"You are now a friend of the family," continued Mme. Laroque, "and as
such I ask you to give me your opinion of M. de Bevallan."
"I believe, madame, that M. de Bevallan has a very handsome fortune--not
so large as yours, but undeniably handsome--about a hundred and fifty
thousand francs a year!"
"Yes, but what do you think of him personally, and of his character?"
"M. de Bevallan is what the world calls a perfect gentleman. He has
wit; he is considered an honourable man."
"But do you think he will make my daughter happy?"
"I do not think he will make her unhappy. He is not unkind."
"What do you think I ought to do? I am not entirely satisfied with him
... but he is the only one Marguerite at all cares for ... and there are
so few men with a hundred thousand francs a year. You can understand
that my daughter--in her position--has had plenty of offers. For the
last two or three years we have been literally besieged.... Well, it is
time we decided.... I am not strong.... I may go any day.... My
daughter would be unprotected. Here is an unexceptionable suitor whom
the world will certainly approve--it is my duty to welcome him. Already
people say that I have filled my daughter's head with romantic
notions--which is not the truth. She has her own ideas. Now, what do
you advise me to do?"
"May I ask what is Mlle. de Porhoet's opinion? She is a lady of great
judgment and experience, and besides, entirely devoted to you."
"Oh, if I listened to Mlle. de Porhoet I should send M. de Bevallan
about his business. But it is all very well for Mlle. de Porhoet to
talk. When he's gone, she won't marry my daughter for me."
"But, madame, from the monetary point of view, M. de Bevallan is
certainly a fine match. I do not dispute it for a moment, and if you
stand out for a hundred thousand francs a year."
"But, my dear sir, I care no more for a hundred thousand francs than for
a hundred pence! However, I am not talking of myself, but of my
daughter. Well, I can't let her marry a mason, can I? I should have
rather liked to be the wife of a mason, but it does not follow that what
would have made me happy would make her so. I ought, in marrying her,
to be guided by received opinion, not merely by my own."
"Well, then, madame, if this marriage suits you, and suits your daughter
equally well..."
"Ah, no! ... it does not suit me ... nor does it suit my daughter any
better. It is a marriage ... to speak plainly, it is _un mariage de
convenance_."
"Am I to understand that it is quite settled?"
"No, or I should scarcely ask your advice. If it were, my daughter
would be more at ease. Her misgivings disturb her, and then..."
Mme. Laroque sank back into the shadow of the hood over her chair and
added:
"Have _you_ any idea of what is going on in that unfortunate head?"
"None, madame."
She fixed her sparkling eyes on me for a moment, sighed deeply, and
said, gently and sadly:
"You may go ... I won't detain you any longer."
The confidence with which I had just been honoured, had not surprised me
much. For some time it had been evident that Mlle. Marguerite reserved
for M. de Bevallan whatever sympathy she had left for humanity. But she
seemed to show rather a friendly preference than an impassioned
tenderness. And I ought to say that the preference was quite
intelligible. I have never liked M. de Bevallan, and in these pages I
have, in spite of myself, given a caricature rather than a portrait of
him, but I admit that he combines most of the qualities and defects that
are popular with women. He is absolutely devoid of modesty, which is a
great advantage, as women do not like it. He has the cool, mocking, and
witty assurance which nothing can daunt, which easily daunts others, and
which gives to its possessor a kind of domination and a factitious
superiority. His tall figure, his bold features, his skill in athletic
exercises, his reputation as a sportsman, give him a manly authority
which impresses the timid sex. And he has an air of daring, enterprise,
and conquest which attracts and troubles women, and fills their souls
with secret ardour. Such advantages, it is true, are, as a rule,
chiefly impressive to vulgar natures; but though, as usual, I had at
first been tempted to put Mlle. Marguerite's nature on a level with her
beauty, she had for some time past seemed to make a positive parade of
very mediocre sentiments, and I believed she was capable of yielding
without resistance as without enthusiasm, and with the passive coldness
of a lifeless imagination, to the charms of a common-place lady-killer,
and, later, to the yoke of a respectable marriage.
AH this made it necessary for me to accept the inevitable, and I did so
more easily than I should have thought possible a month ago. For I had
summoned all my courage to combat the first temptations of a love,
equally condemned by good sense and by honour. And she who had
unwittingly imposed this combat on me, had also unwittingly powerfully
helped me in my resistance. If she could not hide her beauty from me,
she also unveiled her soul, and mine had recoiled. Small loss, no doubt,
for the young millionaire, but a good thing for me.
Meanwhile I had to go to Paris, partly on Mme. Laroque's business and
partly on my own. I returned two days ago, and as I arrived at the
chateau I was told that old M. Laroque had repeatedly asked for me since
the morning. I hurried to his apartment. A smile flickered across his
withered cheeks as he saw me. He looked at me with an expression of
malignant joy and secret triumph; then he said, in his dull, hollow
voice:
"M. de Saint-Cast is dead."
