pronounced a contrast between the state
of romantic excitement into which his interview with Suzanne had thrown
the poet and the meanness of the surroundings in which he had been born.
He did not stop to think that similar contrasts are to be found in every
form of life, and that the substrata of the fashionable world are
composed of mean rivalries, of disgusting attempts to keep up illusory
appearances, and of compromises of conscience compared with which the
narrow-mindedness of the middle classes is a proof of the most
delightful simplicity.
He looked at Rosalie, and the resemblance between the girl and her
mother struck him most forcibly. She was pretty, for all that. Her oval
face, pale with evident grief, had an ivory tint as she bent down over
her knitting in the lamp-light, and when she raised her eyes to his the
sincerity of the passion that animated her shone forth from beneath her
long lashes. But why were her eyes of precisely the same shade of colour
as her mother's? Why, with twenty-four years between them, had they the
same shape of brow, the same cut of the chin, and the same lines of the
mouth? But how unjust to blame this innocent child for that resemblance,
for that pallor, for that grief, and even for the silence in which she
wrapped herself! Alas! that it should be so, but when we have wronged a
woman it is easy enough to find an inexhaustible source of unjust
complaints against her.
Rosalie had unwittingly committed the crime of adding remorse to the
feelings brought into play by René's fresh passion. She represented
that past which we never forgive if it becomes an obstacle between us
and our future. False as most women are in matters of love, their
perfidy can never sufficiently punish the secret selfishness of the
majority of men. If René had had the sorry courage of his friend Claude
Larcher, and looked himself straight in the face, he would have had to
confess that the real cause of his irritation lay in the fact that he
had deceived Rosalie. But he was a poet, and one who was an adept at
throwing a veil over the ugly parts of his soul.
He therefore compelled himself to think of Suzanne, and of the noble
love which had sprung up and was burning within him; for the first time
he succeeded in forming a resolve to break definitely with Rosalie,
saying to himself, 'I will be worthy of _her!_' _She_ was the lying
wanton who, with her luxurious surroundings, her rare science of dress,
her incomparable power of aping sentiment, and her seductive,
soul-troubling beauty, had such immense advantages over sweet,
simple-hearted Rosalie. Her beauty once more rose up before René's
enslaved imagination just as old Offarel was giving the signal for
departure by rising and saying to Fresneau, 'I've won fourteen _sous_
from you--ha! ha! that'll keep me in cigars for a week. Come,' he added,
turning to his wife, 'are you ladies ready?'
'Since we are all here,' replied Madame Offarel, emphasising the word
'all' by darting a look at René. 'When are you coming to dinner? Would
Saturday suit you? That's M. Fresneau's best day, I believe?' The
professor replying in the affirmative, she now addressed herself to the
poet direct, 'Will that suit you, René? You'll be more comfortable at
our place, I can assure you, than amongst all those grand people on whom
your friend Larcher goes sponging.'
'But, Madame----' exclaimed the poet.
'Oh--that's enough!' cried the old lady; 'I always remember what my dear
mother used to say: a crust of bread at home is better than a stuffed
turkey at another's table.'
Although this epigram of Rosalie's mother was simply nonsense when
applied to the unhappy Claude, whose acute dyspepsia seldom permitted
him to drink even a glass of wine, it wounded René as deeply as if it
had been thoroughly deserved. This was because he saw in it yet another
sign of deep and ever-increasing hostility between his old associations
and the new life for which since that morning he so eagerly and ardently
longed. These people had a right to him--a fuller right than Madame
Offarel knew, for was he not bound to Rosalie by a secret understanding?
A fresh fit of irritation against this poor child came over him, and he
said to himself more firmly than before, 'I shall break it off.'
Having arrived at that decision, he went to bed, but could not sleep.
The current of his ideas had changed. He was now thinking of his letter.
It must have reached Suzanne by this, and a series of unforeseen dangers
spread itself out before his imagination. Suppose her husband were to
intercept the letter? A thrill ran through him as he thought of the
misery his imprudence might bring down upon this poor woman, in the
power of a tyrant whose brutality he could well imagine. And then, even
if the letter reached Suzanne safely, what if it displeased her? And he
was sure that such would be the case. He tried to remember the words he
had written. 'How can I have been such a fool as to write like that?' he
asked himself, and hoped that the letter might miscarry. He knew that
such things happened sometimes when people wished the contrary. Why
should it not happen now that he expressly desired it? He grew quite
ashamed of his childishness, and attributing it to the nervous
excitement of the evening, began once more to curse Madame Offarel's
mean-spirited remarks. His irritability against the mother paralysed all
pity for the daughter. He passed the night in this fashion, tossed
between two kinds of tortures, until he fell into that deep morning
sleep which is more tiring than refreshing; on awaking, the first
thought that occurred to him was his desire, stronger than ever, to
break off his engagement.
What means could he employ? A very simple expedient presented itself to
his mind at once--ask the girl to make an appointment. It was so easy,
too! How many times had she not let him know when Madame Offarel would
be out, so that he could come to the Rue Bagneux sure of finding her
alone with Angélique; and how considerate the latter had always been in
leaving the two lovers together and in peace! This was undoubtedly the
most loyal means to adopt. But the poet could not even bear to think of
such an interview.
