GERFAUT'S ALLEGORY
There almost always comes a moment when a woman, in her combat against
love, is obliged to call falsehood to the help of duty. Madame de
Bergenheim had entered this terrible period, in which virtue, doubting
its own strength, does not blush to resort to other resources. At the
moment when Octave, a man of experience, was seeking assistance in
exciting her jealousy, she was meditating a plan of defence founded upon
deceit. In order to take away all hope from her lover, she pretended a
sudden affection for her husband, and in spite of her secret remorse she
persisted in this role for two days; but during the night her tears
expiated her treachery. Christian greeted his wife's virtuous coquetry
with the gratitude and eagerness of a husband who has been deprived of
love more than he likes. Gerfaut was very indignant at the sight of this
perfidious manoeuvre, the intention of which he immediately divined; and
his rage wanted only provocation to break out in full force.
One evening they were all gathered in the drawing-room with the exception
of Aline, whom a reprimand from Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had exiled to
her room. The old lady, stretched out in her chair, had decided to be
unfaithful to her whist in favor of conversation. Marillac, leaning his
elbows upon a round table, was negligently sketching some political
caricatures, at that time very much the fashion, and particularly
agreeable to the Legitimist party. Christian, who was seated near his
wife, whose hand he was pressing with caressing familiarity, passed from
one subject to another, and showed in his conversation the overwhelming
conceit of a happy man who regards his happiness as a proof of
superiority.
Gerfaut, standing, gazed gloomily at Clemence, who leaned toward her
husband and seemed to listen eagerly to his slightest word. Bergenheim
was a faithful admirer of the classics, as are all country gentlemen,
who introduce a sentiment of propriety into their literary opinions and
prefer the ancient writers to the modern, for the reason that their
libraries are much richer in old works than in modern books. The Baron
unmercifully sacrificed Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas, whom he had
never read, upon the altar of Racine and Corneille, of which he possessed
two or three editions, and yet it would have embarrassed him to recite
half a dozen verses from them. Marillac boldly defended the cause of
contemporary literature, which he considered as a personal matter, and
poured out a profusion of sarcastic remarks in which there was more wit
than good taste.
"The gods fell from Olympus, why should they not also fall from
Parnassus?" said the artist, finally, with a triumphant air. "Say what
you will, Bergenheim, your feeble opposition will not prevail against the
instincts of the age. The future is ours, let me tell you, and we are
the high priests of the new religion; is it not so, Gerfaut?"
At these words, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil shook her head, gravely.
"A new religion!" said she; "if this pretension should be verified you
would only be guilty of heresy, and, without allowing myself to be taken
in, I can understand how elevated minds and enthusiastic hearts might be
attracted by the promises of a deceptive Utopia; but you, gentlemen, whom
I believe to be sincere, do you not see to what an extent you delude
yourselves? What you call religion is the most absolute negation of
religious principles; it is the most distressing impiety ornamented with
a certain sentimental hypocrisy which has not even the courage frankly to
proclaim its principles."
"I swear to you, Mademoiselle, that I am religious three days out of
four," replied Marillac; "that is something; there are some Christians
who are pious only on Sunday."
"Materialism is the source from which modern literature takes its
inspiration," continued the old lady; "and this poisonous stream not only
dries up the thoughts which would expand toward heaven, but also withers
all that is noble in human sentiment. To-day, people are not content to
deny God, because they are not pure enough to comprehend Him; they disown
even the weakness of the heart, provided they have an exalted and
dignified character. They believe no longer in love. All the women that
your fashionable writers tell us about are vulgar and sometimes unchaste
creatures, to whom formerly a gentleman would have blushed to give one
glance or to offer a supper. I say this for your benefit, Monsieur
de Gerfaut, for in this respect you are far from being irreproachable;
and I could bring forth your books to support my theory. If I accuse you
of atheism, in love, what have you to say in reply?"
Carried away by one of those impulsive emotions which men of imagination
can not resist, Octave arose and said:
"I should not deny such an accusation. Yes, it is a sad thing, but true,
and only weak minds recoil from the truth: reality exists only in
material objects; all the rest is merely deception and fancy. All poetry
is a dream, all spiritualism a fraud! Why not apply to love the
accommodating philosophy which takes the world as it is, and does not
throw a savory fruit into the press under the pretext of extracting I
know not what imaginary essence? Two beautiful eyes, a satin skin, white
teeth, and a shapely foot and hand are of such positive and inestimable
value! Is it not unreasonable, then, to place elsewhere than in them all
the wealth of love? Intellect sustains its owner, they say; no,
intelligence kills. It is thought that corrupts sensation and causes
suffering where, but for that, joy would reign supreme.