This news, which the strange old man had wanted to tell me himself, was
correct. On the previous night poor General de Saint-Cast had had a
stroke of apoplexy, and an hour later had been snatched from the life of
wealth and luxury which he owed to his wife. Directly the news came to
the chateau, Mme. Aubry had started off to her friend, and the two had,
as Dr. Desmarets told us, passed the day chanting a sort of litany of
original and piquant ideas on the subject of death--the swiftness with
which it strikes its prey, the impossibility of preventing or guarding
against it, the futility of regrets, which cannot bring back the
departed, the consoling effects of time, etc., etc.
After which they sat down to dinner, and gradually recovered their
spirits. "Madame," said Mme. Aubry, "you must eat, you must keep
yourself alive. It is our duty and the will of God."
At dessert Mme. de Saint-Cast had a bottle of the poor general's
favourite Spanish wine, and begged Mme. Aubry to taste it for his sake.
But, as Mme. Aubry firmly refused to be the only one to partake of it,
Mme. de Saint-Cast allowed herself to be persuaded that God also wished
her to have a glass of Spanish wine and a crust of bread. The general's
health was not drunk. Early yesterday morning, Mme. Laroque and her
daughter, both in mourning, took their places in the carriage. I
accompanied them. About ten o'clock we were at the little town. While
I attended the general's funeral, the ladies joined the widow's circle
of official sympathizers. After the service I returned to the house,
and with some other friends I was introduced into the famous
drawing-room, the furniture of which had cost fifteen thousand francs.
In the funereal half-light I distinguished the inconsolable Mme. de
Saint-Cast sitting on a twelve-hundred-franc sofa, enveloped in crape,
the price of which we were told before long. At her side was Mme.
Aubry, an image of physical and moral prostration. Half a dozen friends
and relatives completed this doleful group. As we took up our positions
in line at the farther end of the _salon_, there was a sound of
shuffling feet and some cracking of the parquet, then gloomy silence
fell again on this mausoleum. Only from time to time a lamentable sigh,
faithfully echoed by Mme. Aubry, rose from the sofa.
At last a young man appeared. He had lingered in the street to finish
the cigar he had lighted as he left the cemetery. As he slipped
discreetly into our ranks Mme. de Saint-Cast perceived him.
"Is that you, Arthur?" she said in a lugubrious voice.
"Yes, aunt," said the young man, advancing in front of the line.
"Well," continued the widow, in the same plaintive drawl, "is it over?"
"Yes, aunt," said Arthur, in curt, deliberate accents. He seemed to be
a young man who was perfectly satisfied with himself.
There was a pause, after which Mme. de Saint-Cast drew from the depths
of her expiring soul this new series of questions:
"Did it go off well?"
"Very well, aunt, very well."
"Were there many people?"
"The whole town, aunt, the whole town."
"The military?"
"Yes, aunt, the whole garrison, and the band."
Mme. de Saint-Cast groaned, and added:
"The fire brigade?"
"The fire brigade too, aunt--certainly."
I do not quite see why this last detail should have particularly
affected Mme. de Saint-Cast, but she could not resist it. A sudden
swoon, accompanied by infantile wailings, summoned all the resources of
feminine sensibility to her aid, and gave us the opportunity of slipping
away. I was glad of it. I could not bear to see this ridiculous vixen
performing her hypocritical mummeries over the tomb of the weak, but
good and loyal fellow, whose life she had embittered, and whose end she
had probably hastened.
A few moments later, Mme. Laroque asked me to accompany her to the
Langoat farm, five or six leagues farther on towards the coast. She
intended to dine there with her daughter. The farmer's wife, who had
been Mlle. Marguerite's nurse, was ill, and the ladies had for some time
meant to give her this proof of their interest in her welfare. We
started at two o clock in the afternoon. It was one of the hottest days
of this hot summer. Through the open windows of the carriage, the
heavy, burning gusts which rose in waves from the parched _lande_ under
the torrid sky, swept across us.
The conversation suffered from our oppression. Mme. Laroque, who
declared that she was in paradise, had at last thrown off her furs and
remained sunk in a gentle ecstasy. Mlle. Marguerite fanned herself with
Spanish gravity. While we slowly climbed the interminable hills, we saw
the calcined rocks swarming with legions of silver-coated lizards, and
heard the continuous crackling of the furze opening its ripe pods to the
sun.
In the middle of one of our laborious ascents a voice suddenly called
out from the side of the road:
"Stop, if you please."
At the same time a big girl with bare legs, holding a distaff in her
hand, and wearing the ancient costume and ducal coif of the peasants of
this country, leaped quickly across the ditch, knocking over as she came
along some of the sheep she was tending. She perched herself with a
kind of grace on the carriage-step, and stood before us with her brown,
self-possessed, and smiling face framed in the window.
"Pardon, ladies," she said in the quick, melodious tones of her country,
"will you be so kind as to read this to me?"
