“Now for the dance to open,” cried the captain. These were the last
words I heard him speak.
There came from the redoubts a roll of drums. I saw the muzzles
lowered. I shut my eyes; I heard a most appalling crash of sound, to
which succeeded groans and cries. Then I looked up, amazed to find
myself still living. The redoubt was once more wrapped in smoke. I
was surrounded by the dead and wounded. The captain was extended at
my feet; a ball had carried off his head, and I was covered with his
blood. Of all the company, only six men, except myself, remained erect.
This carnage was succeeded by a kind of stupor. The next instant the
colonel, with his hat on his sword’s point, had scaled the parapet
with a cry of “Vive l’Empereur.” The survivors followed him. All that
succeeded is to me a kind of dream. We rushed into the redoubt, I know
not how, we fought hand to hand in the midst of smoke so thick that no
man could perceive his enemy. I found my sabre dripping blood; I heard
a shout of “Victory”; and, in the clearing smoke, I saw the earthworks
piled with dead and dying. The cannons were covered with a heap of
corpses. About two hundred men in the French uniform were standing,
without order, loading their muskets or wiping their bayonets. Eleven
Russian prisoners were with them.
The colonel was lying, bathed in blood, upon a broken cannon. A group
of soldiers crowded round him. I approached them.
“Who is the oldest captain?” he was asking of a sergeant.
The sergeant shrugged his shoulders most expressively.
“Who is the oldest lieutenant?”
“This gentleman, who came last night,” replied the sergeant calmly.
The colonel smiled bitterly.
“Come, sir,” he said to me, “you are now in chief command. Fortify
the gorge of the redoubt at once with wagons, for the enemy is out in
force. But General C---- is coming to support you.”
“Colonel,” I asked him, “are you badly wounded?”
“Pish, my dear fellow. The redoubt is taken.”
THE VENDEAN MARRIAGE
BY JULES GABRIEL JANIN
[Illustration]
_Thackeray, writing from Paris to Mrs. Brookfield in 1849,
says of Jules Janin: “He has made his weekly feuilleton
(the Journal des Débats), famous throughout Europe--he does
not know a word of English, but he translated Sterne and I
think ‘Clarissa Harlowe.’ He has the most wonderful verve,
humor, oddity, honesty, bonhomie ... bounced about the room,
gesticulating, joking, gasconading, quoting Latin....” We
know that Janin was more concerned in amusing his readers and
himself than imparting instruction--though he did both._
_Jules Janin was born at Saint-Étienne in 1804, and died in
Paris in 1874. In 1836 he entered on that famous career of
forty years as dramatic critic of the “Journal des Débats.”
These contributions were afterward collected under the title
“History of Dramatic Literature.”_
[Illustration]
THE VENDEAN MARRIAGE
BY JULES JANIN
Translated by Jane G. Cooke.
Copyright, 1899, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
So you have never heard the circumstances of Monsieur Baudelot de
Dairval’s marriage, the man who died four years ago, and was so mourned
by his wife that she died a week later herself, good lady? Yet it is a
story worth telling.
It happened in the Vendée, and the hero, a Vendean, brave, young,
daring, and of fine family, died tranquilly in his bed without ever
suspecting that there would be a second Vendée.
Baudelot de Dairval was the grandson of that César Baudelot who is
mentioned in the Memoirs of the Duchess of Orleans, own mother of the
regent Louis Philippe. This woman, who has thrown such contempt on the
greatest names of France, could not help praising César de Baudelot.
Saint-Simon, skeptic and mocker, but good fellow withal, also spoke
highly of him. So you’ll understand that bearing such a name young
Henri was not lost to report in the first Vendée, to protest arms in
hand against the excesses of the Revolution. Baudelot was a Vendean
simply because a man of his name and nature could be nothing else. He
fought like his associates, neither more nor less. He was the friend
of Cathelmeau and of all the others. He took part in those battles of
giants; he took part fighting stoutly, and then laughing and singing
as soon as he no longer heard the cries of the wounded. What wars, what
livid tempests were ever like those? But it is not my business to tell
again the story so often told.
But I want to tell you that one day, surprised at a farm by a
detachment of Blues, Baudelot unexpectedly called together his troop.
“My friends,” said he, “this farm is surrounded. You must all escape!
Take with you the women and children. Rejoin our chief, Cathelmeau. As
for me, I’ll stay and defend the gate. I certainly can hold it alone
for ten minutes. Those three thousand out there would massacre us all.
Good-by, good-by, my brave fellows! Don’t forget me! It’s my turn
to-day. You’ll get yourselves killed to-morrow!”
In those exceptional times and in that exceptional war, nothing seemed
astonishing. Men did not even think of those rivalries in heroism
so frequent in elegant warfare. In such a struggle of extermination
there was no time to pose for sublimity of soul. Heroism was quite
unaffected. So Baudelot’s soldiers judged for themselves that their
chief spoke sensibly, and obeyed as simply as he had commanded. They
withdrew by the roof, taking away the women and children. Baudelot
remained at the door making noise enough for forty, haranguing,
disputing and discharging his gun. One would have thought a whole
regiment ready to fire was stationed there, and the Blues held
themselves on the alert. Baudelot remained on the defensive as long as
he had any voice. But when that failed and he thought his troop must
have reached a place of safety, he tired of the warlike feint. He felt
ill at ease at thus commanding the absent; and keeping quiet, he merely
propped up the door as it was shaken from outside. This lasted several
minutes, then the door cracked, and the Blues began to fire through
the fissures. Baudelot was not wounded, and as his meal had been
interrupted, he returned to the table and tranquilly ate some bread and
cheese, and emptied a pitcher of country wine, thinking meanwhile that
this was his last repast!
Finally the Blues forced the door and rushed in. It took them some
minutes to clear away obstructions, and to recognize each other in the
smoke of their guns. These soldiers of the Republic hunted eagerly with
look and sword for the armed troop which had withstood them so long.
Judge their surprise at seeing only a tall, very handsome young man,
calmly eating black bread moistened with wine. Dumb with astonishment
the conquerors stopped and leaned on their guns, and thus gave Henri
Baudelot time to swallow his last mouthful.
“To your health, gentlemen!” he said, lifting his glass to his lips.
“The garrison thanks you for the respite you have granted.” At the same
time he rose, and going straight to the Captain, said: “Monsieur, I am
the only person in this house. I am quite ready for death.”
Then he kept quiet, and waited. To his great surprise he was not shot
at once. Perhaps he had fallen into the hands of recruits so little
exercised as to delay twenty-four hours before killing a man. Perhaps
his captors were moved by his coolness and fine bearing, and were
ashamed at setting three hundred to kill one. We must remember that in
that sad war there were French feelings on both sides.
So they contented themselves with tying his hands and leading him,
closely watched, to a manor on the outskirts of Nantes, which, once an
attractive country-seat, had now become a kind of fortress. Its master
was no other than the chief of the Blues, who had captured Baudelot.
