When Marcel had gone away, Suzanne, when she had quietly shut the
street-door, by which she had gone out, went upstairs to her room and sat
down on the side of her bed.
She asked herself if she had not just been the sport of an hallucination,
if it was really true that a man had gone out of the house, who had held
her in his arms, to whom she had yielded herself.
Everything had happened so rapidly, that she had had no time to think, to
reflect, to say to herself: "What does he want with me?" no time even to
recover herself.
A kiss, a violent emotion, a transient indignation, a struggle for a few
seconds, a sharp pain, and that was all; the crime was consummated, she had
lost her honour, and that was love!
She wished not to believe it, but her disordered corsage, her dishevelled
hair upon her bare shoulders, her crumpled dressing-gown, and more than all
that, the violent leaping of her heart, told her that she was not dreaming.
He was gone, the priest; he had fled away into the night, happy and light
of heart, leaving her alone with her shame, and the ulcer of remorse in her
soul.
And then big tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon her breasts, still
burning with his feverish caresses. "It is all over! it is all over. Where
is my virginity?"
Weep, poor girl, weep, for that virginity is already far away, and nothing,
it is said, flees faster than the illusion which departs, if it be not a
virginity which flies away.
And a vague terror was mingled with her remorse.
The first apprehension which strikes brutally against the edifice of
illusions of the woman who has committed a fault, is the anxiety regarding
the opinion of the man who has incited her to that fault; I am speaking, be
it understood, of one in whom there remains the feeling of modesty, without
which she is not a woman, but an unclean female.
When she awakes from her short delirium, she says to herself:
--What will he think of me? What will he believe? Will he not despise me?
And she has good grounds for apprehension; for often (I believe I have said
so already) the contempt of her accomplice is all that remains to her.
And then, what man is there who, after having at length possessed
_illegitimately_ the wife or the maiden so long pursued and desired, does
not say to himself in the morning, when his fever is dissipated, when the
bandage which hitherto has covered the eyes of love _suppliant_, is unbound
from the eyes of love _satisfied_, when the _unknown_ which has so many
charms, has become the _known_ that we despise, when of the rosy, inflated
illusion there remains but a yellow skeleton: "She has given herself to me
trustingly and artlessly; but might she not have given herself with equal
facility to another, if I had not been there? for in fact ... what
devil...?"
A strange question, but one which unavoidably takes up its abode in the
heart, and waits to come forth and be present one day on the lips, at the
time when Satiety gives the last kick to the last house of cards erected by
Pleasure.
And it is thus that after doing everything to draw a woman into our own
fall, we are discontented with her for her sacrifice and for her love.
For there comes a moment when the _angel_ for whom one would have given
one's life, the _divinity_ for whom one would have sacrificed country,
family, fortune, future, is no more than a common mistress, ranked in the
ordinary lot with the rest, and for whom one would hesitate to spend
half-a-sovereign.
Have you not chanced sometimes to follow with an envious eye, on some fresh
morning in spring or on a lovely autumn evening, the solitary walk of a
loving couple? They go slowly, hand in hand, avoiding notice, selecting the
shady and secret paths, or the darkest walks in the woods. He is handsome,
young and strong; she is pretty and charming, pale with emotion, or
blushing with modesty. What things they murmur as they lean one towards
another, what sweet projects of an endless future, what oaths which ought
to be eternal, sworn untiringly, lip on lip.
"One of those noble loves which have no end."
Happy egotists. They think but of themselves; all, except themselves, is
insupportable to them, all but themselves wearies and weighs upon them. The
universe is themselves, life is the present which glides along, and in
order to delay the present and enjoy it at their ease, they have no scruple
in mortgaging the future. And they go on, listening to the divine harmony,
the mysterious poem which sings in their own heart, of youth and love.
You have envied them; who would not envy them? It is happiness which passes
by. Make way respectfully. What! you smiled sorrowfully! Ah, it is because
like me, you have seen behind these poor trustful children, following them
as the _insultores_ used to follow the triumphal chariot of old, a demon
with sinister countenance who with his brutal hands will soon roughly tear
the veil woven of fancies; the Reality, who is there with his rags, getting
ready to cast them upon their bright tinsels of gauze and spangles.