She took from her bodice a letter folded in the ancient fashion.
"Read it, M. Odiot," said Mme. Laroque, laughing, "and read it aloud, if
necessary."
It was a love-letter, addressed very carefully to Mlle. Christine
Ogadec, ----'s Farm, in the commune of ----, near ----. It was written
by an awkward but sincere hand. The date showed that Mlle. Christine
had received it two or three weeks ago. Not being able to read, and
fearing to trust her secret to the ill-nature of her associates, the
poor girl had kept the letter in the hope that some passing stranger, at
once good-natured and educated, would interpret the mystery that had
been burning in her bosom for more than a fortnight. Her blue,
wide-opened eyes were fixed on me with an air of ineffable satisfaction
as I laboriously read the sloping lines which conveyed this message:
"Mademoiselle, this is to tell you that my intentions have not changed
since the day we spoke on the _lande_ after vespers, and that I am
anxious about yours. My heart is all yours, mademoiselle, and I wish
yours to be all mine; and if it is you may be sure and certain that no
one alive is happier on earth or in heaven than your friend--who does
not put his name here, but you know quite well who he is, mademoiselle."
"And do you know, Mlle. Christine?" I said, returning the letter.
"Very likely I do," she said, with a smile that showed her white teeth,
while she gravely nodded, her young face radiant with happiness. "Thank
you, ladies and gentleman!"
She jumped off the step and soon disappeared among the bushes, chanting
as she went the deep and joyful notes of some Bretonne ballad.
Mme. Laroque had followed with evident rapture all the details of this
pastoral scene, which harmonized deliciously with her favourite fancies.
She smiled and dreamed at the vision of this happy, barefooted girl as
if she were under a spell. However, when Mlle. Ogadec was out of sight,
a strange notion came into Mme. Laroque's head. After all, she thought,
it would not have been a bad thing to have given the girl a five-franc
piece--in addition to her admiration.
"Call her back, Alain," she cried.
"But, mother, why?" said Mlle. Marguerite quickly, though so far she had
apparently taken no notice of the incident.
"My dear child, perhaps this girl does not thoroughly understand how
much I should enjoy, and how much she ought to enjoy, running about
barefooted in the dust. It would be nice, at any rate, to leave her
some little souvenir."
"Money!" replied Mlle. Marguerite. "Oh, mother, don't! Don't soil her
happiness with money."
This delicate sentiment--which, by the way, poor Christine might not
have appreciated--was astonishing enough in the mouth of Mlle.
Marguerite, who did not, as a rule, pride herself on such subtlety.
Indeed, I thought she was joking, though she showed no signs of
amusement. However that may be, her mother took the caprice very
seriously. It was decided enthusiastically to leave this idyll to
innocence and bare feet.
After this pretty episode Mme. Laroque relapsed into her smiling
ecstasy, and Mlle. Marguerite fanned herself more seriously than ever.
An hour later we reached our destination. Like most of the farms in
this country, where the uplands and plateaux are the sterile _lande_,
the farm of Langoat lies in the hollow of a valley, with a water-course
running through it.
The farmer's wife was better, and at once set to work preparing dinner,
the chief elements of which we had been careful to bring with us. It
was served on the natural lawn of a meadow, under the shade of an
enormous chestnut. Mme. Laroque, though sitting in a most uncomfortable
attitude, on one of the cushions from the carriage, seemed perfectly
radiant. She said our party reminded her of the groups of reapers we
see crowding under the shade of a hedge, whose rustic feasts she had
always envied. As for me, I might perhaps at another time have found a
singular sweetness in the close and easy intimacy, which an outdoor meal
of this kind usually creates among the guests. But, with a painful
feeling of constraint, I thrust away an enjoyment that might inflict
regret, and the bread of this transient fraternity was bitter in my
mouth.
"Have you ever been up there?" said Mme. Laroque to me as we finished
dinner. She indicated the top of a lofty hill which commanded the
meadow we were in.
"No, madame."
"Oh, but you should go. You get such a lovely view. You must see it
... Marguerite will take you while they're putting the horses in. Won't
you?"
"I, mother? I have only been there once, and it was a long time ago ...
However, I daresay I can find the way. Come, M. Odiot, and be prepared
for a stiff climb."
Mlle. Marguerite and I started at once to climb a very steep path which
wound along the side of the mountain, passing in some places through
clumps of trees. The girl stopped from time to time in her swift and
easy ascent to see if I were following her, and, panting a little,
smiled at me without speaking. On reaching the bare heath which formed
the plateau, I saw, a short way off, a village church, the lines of its
little steeple sharply defined against the sky.
"That's where it is," said my young guide, quickening her pace.
Beyond the church was a cemetery shut in by walls. She opened the gate,
and made her way with difficulty through the tall grass and trailing
brambles, which choked the place of rest, towards a kind of semicircular
_perron_ which stood at the farther end. Two or three rough steps,
defaced by time and rather strangely ornamented with massive balls, led
to a narrow platform raised to the level of the wall. A granite cross
stood in the centre of the semicircle.