This Breton, a gentleman although a Blue, had been one of the first to
share revolutionary transports. He was one of those nobles so heroic to
their own injury, who renounced in a day fortunes, coats of arms, and
their own names, forgetting both what they had promised their fathers
and what they owed to their sons, equally oblivious of past and future,
and unfortunate victims of the present. But we will not reproach them,
for either they died under the stroke of the Revolution, or lived long
enough to see that all their sacrifices were vain.
Baudelot de Dairval was confined in the donjon, or, rather, in the
pigeon-house of his conqueror. The doves had been expelled to give
place to Chouan captives. Still covered with shining slates, still
surmounted by its creaking weather-cock, this prison had retained a
calm, gracious air, and it had not been thought necessary to bar the
openings by which the pigeons came and went. Much as ever, a little
straw had been added to the usual furniture.
At first the dovecote of a country manor struck him as a novel prison.
He decided that as soon as his hands were free he would compose a
romance upon it, with a guitar accompaniment. While thus thinking,
he heard a violin and other instruments playing a joyful march. By
piling up the straw against the wall and leaning on it with his
elbow, Baudelot could look out of one of the openings. He saw a long
procession of young men and pretty women in white gowns, preceded
by village fiddlers, and all merry and joyous. As it passed at the
foot of the dovecote, a pretty girl looked up attentively. She was
fair, slender and dreamy-looking. Baudelot felt that she knew of the
prisoner, and he began to whistle the air of Richard, “In an Obscure
Tower,” or something of the kind. For this young man was versed in all
kinds of combats and romances, equally skilful with sword and guitar,
an adept at horsemanship, a fine dancer, a true gentleman of wit and
sword, such as are manufactured no more.
The wedding procession passed, or, at least, if not a wedding it was a
betrothal, and Baudelot stopped singing. He heard a sound at his prison
door; some one entered.
It was the master of the house himself. He had been a Marquis under
Capet, now he called himself simply Hamelin. He was a Blue, but a good
fellow enough. The Republic ruled him body and soul; he lent his sword
and his castle. But he had not become cruel or wicked in its service.
The morning of this very day, Captain Hamelin, for so he had been
appointed by the Republic, learned that some Chouans were at his farm,
had headed a detachment of Blues and postponed his betrothal. You know
how he had seized Baudelot. As soon as the Chouan was in keeping the
Captain had returned to his betrothal feast, and this is the reason why
he did not shoot his prisoner at once or take him to Nantes.
Captain Hamelin was not so thorough a Blue as to have quite forgotten
the hospitable old customs of Bretagne soil. Therefore, while his
friends were sitting down to table, he felt it incumbent to call upon
his captive.
“Can I do anything for you, monsieur?” he asked.
“Monsieur,” said Baudelot, bowing, “I should like the use of at least
one of my hands.”
“Your hands shall be unbound, monsieur,” answered Hamelin, “if you will
promise not to try to escape. But before you promise, remember that at
six o’clock to-morrow morning you will surely be taken to Nantes.”
“And shot at eight o’clock just as surely?” asked Baudelot.
Captain Hamelin was silent.
“Very well, monsieur,” said Baudelot. “Unbind my hands and unless I’m
delivered, I give my word as a gentleman and a Christian to stay here
like a pigeon with clipped wings.”
Captain Hamelin could not help smiling at his prisoner’s allusion, and
untied his hands.
“Now,” said Baudelot, stretching his arms like a man stiff from sleep,
“now, monsieur, I thank you, and am truly your servant until to-morrow.
It will not be my fault if my gratitude does not last longer!”
Captain Hamelin said: “If you have any last arrangements--a will to
make, for instance--I will send you writing materials.” He was touched,
for he was not a Breton for nothing.
Seeing this, Baudelot took his hand. “Do you know,” he said sadly,
“that simple word ‘will’ wounds me more than the words ‘death at
Nantes!’ It recalls that all my friends are dead. There is no one to
whom I can bequeath my name, my sword, my love and my hate, and these
are all I have left. Yet, it must be sweet to dispose of a fortune, to
be generous even beyond the tomb; and while writing last benefits, to
imagine the tears of joys and sorrow they will cause. That is sweet and
honorable, isn’t it, Captain? I must not think of it.”
“I will send you some dinner,” said Hamelin. “This is my day of
betrothal, and my table is better provided than usual. My fiancée
herself shall serve you, monsieur.”
In one of the highest apertures of his cage, Baudelot saw a daisy which
had been sown there by one of the first occupants of the dovecote.
The pretty flower swayed joyously in the wind, and he gathered it and
offered it to the Captain.
“It is our custom at home, Captain, to offer the bride a gift. Be so
good as to give yours this little flower, which has blossomed in my
domain. And now, good night. I have kept you from your loves long
enough. May God remember your kindness toward me! Good-by. Best wishes!
Send me some supper, for I’m hungry and need rest.”
And they separated with friendly looks.
Dinner was brought the young Vendean by a pretty Breton girl with
white teeth, rosy lips and the pensive air which befitted a shy
country maiden, who had already seen so many proscripts. She served
him zealously, and gave him no peace if he did not eat of this or
that dish, drink this or that wine. It was a magnificent repast. The
dovecote grew fragrant. It was almost like the time when the winged
occupants of the tower gathered crumbs from the feast. As the girl was
pouring champagne, Baudelot said to her:
“What is your name, my child?”
“My name is Marie,” she answered.
“The same as my cousin’s,” went on the young man; “and how old are you,
Marie?”
“Seventeen years,” said Marie.
“The age of my cousin,” said Baudelot, and as he thought of his pretty
cousin butchered by the executioner, his heart almost failed him.
But he blushed to weep before this child in whose eyes tears were
gathering, and as he could not speak, he held out his glass. But the
glass was full, and in the last rays of the sun the champagne sparkled
joyously, for wine sparkled and spring bloomed even during the Terror.
Seeing that his glass was full, Baudelot said:
“You have no glass, Marie?”
“I am not thirsty,” said Marie.
“Oh!” said Baudelot, “this bright wine does not like to be drunk by a
man alone. It is convivial by nature, and rejoices to be among boon
companions. It is the great support of the Fraternity of which you
have heard so much, my poor Marie, and which men really comprehend
so little. Be friendly; dip your lips in my glass, my pretty Breton,
if you would have me drink champagne once more before I die,” and he
lifted the glass to Marie’s lips. She held them out, but at the words,
“to die,” her heart overflowed, and copious tears rolled into the
joyous wine.
“To your health, Marie!” said Baudelot, and drank both wine and tears.
Just then they heard the horn, the hautboys, and the violins. “What’s
that?” said the young man setting down his glass. “God bless me, it’s a
ball!”