Wait a few years, a few months, perhaps only a few weeks. What has become
of those handsome lovers so tenderly entwined? They swore mouth to mouth an
endless love. Where are they? Where are their loves?
As well would it be worth to ask where are the leaves of autumn which the
evening breeze carried away last year.
"But where are the snows of yester-year?"
What! already, it is finished! And yet he had sworn to love her always.
Yes, but she also had sworn to be always amiable. Which of the two first
forfeited the oath?
There has been then a tragedy, a drama, despair, tears? Nonsense! Those who
had sworn to die one for the other, one fine day parted as strangers.
The charming young girl whom you saw passing by, proud and radiant on the
arm of that artless stripling, see, here she comes, a little weary, a
little faded, but still charming, on the arm of that cynical Bohemian.
That poetical school-girl, who smiled and scattered daisies on the head of
her lover, as he knelt before her, has become the adored wife of a dull
tallow-chandler; and the other one, who took the ivy for her emblem, and
who said to her sweetheart: "I cling till death!" has clung to and
separated from half-a-dozen others without dying, and has finished by
fastening herself to a rheumatical old churchwarden, peevish but
substantial.
And the lover? He is no better: he has loved twenty since; the deep sea of
oblivion has passed between them, and among so many vanished mistresses,
can he precisely remember her name?
Suzanne did not say all this to herself, she was ignorant of the whirlpools
of life, but she felt instinctively that she was about to be precipated
into an abyss.
She was not perverse, she was merely frivolous and coquettish, but she had
received a vicious education. Her imagination only had been corrupted, her
heart had remained till then untainted. It was a good ear of corn which
somehow or another had made its way into the field of tares.
She reproached herself bitterly therefore for the shameful facility with
which she had yielded herself to the priest, and she sought for an excuse
to try and palliate her fault in her own eyes.
But she was unable to discover any genuine excuses. A young girl is
pardoned for yielding herself to her lover in a moment of forgetfulness and
excitement, because she hopes that marriage will atone for her fault.
But what had she to claim? What could she expect from this Curé?
Again a young wife is pardoned for deceiving an old husband, or a husband
who is worthless, debauched and brutal, and for seeking a friend abroad
whom she cannot find at her fire-side; but she? Whom had she deceived? Her
father, who though severe, adored her. Whom had she dishonoured? The white
hairs of that worthy, brave old man.
She saw clearly that she could find no excuse, and she was compelled to
confess that she ought to feel ashamed of herself; but what affected her
most was the thought that her lover, the priest, must have been extremely
surprised at his victory himself, and that if he too were to attempt to
find an excuse for her conduct, he could discover none either. But in
proportion as she felt astonished at her shame, as she saw into what a
corner she had been driven, as she dreaded the man's scorn, for whom she
had fallen so low, did she feel her love grow greater.
LXXVII.
CONSOLATIONS.
"Every fault finds its excuse in
itself. This is the sophistry in which
we are richest. The struggle of good
and evil is serious, and really painful,
only in the case of a man who has
been brought up in a position where
actions, deeds and thoughts have had
the power of self-examination."
EMILE LECLERCQ (_Une fille du peuple_).
Before her fault, or if you prefer it, her fall, this was but the odd
caprice of an ardent, amorous, passionate young girl whose feelings are
exhilarated and excited by a licentious imagination, continually nourished
by the senseless reading of the adventures of heroes, who have existed
nowhere but in the brain of novelists.
Therefore, eager for the unknown, she hastens to lay hold of the first
rascal who comes forward, having a little self-assurance, talkativeness and
good looks, and who will be for one day the ideal she has dreamed of, if he
knows how to brazen it out.
"Every woman is at heart a rake," said the great poet Alexander Pope.
And as for those who, in spite of the heat of an ungovernable temperament,
remain virtuous and chaste, we must scarcely be pleased at them on that
account.
It is simply because they have not had the opportunity to sin. The
opportunity, which makes the thief, is also the touchstone of women's
virtue. Therefore, when this blessed opportunity presents itself, although
it is said to be bald, they well know how to find other hairs on it by
which they seize and do not let it go again.