Mlle. Marguerite had scarcely reached the platform and looked into the
space that opened before her, when I saw her place her hand before her
eyes as if she were suddenly dazzled. I hastened to join her. The
beautiful day, nearing to its end, lighted with its last splendours a
scene so vast, so strange, and so sublime, that I shall never forget it.
[Illustration: "I fell on my knees, I could not keep back my tears" (see
page 245)]
Facing us, and at a great depth below the platform, extended, farther
than we could see, a sort of marsh studded with shining patches, and
looking like a region slowly emerging from a deluge. This great bay
stretched from under our feet to the heart of the jagged mountains. On
the banks of mud and sand which separated the shifting lagoons, a growth
of reeds and sea plants tinged with a thousand shades, sombre but
distinct, contrasted sharply with the gleaming surfaces of the waters.
At each of its rapid strides to the horizon, the sun lit up or darkened
some of the many lakes which checkered the half-dried gulf. He seemed
to take in turn from his celestial casket the most precious
substances--silver and gold, ruby and diamond--and make them flash on
each point of this gorgeous plain. As the planet neared the end of his
career, a strip of undulating mist at the farther limit of the marshes,
reddened all at once with the glare of a conflagration, and for a
moment, kept the radiant transparency of a cloud furrowed by lightning.
I was absorbed in the contemplation of a picture so full of divine
grandeur, and enriched as with another ray of glory by the great memory
of Caesar, when a low, half-stifled voice murmured:
"Oh, how beautiful it is!"
I had not expected this sympathetic outburst from my companion. I
turned eagerly towards her with a surprise that was not lessened, when
the emotion in her face, and the slight trembling of her lips, had
convinced me of the profound sincerity of her admiration.
"You admit that it is beautiful?" I said to her.
She shook her head; but at the same moment two tears fell slowly from
her great eyes. She felt them rolling down her cheeks, made a gesture
of annoyance, and then throwing herself suddenly on the granite cross,
on the base of which she was standing, she embraced it with both hands,
pressed her head close against the stone, and sobbed convulsively.
I did not think it right to say a word that might trouble the course of
this sudden emotion, and I turned reverently away. After a moment,
seeing her raise her forehead, and hastily replace her loosened hair, I
came nearer.
"I am ashamed of myself," she murmured.
"You have more reason to rejoice. Believe me, you must give up trying
to destroy the source of those tears; it is holy. Besides, you will
never succeed."
"I must," said the girl desperately. "See, it is done! This weakness
took me by surprise. I want to hate everything that is good and
beautiful."
"In God's name, why?"
"Because I am beautiful, and I can never be loved."
Then, as a long-repressed torrent bursts its barriers at last, she
continued, with extraordinary energy:
"It is true."
She put her hand on her heaving bosom.
"God had put into this heart all the qualities that I ridicule, that I
blaspheme every hour of the day. But when he condemned me to be rich,
he withdrew with one hand all that he had lavished with the other. What
is the good of my beauty? What is the good of the devotion, tenderness,
and enthusiasm which I feel burning within me? These are not the charms
which make so many cowards weary me with their homage. I see it I know
it--I know it too well. And if ever some disinterested, generous, and
heroic soul loved me for what I am, and not for what I have ... I should
never know ... never believe it. Eternal mistrust! That is my
sentence--that is my torture. So I have decided ... I will never love.
I will never pour into some vile, worthless, and venal heart the pure
passion which is burning in mine. My soul will die virgin in my bosom.
Well, I am resigned, but--everything that is beautiful, everything that
sets me dreaming, everything that speaks to me of realms forbidden,
everything that stirs these vain fires in me--I thrust it away, I hate
it, I will have nothing to do with it."
She stopped, trembling; then, in a lower tone, she said:
"Monsieur, I did not seek this opportunity. I have not chosen my words
... I did not mean to tell you, but I have spoken ... you know all, and
if at any time I have wounded your feelings, I think you will forgive me
now."
She held out her hand. When my lips touched that soft hand, still wet
with tears, a mortal languor stole through my veins. Marguerite turned
her head away, looked into the sombre sky, and then slowly descended the
steps.
"Let us go," she said.
Another road, longer, but easier than the steep ascent of the mountain,
brought us into the farmyard. Neither of us spoke a single word the
whole way. What could I have said, I who was more to be suspected than
any other? I felt that every word from my overcharged heart would
separate me still further from this stormy, but adorable soul.
Night had fallen, and hid from every one the signs of our common
emotion. We drove away. After telling us again how much she had enjoyed
her day, Mme. Laroque gave herself up to dreaming about it. Mlle.
