THE AVOWAL
Madame de Pënâfiel remained very pensive for a few moments, and seemed
gazing into vacancy; then, as though she had come to a sudden
determination, she said with a familiarity that our three months of
intimacy would excuse:
"I believe that you are my friend?"
"A most devoted one, and a very happy one to be able to tell you so,
madame," I replied in a mocking way, to which she paid no attention.
"By the word friend I do not mean an acquaintance, a person who really
cares nothing for us, a friend in the usual sense of the word; no, I
think better of you than that. In the first place you have never uttered
a word of gallantry to me, and for that I thank you sincerely; you have
spared me that insulting species of courtship, which, I know not why,
some persons think they have the right, or, perhaps, the permission, to
honour me with." She said this with a sad smile. "You have enough tact,
sense, and generosity to understand that a woman who has been the victim
of odious calumnies finds nothing more offensive than such idle
compliments, which only add fresh insult, because they are apparently
authorised by the injurious reports that preceded them.
"I believe your mind is sadly precocious through bitter experiences. I
know that, though you are much in the world, you have none of the
world's petty hates and jealousies. I think you are neither conceited
nor even vain, and that you are one of those honest men who never try to
discover any hidden motive for a confession; also that you will take no
thought of my behaviour should it seem strange. Besides," she continued,
with an air of mournful dignity that impressed me deeply, "as to be
taken into a woman's confidence is one of the ways in which an honest
man is most honoured, I have no fear of speaking freely to you.
"You are kind and generous; I know that you have often defended me
bravely and loyally, and, alas! I am unaccustomed to be so defended. I
know how one evening at the Opéra-- Oh, yes, I overheard what you
said," she continued, as she saw how astonished I was. "That was the
reason I took the initiative in having you presented to me, and your
reserved manner of accepting my hospitality gave me a high opinion of
your dignity. Thus I have every confidence in you, and will consider you
a true friend; for I must speak,--I must tell some one," she said, with
an accent of despair,--"I must tell you--yes, you--why I am the most
unfortunate of women."
She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.
There was that in her words, and in the pitiful look that accompanied
them, something so touching, that in spite of my ill temper I was moved
to compassion. Instantly, though, returned the evil thought that this
was only the rôle she was playing to force me to a declaration. I
hastened to say, in a very supercilious manner, that I hoped I was
worthy of her confidence, and if my devotion or my advice could be of
the least use to her, I was entirely at her service, and other such
commonplace and glacial speeches.
As she did not appear to notice the chilly way I received her complaint,
I saw only another reason for thinking she was deceiving me, and had
scornfully resolved not to be interrupted in her rôle, but to play it
to the end, and I was excessively irritated.
Now that I know all, I can understand her inadvertence, but at the time
it was a positive and aggravating proof of her duplicity.
She was inattentive, because the relief caused by the disclosure of a
long hidden trouble is so exquisite that, overcome by the blessed
effusion, we neither know nor care for the impression we produce.
It is only later, when the heart, already lighter, feels refreshed by
this divine outpouring, that we look up hopefully, expecting to see in
our friend's eyes some sympathetic tears, or some expression of
commiseration.
Thus, when two friends meet after a long and painful separation, in the
rapture of the first embrace neither thinks of noticing if the other is
changed.
Having thus, as it were, broken the ice, Madame de Pënâfiel continued,
after passing her hand over her tearful eyes:
"It would be very easy for me to explain the extraordinary confidence I
have in you. I know that, although you have often defended me from
slander, you have never attempted to reap any advantage from your loyal
conduct; then the isolation in which you live, although moving in the
gay world, your reserve, your superiority of mind, which is unlike
others, and entirely your own, virtues and defects,--everything tends to
my accepting you as a sincere and generous friend, to whom I can tell
all my sorrows and all I suffer."
Without showing the least feeling, I replied that she could count on my
discretion, which was trustworthy, and besides, as I had no one to talk
to, it was all the more safe. "For," said I, "we are only indiscreet
with our intimate friends, and I cannot reproach myself with having a
single one."