Certainly there are exceptions, and I am far from saying _Ab una disce
omnes_.
You, Madame, for instance, who read me, I am convinced that you are not in
that category of women of whom the Englishman Pope made this wicked remark.
Suzanne felt now possessed by a wild infatuation for the man to whom she
had yielded herself almost without love; and do not young girls frequently
yield themselves in this manner? She felt herself attracted towards him by
the purely physical and magnetic phenomenon which impels the female towards
the male; for we shall try in vain and talk in vain, raise ourselves on our
dwarfish heels, talk of the ethereal essence of our soul and the
quintessence of our feelings, idealize woman and deify love, there always
comes a moment when we become like the brute, and when the passion of
seraphims cannot be distinguished in anything from that of man.
........who goes by night
In some street obscure, to a lodging low and dark.
Suzanne certainly had not taken note of her impressions.
Attracted towards Marcel by his sympathetic beauty, by his sweet and
unctuous voice, and especially by the vague sorrow displayed on his
countenance, perhaps still more by the opposition and slanders of her
father, she had allowed herself to be won, before she know where she was
going.
She was far from any carnal thought, and she would have been considerably
surprised if anyone had told her that the priest loved her otherwise than
as a sister is loved.
But that is not what we men understand by love.
The Werthers who regard their mistress as a sacred divinity whom we ought
to touch with trembling, are rare. They are not met again after eighteen.
Marcel was more than eighteen; therefore he had found his desires become
more inflamed than ever in the presence of his mistress.
If he had been hesitating and timid, like Charlotte's lover, I do not doubt
that she would have found time to gather within herself the force necessary
to resist him, but she felt herself mastered before even she had recovered
from her terror and confusion.
I do not wish to try and excuse her, but she repented; and how far more
worthy of respect is the repentance of certain fallen women than the
haughty virtue of certain others.
And, perceiving that she found no excuse for her fault, Suzanne tried to
deceive herself by exalting above measure the worth of the man who had
ruined her.
--He is no ordinary man after all, she said to herself, and we do not love
the man we wish. It does honour to the heart to repose its love rightly. It
is natural then that I should say, that I should confess to myself, since I
cannot confess it to others. Yes, I love him; who would not love him? Yes,
I have given myself to him; but who in my place would have had the power to
resist him?
Is it not a fact that everybody here loves him? Have I not observed the
looks of all these village girls fixed on him with eager desire? It would
have been easy for him to make his choice among the prettiest, but he has
seen me only.
He is a priest, but what does that matter? is he not a man? And this man as
handsome as a god, I feel that I love him much more than a lover ought to
be loved; for I love not only for the happiness of loving him and being
loved by him, but also from pride, because I am proud of him, because I
admire his fine and noble nature, so open, so sweet, so charming, so
audacious, which, led astray into this false and thankless position, must
find itself so unhappy. Then, I was so affected the first time that my look
met his, I felt that all my being was his, but especially my inward
feelings, my spirit, my soul, and my sentiments.
And in this way there is a great difference in man and in woman in their
love.
In man, possession most frequently causes passion to disappear; the reality
kills the ideal; the awakening, the dream; in woman on the other hand, it
nearly always enhances, for the first time at any rate, the fascination of
being loved, for she attaches herself to him in proportion to the trouble,
the shame, the sacrifice.
For with man, love is but an episode, while with woman it is her whole
life.
LXXVIII.
FALSE ALARM.
"She's there, say'st thou? What, can that be the maid
Whose pure, fresh face attracted me but now,
When I beheld her in her home; alas,
And can the flower so quickly fade?"...
DELPHINE GAY.
Suzanne, who had passed a sleepless night, was fast asleep in the morning,
when her father burst into her room like a hurricane.
She woke with a start, all pale and trembling; she tried nevertheless to
assume the most innocent and the calmest air.
--What is the matter, papa?
But Durand did not answer. He surveyed the room with a scrutinizing eye,
apparently, interrogating the furniture and the walls, as if he were asking
them if they had not been witnesses of some unusual event.