Marguerite, invisible and motionless in the deep shadow, seemed also to
be sleeping; but when a bend in the road caused a ray of pale light to
fall upon her, the fixed and open eyes showed that she was wakeful and
silent, beset by the thought that caused her despair. I can scarcely
say what I felt. A strange sensation of deep joy and deep bitterness
possessed me entirely. I yielded to it as one sometimes yields
consciously to a dream the charm of which we are not strong enough to
resist.
We reached home about midnight.
I got down at the beginning of the avenue, and took the short way
through the park to my quarters. Entering a dim alley, I heard a faint
sound of voices and approaching footsteps, and saw vaguely in the
darkness two shadowy figures. It was late enough to justify me in
stepping into a clump of trees, to watch these nocturnal wanderers.
They passed slowly in front of me. I recognised Mlle. Helouin; she was
leaning on M. de Bevallan's arm. At this moment the sound of the
carriage alarmed them; they shook hands and separated hurriedly, Mlle.
Helouin going towards the chateau, the other to the woods.
In my own room, fresh from my adventure, I asked myself indignantly
whether I was to allow M. de Bevallan to carry on his double love affair
uninterrupted, and to let him find a _fiancee_ and a mistress in the
same house. I am too much a man of my age and time to feel the
Puritan's horror of certain weaknesses, and I am not hypocrite enough to
affect what I do not feel. But I believe that the morality which is
easiest and most indulgent in this respect, still demands some degree of
dignity, self-respect, and delicacy. Even in these devious ways a man
must walk straight to some extent. The real excuse of love is that it
_is_ love. But M. de Bevallan's catholic tendernesses exclude all
possibility of self-forgetful passion. Such love-affairs are not even
sins; they are something altogether lower in the moral scale; they are
but the calculations and the wagers of brutalized horse-dealers.
The various incidents of this evening, combined to convince me, that
this man was utterly unworthy of the hand and heart he dared to covet.
Such a union would be monstrous. But I saw at once, that I should not
be able to prevent it by using the weapons that chance had put into my
hands. The best of objects does not justify base methods, and nothing
can excuse the informer. This marriage will take place, and heaven will
permit one of its noblest creatures to fall into the arms of a
cold-hearted libertine. It will permit that profanation. Alas, it
allows so many others!
I tried to imagine how this young girl could have chosen this man, by
what process of false reasoning she had come to prefer him to all
others. I think I have guessed. M. de Bevallan is very rich; he brings
a fortune nearly equal to the one he acquires. That is a kind of
guarantee; he could do without this additional wealth; he is assumed to
be more disinterested than others, because he is better off.
How foolish an argument! What a terrible mistake to estimate people's
venality by the amount of their wealth! In nine cases out of ten,
opulence increases greed! The most self-seeking are not the poorest!
Was there, then, no hope that Marguerite would see the worthlessness of
her choice, no hope that her own heart would give her the counsel I
could not suggest? Might not a new, unlooked-for feeling arise in her
heart, and, breathing on the vain resolutions of reason, destroy them?
Was not this feeling already born, indeed, and had I not received
irrefutable proofs of it? The strange caprices, the humiliations,
struggles, and tears of which I had been so long the object, or the
witness, proclaimed beyond doubt a reason that wavered, not mistress of
itself. I had seen enough of life, to know that a scene like that of
which chance had this evening made me the confidant, and almost the
accomplice, does not, however spontaneous it may seem, occur in an
atmosphere of indifference. Such emotions, such shocks, prove that
there are two souls already shaken by the same storm, or about to be so
shaken.
But if it were true, if she loved me, as too certainly I loved her, I
might say of that love what she had said of her beauty: "What is the
good of it?" For I could never hope that it would be strong enough to
triumph over the eternal mistrust, which is at once the defect, and
quality, of that noble girl. My character, I dare say it, resents the
outrage of this mistrust; but my situation, more than that of any other,
is calculated to rouse it. What miracle is to bridge the abyss between
these suspicions, and the reserve they force upon me?
Finally, granting the miracle, if she offered me the hand for which I
would give my life, but for which I will never ask, would our union be
happy? Should I not have to fear, early or late, in this restless
imagination, the slow awakening of a half-stifled mistrust? Could I, in
the midst of wealth not mine, guard myself against misgivings? Could I
really be happy in a love that is sullied by being a benefit as well?
Our part as the protector of women is so strictly laid upon us by all
sentiments of honour, that it cannot, even from the highest motives, be
reversed for an instant without casting upon us some shadow of doubt and
suspicion. Truly, wealth is not so great an advantage that we cannot
find some counterpoise to it. I imagine that a man who brings his wife,
in exchange for some bags of gold, a name that he has made illustrious,
acknowledged worth, a great position, or the promise of a great future,
does not feel that he is under a crushing obligation. But my hands are
empty, my future is no better than my present; of all the advantages
which the world worships I have only one--my title--and I am determined
not to bear it, that it may not be said it was the price of a bargain.