“Alas!” said Marie, “alas! yes, it’s a ball. My young mistress did
not want dancing, but her lover and her father insisted. She is very
unhappy this evening.”
“Oh!” said the young Vendean, “my good Marie, if you are as kind as I
think, you’ll do something for me! Go, run, fly, tell your mistress
that Count Baudelot de Dairval, Colonel of Light Horse, requests
permission to pay her his respects. Or, no; find my host, not his
bride, and tell him that his prisoner is very dull, that the noise of
the ball will prevent his sleeping, that the night will be long and
cold, that it’s a charity to snatch an unhappy young man from the sad
thoughts of his last night, that I beg him, in Heaven’s name, to let me
attend his ball. Tell him he has my word of honor not to try to escape.
Tell him all that, Marie; and tell him whatever else comes into your
heart and mind. Speak loud enough for your mistress to hear and be
interested; and, thanks to you, Marie, I’m sure he will yield. Then,
child, if I am invited, send your master’s valet. Tell him to bring me
clean linen and powder. There must be some powder still left in the
castle. Tell him to bring me one of his master’s coats, and get them
to lend me my sword just for the evening. I will not unsheath it. So,
Marie, go, child!” And the prisoner hurried her off and held her back
in a way to make one both laugh and cry.
A few minutes later Captain Hamelin’s valet appeared in the dovecote.
He was a good old fellow, faithful to powder and to all the old
customs. Although a member of the municipal council, he was an
honest man, devoted to Monsieur Robespierre only because he alone
in all republican France had dared to continue powder, ruffles, and
embroidered vest.
He brought a complete suit, which Captain Hamelin had ordered when
younger and a Marquis, to visit the court and see the King when there
was a court and a King. This suit was very rich and handsome, the
linen very white, the shoes very fine. Baudelot’s host had forgotten
nothing, not even the perfumes and cosmetics of an old-time Marquis.
Baudelot confided his head to the valet, who adorned it complaisantly,
not without profound sighs of regret. Baudelot was young and handsome,
but had not been groomed for some time. Therefore when he saw himself
dressed, curled and fresh shaven, his eyes animated by a good meal
and by the music in the distance, he could not help smiling with
self-content and recalling his beautiful nights at the “bal masqué”
and at the opera with the Count de Mirabeau.
He lacked only his sword, which was given him at the door with a
reminder of his promise. It was night when he crossed the garden to the
ballroom.
All the most beautiful republican ladies of the province were there.
But you know women are not so revolutionary that they do not feel
aristocratic sympathy for a young and handsome gentleman who is to be
shot on the morrow.
To return to our story. The betrothal ball had begun. The fiancée
was Mademoiselle de Mailly, grand-niece of the beautiful De Mailly so
beloved of Madame de Maintenon. She was a sad young blonde, evidently
unhappy at dancing and marrying in that period of proscription. She
was one of those strong spirits which seem weak until a certain fatal
hour has sounded, when apparent weakness becomes invincible energy. The
heroine replaces the little girl, and the ruins of a whole world could
not intimidate her, who, until then, trembled at the least sign of
displeasure.
Eleanor de Mailly was then very dejected. The friends of her childhood
imitated her silence and despondency. Never before was Bretagne feast
so gloomy. Nothing went as it should, neither dance nor dancers, and
there was general lack of ease. The young men did not even try to
please the pretty girls, and when the ball had scarcely begun every one
wished it would end.
Suddenly the door into the great hall opened, and every one looked that
way. There entered a pretty court gentleman, a lost type, a handsome
officer, smiling and well dressed. He had the dress and elegant bearing
of court. This apparition was in charming contrast with the dulness
of the gathering. The men and women who were bluest at heart were
delighted to find with them this remnant of the old French society so
suddenly blotted out, alas! And, indeed, it was charming to see this
young proscript, whom death on the morrow awaited, entering into this
republican company, recalling its gaiety, and thinking of nothing but
to be agreeable and please the ladies, faithful to the end to his
calling of French gentleman!
His entrance took only a minute. Once in the room, he gave himself
up to the ball and went to invite the first woman he saw. It was the
blond girl whom he had noticed in the garden. She accepted without
hesitation, remembering that republican death, the most unpleasant of
all deaths, was offering her partner a bloody hand. When the men saw
Baudelot dancing, doomed as he was, they blushed at their own lack of
ardor. All the women were invited to dance at once, and accepted in
order to see Baudelot nearer. So, thanks to the victim, the ball grew
really gay.
Baudelot heartily shared this convulsive pleasure. His smile was not
forced; his dance was light and graceful. He alone was genuinely
entertained. The others amused themselves in very terror, and became
almost delirious at sight of this beautiful youth, who was king of the
fête far more than the bridegroom. Animated by such passion, terror,
and bloody interest, the ball took possession of all. Baudelot was
everywhere, saluting old ladies like the King of France, and young
ones with joy and admiration, talking to men in the mad language of
youth and of nature mixed with wit.
The more he yielded to this frank and natural gaiety, the more he
forgot that the night was advancing with frightful rapidity. And the
later it grew the more the women trembled in their hearts at the
thought that he must really die, for they were near the epoch of old
French honor, which made Baudelot’s presence at the ball the sign that
there was no hope for him. They knew his word bound him faster than
iron chains could have done. They knew that both Baudelot and Hamelin
were doing right. Baudelot’s pleasure did no wrong to the committee
of public safety. As you may imagine, then, looks and smiles were
very tender, and more than one sigh escaped at sight of the handsome
proscript. As for him, drunk with success, he had never been so full of
love and passion. So when he went to dance for the third time with the
queen of the ball, the blond fiancée, he felt her little hand trembling
and trembled in his turn.
For when he glanced at her she was pale and exhausted.
“What is the matter, Eleanor?” he asked. “What is the matter, madame?
Out of pity for your partner, do not tremble and grow so pale!”
Then turning toward the window curtains, which were moving to the dance
music, she pointed out the dawning light.
“It is morning,” she said.
“Ah, well!” said Baudelot, “what does it matter? It is morning. I
have passed the most beautiful night of my life. I have seen you and
loved you and been able to tell you I love you, for you know the dying
don’t lie. And now, good-by, Eleanor, good-by! Be happy and accept the
blessing of the Chouan!”
It was the custom in Brittany at the end of the last square dance to
kiss the lady on the forehead. The dance finished, Baudelot pressed his
lips to Eleanor’s brow. She grew faint and stood motionless, her brow
supported by his lips. Then she recovered herself and Baudelot led her
to a seat. She made him sit down beside her and said:
“Listen, you must go. Listen, they are harnessing the horses to take
you to Nantes. Listen, in two hours you will be dead. Fly, then! If you
wish, I will go with you. Then they will say you fled out of love, not
from fear. Listen, if you will not escape alone, or with me, I will
throw myself under the wheels of the carriage, and you will pass over
my broken body!”