"Thought! accursed gift! Do we give or ask a thought of the rose whose
perfume we breathe? Why not love as we breathe? Would not woman,
considered simply as a perfectly organized vegetation, be the queen of
creation? Why not enjoy her perfume as we bend before her, leaving her
clinging to the ground where she was born and lives? Why tear her from
the earth, this flower so fresh, and have her wither in our hands as we
raise her up like an offering? Why make of so weak and fragile a
creature a being above all others, for whom our enthusiasm can find no
name, and then discover her to be but an unworthy angel?
"Angel! yes, of course, but an angel of the Earth, not of Heaven;
an angel of flesh, not of light! By dint of loving, we love wrongly.
We place our mistress too high and ourselves too low; there is never a
pedestal lofty enough for her, according to our ideas. Fools! Oh!
reflection is always wise, but desire is foolish, and our conduct is
regulated by our desire. We, above all, with our active, restless minds,
blase in many respects, unbelieving in others and disrespectful in the
remainder, soar over life as over an impure lake, and look at everything
with contempt, seeking in love an altar before which we can humble our
pride and soften our disdain.
"For there is in every man an insurmountable need to fall on his knees
before no matter what idol, if it remains standing and allows itself to
be adored. At certain hours, a prayerbell rings in the depth of the
heart, the sound of which throws him upon his knees as it cries: 'Kneel!'
And then the very being who ignores God in His churches and scorns kings
upon their thrones, the being who has already exhausted the hollow idols
of glory and fame, not having a temple to pray in, makes a fetich for
himself in order to have a divinity to adore, so as not to be alone in
his impiety, and to see, above his head when he arises, something that
shall not be empty and vacant space. This man seeks a woman, takes all
that he has, talent passion, youth, enthusiasm, all the wealth of his
heart, and throws them at her feet like the mantle that Raleigh spread
out before Elizabeth, and he says to this woman: 'Walk, O my queen;
trample under your blessed feet the heart of your adoring slave!' This
man is a fool, is he not? For when the queen has passed, what remains
upon the mantle? Mud!"
Gerfaut accompanied these words with such a withering glance that the one
for whom they were intended felt her blood freeze in her veins, and
withdrew the hand her husband had kept till then in his; she soon arose
and seated herself at the other side of the table, under the pretext of
getting nearer the lamp to work, but in reality in order to withdraw from
Christian's vicinity. Clemence had expected her lover's anger, but not
his scorn; she had not strength to endure this torture, and the conjugal
love which had, not without difficulty, inflamed her heart for the last
few days, fell to ashes at the first breath of Octave's indignation.
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil greeted the Vicomte's words indulgently; for,
from consummate pride, she separated herself from other women.
"So then," said she, "you pretend that if to-day love is painted under
false and vulgar colors, the fault is the model's, not the artist's."
"You express my thought much better than I could have done it myself,"
said Gerfaut, in an ironical tone; "where are the angels whose portraits
are called for?"
"They are in our poetical dreams," said Marillac, raising his eyes to the
ceiling with an inspired air.
"Very well! tell us your dreams then, instead of copying a reality which
it is impossible for you to render poetic, since you yourselves see it
without illusions."
Gerfaut smiled bitterly at this suggestion, artlessly uttered by the
Baron.
"My dreams," he replied, "I should tell them to you poorly indeed, for
the first blessing of the awakening is forgetfulness, and to-day I am
awake. However, I remember how I allowed myself to be once overcome by a
dream that has now vanished, but still emits its luminous trail in my
eyes. I thought I had discovered, under a beautiful and attractive
appearance, the richest treasure that the earth can bestow upon the heart
of man; I thought I had discovered a soul, that divine mystery, deep as
the ocean, ardent as a flame, pure as air, glorious as heaven itself,
infinite as space, immortal as eternity! It was another universe, where
I should be king. With what ardent and holy love I attempted the
conquest of this new world, but, less fortunate than Columbus, I met with
shipwreck instead of triumph."
Clemence, at this avowal of her lover's defeat, threw him a glance of
intense contradiction, then lowered her eyes, for she felt her face
suffused with burning blushes.
When he entered his room that night, Gerfaut went straight to the window.
He could see in the darkness the light which gleamed in Clemence's room.
"She is alone," said he to himself; "certainly heaven protects us, for in
the state of exasperation I am in, I should have killed them both."