I should receive all and give nothing. A king may marry a shepherdess;
that is generous and charming, and we congratulate him with good reason;
but a shepherd who lets a queen marry him does not cut so fine a figure.
I have spent the night thinking these things over, and seeking a
solution that I have not yet found. Perhaps I ought to leave this house
and this place at once. Prudence counsels it. This business cannot end
well. How often one minute of courage and firmness would spare us a
lifetime of regret! I ought at least to be overwhelmed by sadness; I
have never had such good reason for melancholy. But I cannot grieve.
My brain, distracted and tortured, yet holds a thought which dominates
everything, and fills me with more than mortal joy. My soul is as light
as a bird of the air. I see--I shall always see--that little cemetery,
that distant ocean, that vast horizon, and on that glowing hilltop, that
angel of beauty bathed in divine tears! Still, I feel her hand under my
lips, her tears in my eyes and in my heart. I love her! Well,
to-morrow, if so it must be, I will decide. Till then, for God's sake,
let me have a little rest. I have not been overdone with happiness. I
may die of this love, but I will live in peace with it for one day at
least.
_August 26th_.
That day, the single day I asked, has not been granted me. My brief
weakness has not had long to wait for its punishment, which will be
lasting. How could I have forgotten? Moral laws can no more be broken
with impunity than physical, and their invariable action constitutes the
permanent intervention of what we call Providence in the affairs of this
world. A great, though weak man, writing the gospel of a sage with the
hand of a quasi-maniac, said of the passions that were at once his
misery, his reproach, and his glory:
"All are good while we are their masters; all are bad when we let them
enslave us. Nature forbids us to let our attachments exceed our
strength; reason forbids us to desire what we cannot obtain; conscience
does not forbid us to be tempted, it does forbid us to yield to
temptation. It does not rest with us to have or not to have passions,
but it does rest with us to control them. All the feelings which we
govern are legitimate; all those that govern us are criminal. Attach
your heart only to the beauty that does not perish; limit your desires
by your conditions; put your duties before your passions; extend the law
of necessity to things moral; learn to lose what may be taken from you;
learn to give up everything at the command of virtue!"
Yes, such is the law. I knew it; I have broken it; I am punished. It
is right. I had scarcely set foot on my cloud of folly when I was
thrown violently off, and now, after five days, I have barely courage to
recount the almost ridiculous details of my downfall.
Mme. Laroque and her daughter had gone in the morning to pay another
visit to Mme. de Saint-Cast, and to bring back Mme. Aubry. I found
Mlle. Helouin alone at the chateau. I had brought her quarter's salary;
for, though my duties do not, in a general way, trench on the
maintenance and internal discipline of the house, the ladies had wished,
no doubt from consideration for Mlle. Helouin and for me, that I should
pay both our salaries. The young lady was sitting in the small boudoir
near the dining-room. She received me with a pensive sweetness which
touched me. For at that moment I felt in myself that fulness of heart
which inclines us to confidence and kindness. I quixotically resolved
to hold out a helping hand to this poor lonely creature.
"Mademoiselle," I said, abruptly, "you have withdrawn your friendship
from me, but my friendship for you remains unaltered. May I give you a
proof of it?"
She looked at me and murmured a timid assent.
"Well, my poor child, you are bent on your own ruin."
She rose quickly.
"You saw me in the park that night!" she cried.
"I did."
"My God!"
She came towards me.
"M. Maxime, I swear to you that I am a virtuous girl."
"I believe it, mademoiselle, but I must warn you that in this little
romance, perfectly innocent, no doubt, on your side, whatever it may be
on the other, you are imperilling your reputation and your peace of
mind. I beg you to reflect seriously on this matter, and at the same
time I beg to assure you that no one but you will ever hear a word on
this subject from me."
I was leaving the room, when she sank on her knees before a couch, and
burst out sobbing, leaning her forehead against my hand, which she had
seized. It was not long since I had seen sweeter and nobler tears, but
still I was touched.
"Come, my dear young lady," I said; "it is not too late, is it?"
She shook her head decisively.
"Very well, my child. Be brave, and we will save you. What can I do to
help you--tell me? Has this man any proof, any letter, I can demand from
him on your behalf? Command me as if I were your brother."
She released my hand angrily.
"How hard you are!" she said. "You talk of saving me ... it is you who
are ruining me. After pretending to love me, you repulsed me ... you
have humiliated me and made me desperate. You are the sole cause of what
has happened."
"Mademoiselle, you are unjust. I never pretended to love you. I had a
sincere affection for you, and I have it still. I admit that your
beauty, your wit, and your talents fully entitle you to look for more
than fraternal friendship from those who see you every day. But my
situation, and my duties to my family preclude my indulging any other
feeling for you without being dishonourable. I tell you frankly that I
think you are charming, and I assure you that in restricting my
sentiments towards you within the limits imposed by loyalty, I have not
been without merit. I see nothing humiliating for you in that; what
might, indeed, humiliate you, mademoiselle, would be the determined
pursuit of a man determined not to marry you."