She said this in a low tone, without looking at him, and almost
smiling, as though speaking of another ball.
Baudelot did not listen, but he looked at her with a joy in his heart
such as he never before felt.
“How I love her!” he said to himself. He answered: “You know very well
that is impossible, Eleanor. Oh, yes; if I were free, you should have
no husband but me, but I do not belong either to myself or to you. So
good-by, beautiful angel, and if you love me give me back the wild
flower I sent you from my prison. Give it back, Eleanor. The little
flower has been on your breast, it will help me to die.”
At that moment Eleanor looked like death. There was a solemn silence.
The music had stopped, and daylight was filling the room.
Suddenly there was a great noise of horses and riders. It seemed to
come from Nantes, and all the women moved spontaneously to protect
Baudelot with their bodies, but his own soldiers appeared to deliver
him. They were in the garden; they forced their way into the house,
crying:
“Baudelot! Baudelot!”
They were astonished enough to find their young leader, not loaded with
irons, but surrounded by handsomely dressed ladies and himself adorned
as they had never beheld him.
Baudelot’s first question was:
“Gentlemen, did you enter the pigeon-house?”
“Yes,” was the answer. “That’s where we began, Captain. Neither you nor
the pigeons will find it again. The pigeon-house is torn down.”
“Then,” said Baudelot, drawing his sword, “I am released from my word.
Thanks, my brave fellows!”
Then he took off his hat.
“Madame,” he said very gently, “receive the humble gratitude of the
captive.”
He asked for a carriage.
“One is already harnessed, Captain,” said one of his soldiers. “The
owner of the house tells us it was to take you to Nantes.”
Just then Baudelot noticed Hamelin bound with the fetters he himself
had worn.
“Service for service, Captain,” he said; “only, instead of untying your
cords, allow me to cut them. No one shall wear them again.”
Then, as he saw Eleanor recovering herself, he continued:
“Captain Hamelin, this period of civil war and spilled blood is too sad
for betrothals. One can’t tell whether there will be prisoners to watch
in the morning or enemies to receive in the evening. Postpone your
marriage, I beg of you. See, your fiancée herself wishes you to do so.
My noble young lady, allow the poor Chouan to escort you back to your
home at Mailly, will you not?”
And soon all the young Chouans galloped away, rejoicing to have
delivered their Captain, and glorious in the rising sun. Poor fellows,
they had so little time left, most of them, for the sunshine!
There are men who seem immortal whatever they do. Baudelot de Dairval
was not killed although he did not leave Vendée for an hour. When his
country was less inundated with blood he married Eleanor de Mailly, and
Captain Hamelin witnessed the wedding contract.
THE MARQUISE
BY GEORGE SAND
[Illustration]
_“Of all modern French authors, George Sand has added to
fiction the greatest number of original characters. Moreover,
George Sand is, after Rousseau, the only great French author
who has looked directly and lovingly into the face of
nature.”_
_Amandine Lucie Aurore Dupin, Baroness Dudevant, was born
in Paris in 1804. She gave herself up to the study of nature,
and in 1831 wrote “Rose et Blanche,” and entered into her own
kingdom of romance. It was Jules Sandeau who encouraged her
in this, and whose name suggested the nom de plume of “George
Sand.”_
_In “Letters of a Traveler” and “Elle et Lui” we have her
own account of her intimacy with Alfred de Musset, whose
heart she broke. After a varied experience in politics, her
genius widened until it produced masterpieces like “Indiana,”
“Consuelo,” “La Petite Fadette.” “The Marquise” is one of a
long series of work written for the “Revue des Deux Mondes.”
George Sand died in 1876._
[Illustration]
THE MARQUISE
BY GEORGE SAND
The Marquise de R---- never said brilliant things, although it is the
fashion in French fiction to make every old woman sparkle with wit. Her
ignorance was extreme in all matters which contact with the world had
not taught her, and she had none of that nicety of expression, that
exquisite penetration, that marvelous tact, which belong, it is said,
to women who have seen all the different phases of life and society;
she was blunt, heedless, and sometimes very cynical. She put to flight
every idea I have formed concerning the noble ladies of the olden
times, yet she was a genuine Marquise and had seen the Court of Louis
XV. But as she was an exceptional character, do not seek in her history
for a study of the manners of any epoch.
I found much pleasure in the society of the lady. She seemed to me
remarkable for nothing much except her prodigious memory for the events
of her youth and the masculine lucidity with which she expressed her
reminiscences. For the rest, she was, like all aged persons, forgetful
of recent events and indifferent to everything in which she had any
present personal concern.
Her beauty had not been of that piquant order, which, though lacking
in splendor and regularity, still gives pleasure in itself; she was not
one of those women taught to be witty, in order to make as favorable
an impression as those who are so by nature. The Marquise undoubtedly
had had the misfortune to be beautiful. I have seen her portrait, for,
like all old women, she was vain enough to hang it up for inspection
in her apartments. She was represented in the character of a huntress
nymph, with a low satin waist painted to imitate tiger-skin, sleeves of
antique lace, bow of sandal-wood, and a crescent of pearl lighting up
her hair. It was an admirable painting, and, above all, an admirable
woman--tall, slender, dark, with black eyes, austere and noble
features, unsmiling, deep red lips, and hands which, it was said, had
thrown the Princess de Lamballe into despair. Without lace, satin, or
powder, she might indeed have seemed one of those beautiful, proud
nymphs fabled to appear to mortals in the depth of the forest or upon
the solitary mountain-sides, only to drive them mad with passion and
regret.
Yet the Marquise had made few acquaintances; according to her own
account she had been thought dull and frivolous. The roués of that
time cared less for the charms of beauty than for the allurements of
coquetry; women infinitely less admired than she had robbed her of all
her adorers, and, strange enough, she had seemed indifferent to her
fate. The little she told me of her life made me believe that her heart
had had no youth, and that a cold selfishness had paralyzed all its
faculties. Still, her old age was adorned by several sincere friends,
and she gave alms without ostentation.
One evening I found her even more communicative than usual; there was
much of sadness in her voice. “My child,” she said, “the Vicomte de
Larrieux has just died of the gout. It is a great sorrow to me, for I
have been his friend these sixty years.”
“What was his age?” I asked.
“Eighty-four. I am eighty, but not so infirm as he was, and I can hope
to live longer. _N’importe!_ Several of my friends have gone
this year, and although I tell myself that I am younger and stronger
than any of them, I can not help being frightened when I see my
contemporaries dropping off around me.”
“And these,” said I, “are the only regrets you feel for poor Larrieux,
a man who worshiped you for sixty years, who never ceased to complain
of your cruelty, yet never revolted from his allegiance? He was a model
lover: there are no more such men.”
“My dear child,” answered the Marquise, “I see that you think me cold
and heartless. Perhaps you are right; judge for yourself. I will tell
you my whole history, and, whatever opinion you may have of me, I
shall, at least, not die without having made myself known to some one.