But if walls at times have eyes and ears, they have no tongue; they cannot
relate the things they have seen. Then he turned towards his daughter in
such a singular way that Suzanne dropped her eyes and felt she was going to
faint.
--Suzanne, he demanded of her abruptly, did you hear anything in the night?
--I! she said with the most profound astonishment.
--Yes, you, Suzanne. It seems to me that I am speaking to you. Did you hear
anything in the night?
She thought she saw at first that her father knew nothing, and, in spite of
herself, a long sigh of relief escaped her breast; therefore she replied
with the most natural air in the world:
--What do you mean that I have heard, father?
--Something has happened, my daughter, this very night, in the garden, said
Durand, scanning his words, something extraordinary.
This time Suzanne was terrified.
Nevertheless she collected all her courage; fully determined to lie to the
last extremity.
--Well?
--Well, father? you puzzle me.
And leaning her pretty pale head on her plump arm, she looked at her father
with perfect assurance.
She was charming thus. Her black hair, long and curling, partly covered her
round, polished shoulders, and her velvety eye was frankly fixed on
Durand's.
The old soldier was moved; he looked at his daughter with admiration, and
reproached himself doubtlessly for his wrongful suspicions, for he said
gently:
--Do not lie to me, Suzanne, and answer my questions frankly. I know very
well that you are not guilty, that you cannot be guilty, that you have
nothing to reproach yourself with; you quite see then that I am not angry.
But sometimes young girls allow themselves to be led into acts of
thoughtlessness which they believe to be of no consequence, and which yet
have a gravity which they do not foresee. Last night a man entered the
garden.
--The garden? said Suzanne, alarmed afresh, and ever feeling the fixed and
scrutinizing look dwelling upon her. No doubt, it is a thief. No, father,
no, I have heard nothing.
--I have several reasons for believing that it is not a thief; thieves take
more precautions; this one walked heavily in my asparagus-bed.
--Ah, what a pity! In the asparagus-bed! He has crushed some, no doubt...
--Yes, in the asparagus-bed. The mark of his feet is distinctly visible.
Suzanne could contain herself no longer. Her self-possession deserted her,
and she felt that her strength was going also. She believed that her father
knew all, she saw herself lost, and, to conceal her shame and hide her
terror, she buried herself under the bed-clothes, sobbing, and saying:
--Ah, papa! Ah, papa!
The old soldier mistook her terror, her despair and her tears.
--Come, he cried, confound it, Suzanne, are you mad? Don't cry like this,
little girl, don't cry like this, like a fool: I only wanted to know if you
had heard anything.
--No, father, sobbed Suzanne under her bed-clothes.
--You did not hear him? Well! very good. That is all, confound it. Another
time we will keep our eyes open, that is all.
But the shock had been too great, and Suzanne continued to utter sobs; she
decided, however, to show her face all bathed in tears, and said to her
father in a reproachful tone:
--And besides I did not know what you meant with your night-robber and your
asparagus-bed; I was fast asleep, and you woke me up with a start to tell
me that.
--True, I have been rather abrupt, I was wrong; well, don't let us talk
about it any more, hang it.
But Suzanne, having recovered herself, wanted to enjoy her triumph to the
end.
--I don't know what you could have meant, she added still in tears, by
coming and telling me in an angry tone that a man had been walking in your
asparagus, as if it were my fault.
--It is true nevertheless, Suzanne. It is quite plain. I arrived this
morning quite dusty from my journey, and went down into the garden very
quietly as I usually do, thinking of nothing, when all at once I stopped.
What did I behold? ... footsteps, child, a man's footsteps, right in the
middle of my borders. "Hang it," I cried, "here is a blackguard who makes
himself at home." I followed their track, which led me to the wall of the
house and right up to the stair-case. That was rather bad, you know. There
was still some fresh soil on the steps. Good Heavens! I asked myself then
what it meant, and I came to you to learn.
--To me, father. But I know no more about it than you do. Why do you
suppose that I know more about it than you?
Durand had great confidence in his daughter: he knew her to be giddy and
frivolous, but he did not suppose for an instant her giddiness and
frivolity amounted to the forgetfulness of duty.