She gave me an evil look.
"What do you know about it?" she said. "Every man is not a
fortune-hunter."
"Oh! mademoiselle, are you a spiteful little person?" I said, very
calmly. "If so, I will wish you good-day."
"M. Maxime!" she cried, rushing forward to stop me, "forgive me! have
pity on me! Alas! I am so unhappy. Imagine what must be the thoughts
of a poor creature like me, who has been given--cruelly--a heart, a
soul, a brain ... and who can only use them to suffer ... and to hate!
What is my life? What is my future? My life is the perception of my
poverty, ceaselessly aggravated by the luxury which surrounds me! My
future will be to regret, some day, to weep bitterly for even this
life--this slave's life, odious as it is! You talk of my youth, my wit,
and my talents. Would that I had never had the capacity for anything
higher than breaking stones on the road! I should have been happier.
My talents! I shall have passed the best part of my life in decking
another woman with them, and giving her thereby additional beauty,
power--and insolence. And when my best blood has passed into this
doll's veins, she will go off on the arm of a happy husband to take her
part in the best pleasures of life, while, old, solitary, and deserted,
I shall go to die in some hole with the pension of a lady's maid. What
have I done to deserve this fate, tell me that? Why should it be mine
rather than that of those other women? Because I am not as good as they
are? If I am bad, it is because suffering has envenomed me, because
injustice has blackened my soul. I was born with a disposition as great
as theirs--perhaps greater--to be good and loving and charitable. My
God! benefits cost little when you're rich, and kindness is easy when
you're happy. If I were in their place, and they in mine, they would
hate me ... as I hate them.... We do not love our masters. Ah! this is
horrible--what I am saying to you. I know it, and this is the crowning
bitterness--I feel my own degradation, I blush for it ... and increase
it. Alas! now you despise me more than ever ... you, whom I could have
loved so much, if you would have let me; you, who could have given me
all that I have lost hope, peace, goodness, self-respect! Ah! there was
a moment when I believed that I was saved ... when for the first time I
dreamed of happiness, of hope, of pride! ... Poor wretch! ..."
She had seized both my hands; her head fell on them, and she wept wildly
under her long, flowing curls.
"My dear child," I said to her, "I know better than any one the trials
and humiliations of your position, but let me tell you that you increase
them greatly by nourishing the sentiments you have just expressed. They
are hideous, and you will end by deserving all the hardships of your
lot. But, after all, your imagination strangely exaggerates those
hardships. As for the present, whatever you may say, you are treated
like a friend here; as to the future, I see nothing to prevent you from
leaving this house on the arm of a happy husband, too. For my part, I
shall be grateful for your affection throughout my life; but--I will
tell you once more, and finish with the subject forever--I have duties
that bind me, and I do not wish, nor am I able, to marry."
She looked at me suddenly.
"Not even Marguerite?" she said.
"I do not see that it is necessary to introduce Mlle. Marguerite's
name."
With one hand she threw back the hair which fell over her face, and the
other she held out at me with a menacing gesture.
"You love her!" she said in a hoarse voice. "No, you love her money, but
you shall not have it!"
"Mademoiselle Helouin!"
"Ah!" she continued, "you must be a child indeed if you think you can
deceive a woman who was fool enough to love you. I see through your
manoeuvres. Besides, I know who you are. I was not far off when Mlle.
de Porhoet conveyed your well-calculated confidence to Mme. Laroque----"
"So you listen at doors, mademoiselle!"
"I care nothing for your insults.... Besides, I shall avenge myself,
and soon, too.... Oh, there's no doubt you're very clever, M. de
Chamcey! I congratulate you. Wonderfully well have you played your
little part of disinterestedness and reserve, as your friend Laubepin
advised you to do when he sent you here. He knew the person you would
have to deal with. He knew well enough this girl's absurd mania. And
you think you've already got your prey, don't you? Adorable millions,
aren't they? There are queer stories about their origin. But, at any
rate, they will serve very well to furbish up your marquisate, and
regild your escutcheon. Well, from this moment you can give up that
idea ... for I swear you shall not keep your mask a day longer, and this
hand shall tear it from you."
"Mlle. Helouin, it is quite time we brought this scene to an end; we are
verging on melodrama. You have given me an opportunity of forestalling
you in tale-bearing and calumniation; but you are perfectly safe. I
give you my word of honour that I shall not use those weapons. And,
mademoiselle, I am your humble servant."