“When I was sixteen I left St. Cyr, where I had been educated, to marry
the Marquis de R----. He was fifty, but I dared not complain, for every
one congratulated me on this splendid match, and all my portionless
companions envied my lot.
“I was never very bright, and at that time I was positively stupid;
the education of the cloister had completely benumbed my faculties.
I left the convent with a romantic idea of life and of the world,
stupidly considered a merit in young girls, but which often results
in the misery of their whole lives. As a natural consequence, the
experience brought me by my brief married life was lodged in so narrow
a mind that it was of no use to me. I learned, not to understand life,
but to doubt myself.
“I was a widow before I was seventeen, and as soon as I was out of
mourning I was surrounded by suitors. I was then in all the splendor
of my beauty, and it was generally admitted that there was neither
face nor figure that could compare with mine; but my husband, an old,
worn-out, dissipated man, who had never shown me anything but irony and
disdain, and had married me only to secure an office promised with my
hand, had left me such an aversion to marriage that I could never be
brought to contract new ties. In my ignorance of life I fancied that
all men resembled him, and that in a second husband I should find M.
de R----’s hard heart, his pitiless irony, and that insulting coldness
which had so deeply humiliated me.
“This terrible entrance into life had dispelled for me all the
illusions of youth. My heart, which perhaps was not entirely cold,
withdrew into itself and grew suspicious. I was foolish enough to tell
my real feelings to several women of my acquaintance. They did not fail
to tell what they had learned, and without considering the doubts and
anguish of my heart, boldly declared that I despised all men. There
is nothing men will resent more readily than this; my lovers soon
learned to despise me, and continued their flatteries only in the hope
of finding an opportunity to hold me up to ridicule. I saw mockery and
treachery written upon every forehead, and my misanthropy increased
every day. About this time there came to Paris from the Provinces a man
who had neither talent, strength, nor fascination, but who possessed
a frankness and uprightness of feeling very rare among the people
with whom I lived. This was the Vicomte de Larrieux. He was soon
acknowledged to be my most favored lover.
“He, poor fellow, loved me sincerely in his soul. His soul! Had he
a soul? He was one of those hard, prosaic men who have not even the
elegance of vice or the glitter of falsehood. He was struck only by my
beauty; he took no pains to discover my heart. This was not disdain on
his part, it was incapacity. Had he found in me the power of loving,
he would not have known how to respond to it. I do not think there
ever lived a man more wedded to material things than poor Larrieux. He
ate with delight, and fell asleep in all the armchairs; the remainder
of the time he took snuff. He was always occupied in satisfying some
appetite. I do not think he had one idea a day. And yet, my dear
friend, will you believe it? I never had the energy to get rid of him;
for sixty years he was my torment. Constantly offended by my repulses,
yet constantly drawn to me by the very obstacles I placed in the way of
his passion, he had for me the most faithful, the most undying, the
most wearisome love that ever man felt for woman.”
“I am surprised,” said I, “that in the course of your life you never
met a man capable of understanding you, and worthy of converting you
to real love. Must we conclude that the men of to-day are superior to
those of other times?”
“That would be a great piece of vanity on your part,” she answered,
smiling. “I have little reason to speak well of the men of my own time;
yet I doubt, too, whether you have made much progress; but I will not
moralize. The cause of my misfortune was entirely within myself. I had
no tact, no judgment. A woman as proud as I was should have possessed
a superior character, and should have been able to distinguish at a
glance many of the insipid, false, insignificant men who surrounded
me. I was too ignorant, too narrow-minded for this. As I lived on I
acquired more judgment and have learned that several of the objects of
my hatred deserved far other feelings.”
“And while you were young,” I rejoined, “were you never tempted to make
a second trial? Was this deep-rooted aversion never shaken off? It is
strange.”
The Marquise was silent, then hastily laying her gold snuff-box on the
table--“I have begun my confession,” said she, “and I will acknowledge
everything. Listen. Once, and only once, I have loved, with a love as
passionate and indomitable as it was imaginative and ideal. For you
see, my child, you young men think you understand women, but you know
nothing about them. If many old women of eighty were occasionally to
tell you the history of their loves, you would perhaps find that the
feminine soul contains sources of good and evil of which you have no
idea. And now, guess what was the rank of the man for whom I entirely
lost my head--I, a Marquise, and prouder and haughtier than any other.”
“The King of France, or the Dauphin, Louis XIV.”
“Oh, if you go on in that manner, it will be three hours before you
come to my lover. I prefer to tell you at once--he was an actor.”
“A king, notwithstanding, I imagine.”
“The noblest, the most elegant that ever trod the boards. You are not
amazed?”
“Not much. I have heard that such ill-sorted passions were not rare,
even when the prejudices of caste in France were more powerful than
they are to-day.”
“Those ill-sorted passions were not tolerated by the world, I can
assure you. The first time I saw him I expressed my admiration to the
Comtesse de Ferriers, who happened to be beside me, and she answered:
‘Do not speak so warmly to any one but me. You would be cruelly taunted
were you suspected of forgetting that in the eyes of a woman of rank an
actor can never be a man.’
“Madame Ferriers’s words remained in my mind, I know not why. At the
time this contemptuous tone of hers seemed to me absurd, and this fear
of committing myself a piece of malicious hypocrisy.
“His name was Lelio; he was by birth an Italian, but spoke French
admirably. He may have been thirty-five, although on the stage he often
seemed less than twenty. He played Corneille; after this he played
Racine, and in both he was admirable.”
“I am surprised,” said I, interrupting the Marquise, “that his name
does not appear in the annals of dramatic talent.”
“He was never famous,” she answered, “and was appreciated neither by
the court nor the town. I have heard that he was outrageously hissed
when he first appeared. Afterward he was valued for his feeling, his
fire, and his efforts at correct elocution. He was tolerated and
sometimes applauded, but, on the whole, he was always considered an
actor without taste.
“In those days tragedy was played ‘properly’; it was necessary to die
with taste, to fall gracefully, and to have an air of good breeding,
even in the case of a blow. Dramatic art was modeled upon the usage
of good society, and the diction and gestures of the actors were in
harmony with the hoops and hair powder, which even then disfigured
‘Phèdre.’[4] I have never appreciated the defects of this school of
art. I bravely endured it twice in the week, for it was the fashion to
like it; but I listened with so cold and constrained an air that it was
generally said I was insensible to the charms of fine poetry.