In such crises we are sometimes assailed by a contemptible form of pity
that consists in unwillingness to look upon the sufferings we have
caused. We do not mind inflicting torture upon the woman we cast off,
but we do not care to see her tears. It was only natural that René
should try to spare himself this insufferable pain by writing--the
resource of the weak in every kind of rupture. Paper can stand a good
deal, people say. He got out of bed and commenced to write--but the
words would not flow easily, and he was obliged to stop. Meanwhile the
hour for the postman's first call was drawing near. Although it was
perfect madness to expect Suzanne's reply by that delivery, the lover's
heart beat faster when Emilie entered the room with his letters and the
newspaper, as was her wont when she knew he was awake. How happy would
he have been had one of the three envelopes she brought him borne that
long, elegant hand which, though seen but once, he would have recognised
amongst a hundred others! No--these were only business letters, which he
tossed aside so petulantly that his sister stared at him in surprise.
'Are you in trouble, René?' she asked, and as she put the question
there was a look of such intense devotion and love in her eyes that she
appeared to her brother like a guardian angel come to save him from the
troubles of that cruel night. Why should he not charge Emilie with the
utterance of those words he dared not formulate himself, and which he
could not manage to put into writing? He had no sooner conceived this
plan of getting over the difficulty than he hastened to carry it out
with the impetuosity common to all weak minds, and with tears in his
eyes he began to disclose the unfortunate plight he was in with regard
to Rosalie.
He told his sister exactly how the whole matter stood. Whilst his mind
was in that state of excitement frequently caused by confessions, fresh
ideas originated within him and strengthened the resolve he had made.
They were, however, such as ought to have occurred to him at the time he
was entering into those relations which he now regarded as guilty ones.
When the intimacy had first sprung up between them--a purely innocent
but clandestine affair--he had not told himself that strict morality
forbids any secret engagement of this kind, and that to accustom a girl
to elude the watchfulness of her parents is a most reprehensible
proceeding. He had not told himself then that a man of honour has no
right to declare his love until he has satisfied himself as to its
stability, and that, although the ardour of passion excuses many
weaknesses, a mere desire for obtaining fresh emotions makes such
weakness sinful. These reproaches and many more were now in his mind and
on his lips, and as he looked in Emilie's face he plainly saw what pain
his conduct had caused his confiding sister. In a narrow home circle
such dissimulation is productive of much grief to those who have been
its victims. But though Madame Fresneau felt as though she had been
imposed upon, she vented all her anger upon the girl, and upon her
alone, exclaiming, after her brother had told her what he wanted her to
do, 'I never would have believed her so deceitful.'
'Don't blame her,' said René shamefacedly. If their relations had
remained hidden, whose fault was it? He therefore added: 'I am the
guilty one.'
'You!' cried Emilie, folding him in her arms. 'No, no; you are too good,
too loving. But I will do what you wish, and I promise you I'll be as
gentle as possible. It was the best thing you could have done to come to
me. We women know how to smooth things down. And then, you know, it is
only right that you should put an end to such a false position. The
sooner it's over the better, so I shall go to the Rue Bagneux this very
afternoon. If I can't see her alone I will ask her to meet me
somewhere.'
In spite of the confidence she had expressed in her own tact, Emilie
became so impressed with the difficulties of her mission that, during
lunch, she wore a look of anxiety that made her husband feel uneasy and
awakened in René feelings of remorse. In employing a third person to
tell Rosalie the truth was he not acting in a particularly cruel manner
and adding unnecessary humiliation to unavoidable pain? When his sister
came to him ready dressed, just before starting on her errand, he was on
the point of stopping her. There was still time--but he let her go. He
heard the door close. Emilie was in the street--now she was in the Rue
d'Assas--now in the Rue du Cherche-Midi.
But such thoughts as these were soon dispelled by the fever of anxiety
with which he awaited the arrival of the next post. Suzanne must have
had his letter that morning. If she had replied at once the answer would
come by the next delivery. This idea, and the approach of the moment in
which its correctness would be tested, at once cut short his pity for
the girl he had cast off. Complex as are the subtle workings of the
heart, love simplifies them wondrously. René was tortured by the
suspense felt by all lovers, from the simple soldier who expects an
ill-spelt letter from his sweetheart to the royal prince carrying on a
sentimental correspondence with the brightest and most heartless Court
beauty. The man wishes to go on with his usual occupations, but his mind
is on the alert, counting the minutes and unable to endure the torment
of waiting. He looks at the clock, and imagines all kinds of
possibilities. If he dared he would go twenty times an hour to the
person from whom he gets his letters, and ask whether there is nothing
for him. Such is the agony of waiting, with all its intense anxiety, its
mad conjectures, the burning fever of its illusions and disenchantments.
Every other feeling of the soul is burnt up and, consumed in this fire
of impatience. When Emilie came back, after having been gone an hour and
a half, René seemed to have entirely forgotten on what errand he had
sent her, but there was such a look of pain on his sister's face that it
quite startled him.
'Well?' he ejaculated, in a tone of suspense.
'It is all over,' she replied, almost in a whisper. 'Oh, René, how I
misjudged her!'
'What did she say?'
'Not a word of reproach. She only wept--but, oh, how bitterly! Her love
for you is greater than I thought. Her mother had gone out with
Angélique--how cruel it sounds!--to order the things for Saturday's
dinner. I, for one, am not going to that dinner. When Rosalie opened the
door, she turned so pale that I thought she was going to faint. She
guessed everything before I said a word. She is like I am with you--it
is a kind of second sight. She took me into her room. It is full of
you--of your portraits, of trifles that remind her of places you've been
to together, and of cuts from the illustrated papers about your play. I
began to deliver your message as gently as I could, but I give you my
word I was quite as upset as she was. She said, "It is so good of him to
have asked you to come. You at least will not think me foolish in loving
him as I do." And then she went on, "I have been expecting it for some
time. It seemed too good to be true. Ask him to let me keep his
letters." Oh, my God! I can't tell you any more about it now. I am so
afraid for you, my dear René; I am so afraid that her grief may bring
you ill luck.'