"That," said she, "is the very reason why I am encouraged to speak to
you as I do. I fancied that you also were alone, that you also had some
secret chagrin that you dared not speak of, suffering from your isolated
position as I do from mine, for, like you, I have no friends; people
hate me, they say wicked things about me, and why? _Mon Dieu!_ have I
deserved such treatment? Why is the world so unjust and cruel towards
me? Whom have I injured? Oh, if you only knew! If I could tell you all!"
Her complaining seemed so childish and weak, her reticence so ill
calculated to excite my curiosity, that, assuming a cheerful manner, I
began an apology for the world in general.
"Since you give me permission to speak as a friend, madame, allow me to
say that we must not be too fierce in our attacks on society. Ask
yourself what we exact from society. Fêtes, excitement, smiles, homage,
flowers, and gilded salons. With all these, the greatest possible
latitude in regard to morals, and all the liberty we desire. Now, if
society gives us all these, and you must admit that it does, has it not
done its entire duty? Then why this constant complaining and railing at
the poor world, when all we can reproach it with is its prodigality?"
"But you know very well that they are all false. Those smiles, that
homage, those attentions, are all lies, you know it! If you receive at
home, when the last visitor leaves, you say, 'Well, that is over!' If
you go to a brilliant reception, as soon as your foot touches the sill
of your own home you say again, 'Well, that is over!'"
"Thank Heaven, madame," I answered, pretending not to understand her,
for she appeared surprised at my sudden conversion to mundane pleasures,
"I assure you I am never so miserable as to be glad that a fête is
over. If I ever say, 'Well, it is over!' on my return, it is because I
am fatigued with enjoyment, of which, as I said, the world is only too
prodigal. As to what you call its deceit and falsehood, it is perfectly
right in not being willing to exchange its graceful and pleasing
exterior for one that would be horribly disagreeable. Besides, it does
not really lie, it but speaks its own language, a language that we
perfectly understand. Society is not selfish and exacting, but you are.
Why should you wish to insist upon its changing its charming manners,
and adopting your romantic ideas of friendship, of endless love, which
would make it stupid, and which it does not care for? Trust yourself to
it, enter gaily into its giddy whirl, and it will lighten your burdens,
and make your life bright and joyful.
"If it lies about you to-day, what matter? To-morrow's falsehood will
obliterate the story of to-day. Do you fancy it even believes its own
stories? Does it not worship you? Is it not always at your feet? Why
should you attach more importance to its words than it expects you to?
'Please and be pleased' is the world's motto. A very convenient one, and
easy to follow. What more can you want?"
Madame de Pënâfiel sat staring at me in amazement, remembering, no
doubt, the many serious conversations we had on this subject, and,
surprised at the sudden levity I affected, she said:
"But when calm reflection succeeds to the bewildering pleasures of
society, and we analyse these delights, how vain and unsatisfying they
are. What are we then to do?"
"I am quite in despair, madame, at not being able to answer that
question. I enjoy these pleasures that you apparently despise, and hope
to enjoy them for a long time yet, and more than any one, for it is in
the lightness and the ease with which the world's fetters are broken
that their charm consists. 'Pardon the outrageous stupidity of the
comparison,' as Lord Falmouth says, but if ever the used-up expression,
'a chain of flowers,' was justified, it was in applying it to the
obligations of society, which are as bright, as gay, as frail, and as
easy to wear. But it is what the world calls love that charms me most,
madame. It is the story of the phoenix who is constantly reincarnated,
always more golden, more empurpled, and beautiful than before. Is not
everything about this love charming, even its ashes, poor remains of
love-letters that give out a perfume even as they are consumed? Is
anything more delightful than the fact that in this adorable world love
follows the divine law of metempsychosis? For, if to-day it dies of old
age, after a month's duration, to-morrow it is born again more exquisite
than ever, under another form, or for another form."