“One evening, after a rather long absence from Paris, I went to the
Comédie Française to see ‘Le Cid.’[5] Lelio had been admitted to this
theatre during my stay in the country, and I saw him for the first
time. He played Rodrigue. I was deeply moved by the very first tone
of his voice. It was penetrating rather than sonorous, but vibrating
and strongly accentuated. His voice was much criticized. That of the
Cid was supposed to be deep and powerful, just as all the heroes of
antiquity were supposed to be tall and strong. A king who was but
five feet six inches could not wear the diadem; it would have been
contrary to the decrees of tastes. Lelio was small and slender. His
beauty lay not in the features, but in the nobleness of his forehead,
the irresistible grace of his attitude, the careless ease of his
movements, the proud but melancholy expression of his face. The word
charm should have been invented for him; it belonged to all his words,
to all his glances, to all his motions. It was indeed a charm which he
threw around me. This man, who stepped, spoke, moved without system or
affectation, who sobbed with his heart as much as with his voice, who
forgot himself to become identified with his passion; this man in whom
the body seemed wasted and shattered by the soul, and a single one of
whose glances contained all the life I failed to find in real life,
exercised over me a really magnetic power. I alone could follow and
understand him, and he was for five years my king, my life, my love.
To me he was much more than a man. His was an intellectual power which
formed my soul at its will. Soon I was unable to conceal the impression
he made on me. I gave up my box at the Comédie Française in order not
to betray myself. I pretended I had become pious, and in the evening
I went to pray in the churches; instead of that I dressed myself as a
working woman and mingled with the common people that I might listen
to him unconstrained. At last I bribed one of the employees of the
theatre to let me occupy a little corner where no one could see me
and which I reached by a side corridor. As an additional precaution I
dressed myself as a schoolboy. When the hour for the theatre sounded
in the large clock in my drawing-room I was seized with violent
palpitations. While my carriage was getting ready I tried to control
myself; and if Larrieux happened to be with me I was rude to him, and
threatened to send him away. I must have had great dissimulation and
great tact to have hidden all this for five years from Larrieux, the
most jealous of men, and from all the malicious people about me.
“I must tell you that instead of struggling against this passion I
yielded to it with eagerness, with delight. It was so pure! Why should
I have blushed for it? It gave me new life; it initiated me into all
the feelings I had wished to experience; it almost made me a woman. I
was proud to feel myself thrill and tremble. The first time my dormant
heart beat aloud was to me a triumph. I learned to pout, to love, to
be faithful and capricious. It was remarked I grew handsomer every
day, that my dark eyes softened, that my smile was more expressive,
that what I said was truer and had more meaning than could have been
expected.
“I have just told you that when I heard the clock strike I trembled
with joy and impatience. Even now I seem to feel the delicious
oppression which used to overwhelm me at the sound of that clock.
Since then, through the vicissitudes of fortune, I have come to find
myself very happy in the possession of a few small rooms in the Marais.
Well, of all my magnificent house, my aristocratic _faubourg_,
and my past splendor I regret only that which could have recalled to
me those days of love and dreams. I have saved from the general ruin a
few pieces of furniture which I look upon with as much emotion as if
the hour for the theatre were about to strike now, and my horses were
pawing at the door. Oh! my child, never love as I loved; it is a storm
which death alone can quell.
“Then I learned to take pleasure in being young, wealthy, and
beautiful. Seated in my coach, my feet buried in furs, I could see
myself reflected in the mirror in front of me. The dress of that time,
which has since been so laughed at, was of extraordinary richness and
splendor. When arranged with taste and modified in its exaggeration,
it endowed a beautiful woman with dignity, with a softness, the grace
of which the portraits of that time could give you no idea. A woman,
clothed in its panoply of feathers, of silks, and flowers, was obliged
to move slowly. I have seen very fair women in white robes with long
trains of watered silk, their hair powdered and dressed with white
plumes, who might without exaggeration have been compared to swans.
Despite all Rousseau has said, those enormous folds of satin, that
profusion of muslin which enveloped a slender little body as down
envelops a dove, made us resemble birds, rather than wasps. Long wings
of lace fell from our arms, and our ribbons, purses, and jewels were
variegated with the most brilliant colors. Balancing ourselves in our
little high-heeled shoes, we seemed to fear to touch the earth and
walked with the disdainful circumspection of a little bird on the edge
of a brook.
“At the time of which I am speaking blond powder began to be worn
and gave the hair a light and soft color. This method of modifying
the crude shades of the hair gave softness to the face, and an
extraordinary brilliance to the eyes. The forehead was completely
uncovered, its outline melted insensibly into the pale shades of
the hair. It thus appeared higher and prouder, and gave all women a
majestic air. It was the fashion, too, to dress the hair low, with
large curls thrown back and falling on the neck. This was very becoming
to me, and I was celebrated for the taste and magnificence of my dress.
I sometimes wore red velvet with grebe-skin, sometimes white satin
edged with tiger-skin, sometimes lilac damask shot with silver, with
white feathers and pearls in my hair. Thus attired I would pay a few
visits until the hour for the second piece at the theatre, for Lelio
never came on in the first. I created a sensation wherever I appeared,
and, when I again found myself in my carriage, I contemplated with much
pleasure the reflected image of the woman who loved Lelio, and might
have been loved by him. Until then, the only pleasure I had found in
being beautiful lay in the jealousy I excited. But from the moment that
I loved I began to enjoy my beauty for its own sake. It was all I had
to offer Lelio as a compensation for the triumphs which were denied
him in Paris, and I loved to think of the pride and joy this poor
actor, so misjudged, so laughed at, would feel were he told that the
Marquise de R---- had dedicated her heart to him. These the dreams,
however, were as brief as they were beautiful. As soon as my thoughts
assumed some consistency, as soon as they took the form of any plan
whatever, I had the fortitude to suppress them, and all the pride of
rank reasserted its empire over my soul. You seem surprised at this. I
will explain it by and by.
“About eight o’clock my carriage stopped at the little Church of the
Carmelites near the Luxembourg, and I sent it away, for I was supposed
to be attending the religious lectures which were given there at that
hour. But I only crossed the church and the garden and came out on
the other street. I went to the garret of the young needlewoman named
Florence, who was devoted to me. I locked myself up in her room, and
joyfully laid aside all my adornments to don the black square-cut
coat, the sword and wig of a young college professor. Tall, with my
dark complexion and inoffensive glances, I really had the awkward
hypocritical look of a little priestling who had stolen in to see the
play. I took a hackney coach, and hastened to hide myself in my little
box at the theatre. Then my joy, my terror, my trembling ceased. A
profound calm came upon me and I remained until the raising of the
curtain as if absorbed in expectation of some great solemnity.
“As the vulture in his hypnotic circling surrounds the partridge and
holds him panting and motionless, so did the soul of Lelio, that
great soul of a poet and tragedian, envelop all my faculties, and
plunge me into a torpor of admiration. I listened, my hands clasped
upon my knees and my chin upon the front of the box, and my forehead
bathed in perspiration; I hardly breathed; the crude light of the lamps
tortured my eyes, which, tired and burning, were fastened on his every
gesture, his every step. His feigned motions, his simulated misfortune,
impressed me as if they were real. I could hardly distinguish between
truth and illusion. To me, Lelio was indeed Rodrigue, Bajazet,
Hippolyte. I hated his enemies. I trembled at his dangers; his sorrows
drew from me floods of tears, and when he died I was compelled to
stifle my emotions in my handkerchief.