I left the unhappy girl with a feeling of mingled disgust and pity. I
have always thought that the highest organization must, from its very
nature, be galled and warped in a situation as equivocal and humiliating
as that which Mlle. Helouin occupies here. But I was not prepared for
the abyss of venom that had just opened under my eyes. Most
assuredly--when one thinks the matter out--one can scarcely conceive a
situation which subjects a human soul to more hateful temptations, or is
better calculated to develop and sharpen envy, to arouse the protests of
pride, and to exasperate feminine vanity and jealousy. Most of the
unhappy girls who are driven to this occupation only escape the troubles
Mlle. Helouin had not been able to guard herself against, either by the
moderation of their feeling, or, by the grace of God, through the
firmness of their principles. Sometimes I had thought that our
misfortunes might make it necessary for my sister to go as governess
into some rich family. I swore then that whatever future might be
reserved for us, I would rather share the hardest life in the poorest
garret with Helene than let her sit at the poisoned banquets of an
opulent and hateful servitude.
Though I had firmly resolved to leave the field free to Mlle. Helouin,
and on no account to engage personally in the recriminations of a
degrading contest, I could not regard without misgiving the probable
consequences of the treacherous war just declared against me.
Evidently, I was threatened where I was most sensitive--in my love and
in my honour. Mistress of the secret of my heart, mingling truth and
falsehood with the skilful perfidy of her sex, Mlle. Helouin might
easily show my conduct in an unfavourable light, turn all the
precautions and scruples of my delicacy against me, and give my simplest
actions the appearance of deliberate intrigue. I could not foresee the
form her malevolence would take, but I could depend upon her to choose
the most effectual methods. Better than any one, she knew the weak
places in the imaginations she wished to impress. Over Mlle. Marguerite
and her mother she had the advantage which dissimulation usually has
over frankness, and cunning over simplicity. They trusted her with the
trust that is born of long use and daily association. Her masters, as
she called them, were not likely to suspect that under the pretty
brightness and obsequious consideration which she assumed with such
consummate art she concealed a frenzy of pride and ingratitude which was
eating her miserable heart away. It was too probable that a hand so
sure and skilful would pour its poison with complete success into hearts
thus prepared. It was true Mlle. Helouin might be afraid that by
yielding to her resentment she would thrust Mlle. Marguerite's hand into
that of M. de Bevallan, and hasten a marriage which would be the ruin of
her own ambition; but I knew that the woman who hates does not
calculate, and risks everything. So I awaited from her the swiftest and
blindest of vengeance, and I was right.
In painful anxiety I passed the hours that should have been given to
sweeter thoughts. All that a proud spirit finds most galling in
dependence, the suspicion hardest for a loyal conscience, the scorn most
bitter to a loving heart, I endured in anticipation. Never in my worst
hours had adversity offered me a cup so full. However, I tried to work
as usual. About five o'clock I went to the chateau. The ladies had
returned during the afternoon. In the drawing-room I found Mlle.
Marguerite, Mme. Aubry, M. de Bevallan, and two or three casual guests.
Mlle. Marguerite did not appear to be aware of my presence, but
continued to talk to M. de Bevallan in a more animated style than usual.
They were discussing an impromptu dance, which was to take place the
same evening at a neighbouring chateau. She was going with her mother,
and urged M. de Bevallan to accompany them. He excused himself on the
ground that he had left his house that morning before receiving the
invitation, and that his costume was inadmissible. With an eager and
affectionate coquetry which evidently surprised even him, Mlle.
Marguerite persisted, saying that there was still time to go back and
dress and return to fetch them. She promised that a nice little dinner
should be kept for him. M. de Bevallan said that his carriage horses
were not available, and that he could not ride back in evening dress.
"Very well," replied Mlle. Marguerite; "they shall drive you over in the
dog-cart."
At the same moment she turned towards me for the first time, with a look
in which I saw the thunderbolt that was about to fall.
"M. Odiot," she said in a sharp, imperious tone, "go and tell them to
put the horse in."
This imperious order was so little in harmony with such as I was
accustomed to receive here, or such as I could be expected to tolerate,
that the attention and curiosity of the most indifferent were excited.
There was an awkward silence. M. de Bevallan glanced in surprise at
Mlle. Marguerite; then he looked at me, and got up with a very serious
air. If they thought I should give way to some mad prompting of anger
they were mistaken. It was true that the insulting words which had just
fallen on me from a mouth so beautiful, so beloved, and so cruel, had
struck the icy coldness of death to the very depths of my being. A
blade of steel piercing my heart could hardly have caused me keener
pain. But never had I been calmer. The bell which Mme. Laroque uses to
summon her servants stood on a table within my reach. I touched it with
my finger. A man-servant entered almost directly.
"I think," I said to him, "Mlle. Marguerite has some orders to give
you."
At this speech, which she had heard in amazement, Marguerite shook her
head quickly, and dismissed the man. I longed to get out of this room,
where I seemed to be choking, but, in view of M. de Bevallan's provoking
manner, I could not withdraw.
"Upon my word," he murmured, "there's something very strange about all
this."
I took no notice of him. Mlle. Marguerite said something to him under
her breath.
"I obey, mademoiselle," he said in a louder tone; "but you will allow me
to express my sincere regret that I have not the right to interpose
here."