Many fathers in this manner allow themselves to be deceived by their
children with the same blindness and meekness as foolish husbands are
deceived by their wives, till the day, when the bandage which covered their
eyes, falls at length, and they discover to their amazement that the
_cherub_ which they had brought up with so much care and love, and whose
long roll of good qualities, talents and virtues they loved to recount
before strangers, is nothing but a little being saturated with vice and
hide-bound in overweening vanity.
He embraced her with a father's tender and affectionate look, and for some
time gazed upon Suzanne's clear eyes:
--No, he said to himself, there can be no vice in this young soul; is not
this calm brow and these pure eyes the evidence of the purity of her soul?
And, taking one of her hands in his, he remained near her bed and said to
her gently:
--It is a fact, I say again, my child, that I know young people sometimes,
without thinking or intending any evil, commit imprudent acts, which are
nothing at first, but which often have dangerous consequences. Sometimes
carelessly they fasten their eyes on a young man whom they meet at church,
at a ball, during a walk, or no matter where ... well! that is enough for
him to construe the look as an advance which is made to him, or at least as
an encouragement, and to believe himself authorized then to undertake some
enterprise. Good Heavens, all seductions begin in the same way. We men are
for the most part very infatuated with ourselves. I, my dearest child, can
make that confession without any shame, for I have long since passed the
age of self-conceit, although we still come across some old rascals who
want to gobble up chickens, and forget that they have lost their teeth. Men
are very foolish, young men particularly, and willingly imagine that all
the ladies are dying of love for their little persons. A young woman passes
by, and happens to look at them, as one looks at a dog or a pig; good, they
say directly, "Stop, stop, that woman wants me." And immediately they try
the knot of their tie, arrange their collar, and, assuming a triumphant
air, begin to follow her and consider themselves authorized to address her
impertinently.
--Ah, ah, said Suzanne, I can see that now, father. There were some young
fellows who used to follow us always at school, with their moustaches well
waxed and a fine parting in their hair behind. Heavens, how they have
amused us.
--At other times, said Durand, a young girl is at her window. A gentleman,
passing by, all at once lifts his nose. The young girl sees him, their eyes
meet: "Eh, eh," says the gentleman, "there is a little thing who is rather
nice; 'pon my word, she is not bad, not bad at all, and I believe that it
would not be difficult ... the devil, it would be charming! What a look she
gave me! let us have a try." And the rogue commences to walk up and down
under the windows, doing all he can to compromise the girl.
And all these young fellows, my dear, are like that; they have the most
deplorable opinion of women, that one would say that their mothers had all
been very easy-going ladies. And now, that is enough.
Together they passed in minute review all the young village _beaux_, but
Durand's suspicion did not rest on any.
LXXIX
IN THE _DILIGENCE_
"Hydras and apes. Triboulet puts
on the mitre, and Bobêche the crown,
Crispin plays Lycurgus, and Pasquin
parades as Solon. Scapin is heard
calling himself Sire, Mascarillo is My
Lord ... Cheeks made for slaps, are
titles for honours. The more they
are branded on the shoulder, the more
they are bedisened on the back.
Trestallion is radiant, and Pancrace
resplendent."
CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (_Paris-Berlin_).
During this time, the _diligence_ for Nancy was carrying away Marcel and
Ridoux at full trot. Marcel had appeared to yield to his uncle's
exhortations, and said to himself: "Let us go; that does not bind me to
anything. In a couple of days at the latest, I shall be on my way back;"
and this had made the worthy Ridoux quite happy.
They were alone in the _coupé_, and could converse at their ease.
--Look at this lovely country, that valley, those little hills, and away
there the large woods, and do you not think that I shall feel some regret
at leaving this part?
--And that little white house at the foot of the hill?... Is it there?
--Ah! so Veronica has pointed it out to you.
--Reluctantly, my son. But I wanted to know all. She is a cautious and
trustworthy person who is entirely devoted to you.
--Not a word more about that cautious woman, uncle, I pray.
--Let us rather talk about your promotion.
--My promotion. I assure you, uncle, that I am no longer ambitious.