“Between the acts I sat down at the back of my box; I was as one dead
until the meagre tone of the orchestra warned me that the curtain was
about to rise again. Then I sprang up, full of strength and ardor, the
power to feel, to weep. How much freshness, poetry, and youth there was
in that man’s talent! That whole generation must have been of ice not
to have fallen at his feet.
“And yet, although he offended every conventional idea, although he
could not adapt his taste to that silly public, although he scandalized
the women by the carelessness of his dress and deportment, and
displeased the men by his contempt for their foolish actions, there
were moments when, by an irresistible fascination, by the power of his
eye and his voice, he held the whole of this ungrateful public as if
in the hollow of his hand, and compelled it to applaud and tremble.
This happened but seldom, for the entire spirit of the age can not be
suddenly changed; but when it did happen, the applause was frantic. It
seemed as if the Parisians, subjugated by his genius, wished to atone
for all their injustice. As for me, I believed that this man had at
most a supernatural power, and that those who most bitterly despised
him were compelled to swell his triumph in spite of themselves. In
truth, at such times the Comédie Française seemed smitten with madness,
and the spectators, on leaving the theatre, were amazed to remember
that they had applauded Lelio. As for me, I seized the opportunity to
give full play to my emotion; I shouted, I wept, I passionately called
his name. Happily for me, my weak voice was drowned in the storm which
raged about me.
“At other times he was hissed when he seemed to me to be sublime, and
then I left the theatre, my heart full of rage. Those nights were the
most dangerous for me. I was violently tempted to seek him out, to weep
with him, to curse the age in which we lived, and to console him by
offering him my enthusiasm and love.
“One evening as I left the theatre by the side passage which led to
my box, a small, slender man passed in front of me, and turned into
the street. One of the stage-carpenters took off his hat and said:
‘Good evening, Monsieur Lelio.’ Eager to obtain a nearer view of this
extraordinary man, I ran after him, crossed the street, and, forgetting
the danger to which I exposed myself, followed him into a café.
Fortunately, it was not one in which I was likely to meet any one of my
own rank.
“When, by the light of the smoky lamp, I looked at Lelio, I thought
I had been mistaken and had followed another man. He was at least
thirty-five, sallow, withered, and worn out. He was badly dressed, he
looked vulgar, spoke in a hoarse, broken voice, shook hands with the
meanest wretches, drank brandy, and swore horribly. It was not until I
had heard his name repeated several times that I felt sure that this
was the divinity of the theatre, interpreter of the great Corneille.
I could recognize none of those charms which had so fascinated me,
not even his glance, so bright, so ardent, and so sad. His eyes were
dull, dead, almost stupid; his strongly accentuated pronunciation
seemed ignoble when he called to the waiter, or talked of gambling and
taverns. He walked badly, he looked vulgar, and the paint was only half
wiped from his cheeks. It was no longer Hippolyte--it was Lelio. The
temple was empty; the oracle was dumb; the divinity had become a man,
not even a man--an actor.
“He went out, and I sat stupefied without even presence of mind enough
to drink the hot spiced wine I had called for. When I remembered where
I was, and perceived the insulting glances which were heaped upon me,
I became frightened. It was the first time I had ever found myself in
such an equivocal position, and in such immediate contact with people
of that class.
“I rose and tried to escape, but forgot to pay my reckoning. The
waiter ran after me; I was terribly ashamed; I was obliged to return,
enter into explanations at the desk, and endure all the mocking and
suspicious looks which were turned upon me. When I left I thought I
was followed. In vain I looked for a hackney-coach; there were none
remaining in front of the theatre. I constantly heard heavy steps
echoing my own. Trembling, I turned my head, and recognized a tall,
ill-looking fellow whom I had noticed in one corner of the café, and
who had very much the air of a spy or something worse. He spoke to me;
I do not know what he said; I was too much frightened to hear, but I
had still presence of mind enough to rid myself of him. I struck him
in the face with my cane, and, leaving him stunned at my audacity, I
shot away swift as an arrow, and did not stop till I reached Florence’s
little garret. When I awoke the next morning in my own bed with its
wadded curtains and coronal of pink feathers, I almost thought I had
dreamed, and felt greatly mortified when I recollected the disillusions
of the previous night. I thought myself thoroughly cured of my love,
and I tried to rejoice at it, but in vain. I was filled with a mortal
regret, the weariness of life again entered my heart, the world had not
a pleasure which could charm me.
“Evening came, but brought no more beneficial emotions. Society seemed
to me stupid. I went to church and listened to the evening lecture with
a determination of becoming pious; I caught cold, and came home quite
ill. I remained in bed several days. The Comtesse de Ferrières came to
see me, assured me that I had no fever, that lying still made me ill,
that I must amuse myself, go out, go to the theatre. She compelled me
to go with her to see ‘Cinna.’[6] ‘You no longer go to the theatre,’
said she to me; ‘your health is undermined by your piety, and the
dulness of your life. You have not seen Lelio for some time; he has
improved, and he is now sometimes applauded. I think he may some day
become very tolerable.’
“I do not know why I allowed myself to be persuaded. However, as I was
completely disenchanted with Lelio, I thought I no longer ran any risk
in braving his fascinations in public. I dressed myself with excessive
brilliance, and, in a court proscenium box, fronted a danger in which I
no longer believed.
“But the danger was never more imminent. Lelio was sublime, and I had
never been more in love with him. My recent adventure seemed but a
dream. I could not believe that Lelio was other than he seemed upon the
stage. In spite of myself, I yielded to the terrible agitations into
which he had the power of throwing me. My face was bathed in tears,
and I was compelled to cover it with my handkerchief. In the disorder
of my mind I wiped off my rouge and my patches, and the Comtesse de
Ferrières advised me to retire to the back of my box, for my emotion
was creating a sensation in the house. I fortunately had had the skill
to make every one believe it was the playing of Mdlle. Hippolyte
Clairon which affected me so deeply. She was, in my own opinion, a very
cold and formal actress, too superior perhaps for her profession,
as it was then understood; but her manner of saying ‘Tout beau,’ in
‘Cinna,’ had given her a great reputation. It must be said, however,
that when she played with Lelio she outdid herself. Although she took
pains to proclaim her share in the fashionable contempt for his method
of acting, she assuredly felt the influence of his genius.
“That evening Lelio noticed me, either on account of my dress or my
emotion; for I saw him, when he was not acting, bend over one of the
spectators, who, at that epoch, sat upon the stage, and inquire my
name. I guessed his question by the way both looked at me. My heart
beat almost to suffocation, and I noticed during the play that Lelio’s
eyes turned several times toward me. What would I not have given to
hear what the Chevalier de Bretillac, whom he had questioned, had
said to him about me! Lelio’s face did not indicate the nature of
the information he had received, for he was obliged to retain the
expression suited to his part. I knew this Bretillac very slightly, and
I could not imagine whether he would speak well or ill of me.
“That night I understood for the first time the nature of the passion
which enchained me to Lelio. It was a passion purely intellectual,
purely ideal. It was not he I loved, but those heroes of ancient
times whose sincerity, whose fidelity, whose tenderness he knew how
to portray; with him and by him I was carried back to an epoch of
forgotten virtues. I was bright enough to think that in those days I
should not have been misjudged and hated, and that I should not have
been reduced to loving a fantom of the footlights. Lelio was to me but
the shadow of the Cid, the representative of that antique chivalric
love now ridiculed in France. My Lelio was a fictitious being who had
no existence outside the theatre. The illusions of the stage, the glare
of the footlights, were a part of the being whom I loved. Without them
he was nothing to me, and faded like a story before the brightness of
day. I had no desire to see him off the boards; and should have been in
despair had I met him. It would have been like contemplating the ashes
of a great man.
“One evening as I was going to the Carmelite church with the intention
of leaving it by the passage door, I perceived that I was followed,
and became convinced that henceforth it would be almost impossible
to conceal the object of my nocturnal expeditions. I decided to go
publicly to the theatre. Lelio saw me and watched me; my beauty had
struck him, my sensibility flattered him. His attention sometimes
wandered so much as to displease the public. Soon I could no longer
doubt. He was madly in love with me.
“My box had pleased the Princess de Vaudemont. I gave it up to her, and
took for myself a smaller one, less in view of the house and better
situated. I was almost upon the stage, I did not lose one of Lelio’s
glances; and he could look at me without its being seen by the public.
But I no longer needed to catch his eye in order to understand all his
feelings. The sound of his voice, his sighs, the expression which he
gave to certain verses, certain words, told me that he was speaking to
me. I was the happiest and proudest of women, for then it was the hero,
not the actor, who loved me.
“I have since heard that Lelio often followed me in my walks and
drives; so little did I desire to see him outside of the theatre that
I never perceived it. Of the eighty years I have passed in this world,
those five are the only ones in which I really lived.
“One day I read in the ‘Mercure de France’ the name of a new actor
engaged at the Comédie Française to replace Lelio, who was about to
leave France.
“This announcement was a mortal blow to me. I could not conceive how
I should exist when deprived of these emotions, this life of passion
and storm. This event gave an immense development to my love, and was
well-nigh my ruin.
“I no longer struggled with myself; I no longer sought to stifle all
thoughts contrary to the dignity of my rank. I regretted that he was
not what he appeared on the stage; I wished him as young and handsome
as he seemed each night before the footlights, that I might sacrifice
to him all my pride, all my prejudices.
“While I was in this state of irresolution, I received a letter in
an unknown hand. It is the only love letter I have ever kept. Though
Larrieux has written me innumerable protestations, and I have received
a thousand perfumed declarations from a hundred others, it is the only
real love letter that was ever sent me.”
The Marquise rose, opened with a steady hand an inlaid casket, and took
from it a crumpled, worn-out letter, which I read with difficulty.
“MADAME--I am certain you will feel nothing but
contempt for this letter, you will not even deem it worthy of
your anger. But, to a man falling into an abyss, what matters
one more stone at the bottom? You will think me mad, and you
will be right. You will perhaps pity me, for you will not doubt
my sincerity. However humble your piety may have made you, you
will understand the extent of my despair; you must already know
_how much evil and how much good your eyes can do_....
“You must know this already, madame; it is impossible that the
violent emotions I have portrayed upon the stage, my cries of
wrath and despair, have not twenty times revealed to you my
passion. You can not have lighted all these flames without
being conscious of what you did. Perhaps you played with me
as a tiger with his prey; perhaps the spectacle of my folly
and my tortures was your pastime. But no; to think so were to
presume too much. No, madame, I do not believe it; you never
thought of me. You felt the verses of the great Corneille, you
identified these with the noble passions of tragedy; that was
all. And I, madman that I was, I dared to think that my voice
alone sometimes awoke your sympathies, that my heart echoed
in yours, that between you and me there was something more
than between me and the public. Oh, my madness was arrant, but
it was sweet! Leave me my illusions, madame; what are they to
you? Do you fear that I should boast of them? By what right
should I do so, and who would believe me? I should only make
myself a laughing-stock of sensible people. Leave me this
conviction; it has given me more joy than the severity of the
public has caused me sorrow. Let me bless you, let me thank
you upon my knees, for the sensibility which I have discovered
in your soul, and which no one else has ever shown me; for the
tears which I have seen you shed for my fictitious sorrows,
and which have often raised my inspiration almost to delirium;
for the timid glances which sought, at least it seemed so, to
console me for the coldness of my audience. Oh, why were you
born to pomp and splendor! Why am I an obscure and nameless
artist! Why have I not riches and the favor of the public,
that I might exchange them for a name, for one of those titles
which I have hitherto disdained, and which, perhaps, would
permit me to aspire as high as you are placed! Once I deemed
the distinctions conferred upon talent superior to all others.
To what purpose, thought I, is a man a Chevalier or a Marquis
but to be the sillier, the vainer, and the more insolent? I
hated the pride of men of rank, and thought that I should be
sufficiently avenged for their disdain if my genius raised
me above them. Dreams and delusions all! My strength has not
equaled my mad ambition. I have remained obscure; I have done
worse--I have touched success, and allowed it to escape me.
I thought myself great, and I was cast down to the dust; I
imagined that I was almost sublime, and I was condemned to
be ridiculous. Fate took me--me and my audacious dreams--and
crushed me as if I had been a reed! I am a most wretched man!
But I committed my greatest folly when I cast my eyes beyond
that row of lights which marked between me and the rest of
society an invisible line of separation. It is to me a circle
of Popilius. I, an actor, I dared to raise my eyes and fasten
them upon a beautiful woman--upon a woman, young, lovely, and
of high rank; for you are all this, madame, and I know it. The
world accuses you of coldness and of exaggerated piety. I alone
understand you. Your first smile, your first tear, sufficiently
disproved the absurd fable which Chevalier de Bretillac
repeated against you.
“But then what a destiny is yours! What fatality weighs upon
you as upon me, that in the midst of society so brilliant,
which calls itself so enlightened, you should have found only
the heart of a poor actor to do you justice. Nothing will
deprive me of the sad and consoling thought that, had we been
born in the same rank, you would have been mine in spite of
my rivals, in spite of my inferiority. You would have been
compelled to acknowledge that there is in me something greater
than their wealth, and their titles--the power of loving you.