Madame de Pënâfiel could not yet understand why I should affect such
gaiety, when she had just made me the confidant of her sorrows. I could
see by her expression that my heedless and unkind words made a painful
impression. At first she supposed I was joking, but, as I continued my
speech with such an impertinent air of conviction, she knew not what to
think, and, looking me in the face, she said, in a voice that was almost
a reproach:
"Then you are perfectly happy!"
"Perfectly, madame, mundane life never appeared to me under the form of
a more radiant and seductive vision."
Madame de Pënâfiel gazed at me for some moments with her great
astonished eyes, and then said, in a firm and very decided way: "All
that is not true; you are not happy; it is impossible that you should
be. I know the truth; why will you not admit the truth, and then I could
tell you--" Then she hesitated and cast down her eyes as though she were
on the point of revealing a secret.
"If it will give you the least satisfaction, madame," I replied,
smiling, "I will hasten to declare myself the most unfortunate,
melancholy, dismal, sophisticated of mortals, and from henceforth I will
go about proclaiming only, Anathema! Fatality!"
After contemplating me for some moments with inexpressible amazement,
she said, as though speaking to herself: "Can I have deceived myself?
Was I mistaken?" Then continuing, "No, no, it is impossible, if you were
as happy and indifferent as you pretend to be, would I not have known it
instinctively? Would I have opened my heart to you and exposed my grief?
Would I have risked a confession only to have derision in return? No,
no, my heart whispered the truth when it said, 'Speak to him, tell him
all, he is your friend, a friend who will pity you, for he also is
lonely and wretched.'"
Her strange persistence in making me acknowledge some imaginary sorrow,
in order to deride me afterwards, astonished and irritated me.
"Madame," I said, "why do you persist in believing me to be so
miserable?"
"Why, why?" said she, quite impatiently. "Because there are some
confessions that one never makes to the gay and careless; because, to
understand the bitterness of certain woes, there must exist some sort of
harmony between the soul that bewails its grief, and the one who hears
its complaining; because, had I thought you careless, merry, flippant,
happy in the enjoyment of the life of frivolity whose charms you were
just now vaunting, I never would have dreamed of telling you why I am so
wretched, or explaining the secret of a life which must seem fantastic
and bizarre. I would never have wished to tell you, as to a devoted and
true friend, a brother, indeed, the reason I am so overwhelmed with
sorrow."
I had reached such a point of irritation and distrust, that when she
said the words "friend, brother," another idea suggested itself to me.
Remembering Madame de Pënâfiel's reticence and a thousand other
incidents which had passed unnoticed until now, I decided that her
nameless sorrow, her disgust for everything, her weariness of the world,
resembled very strongly an unrequited passion, and that she was in love,
but that her love was not returned. I therefore believed her willing to
make me the discreet confidant of her pains and longings.
This last hypothesis woke the most violent and mortal jealousy in my
breast, and showed me plainly the extent of my love for Madame de
Pënâfiel, as well as the ridiculous rôle I was expected to play if my
last supposition were true.
I was about to reply, when, by moving the folds of her dress, she
uncovered on the carpet at her feet a medallion, which had probably
fallen from the buhl cabinet, when, in order to hide the crucifix (and,
perhaps, the medallion as well), she had so suddenly closed its doors.
It was a man's portrait, but I could not see the features.
I had no longer the least doubt, all my other imaginings vanished before
this evident proof of Madame de Pënâfiel's duplicity; then, tortured
by jealousy and wild with anger and wounded pride, I arose, and said,
with perfect coolness:
"You are my friend, madame?"
"Oh, a very devoted and sincere one," she replied, with such a joyful
look of gratitude.
"Then I can speak freely to you?"
"Speak as you would to a sister," she said to me, as she held out her
hand, smiling, and pleased to find that at last we understood each
other.
I took her beautiful hand and kissed it; then I continued:
"As to a sister? Well, let it be so, for no doubt, in this amusing
comedy, you expect me to take the part of an honourable but stupid
brother, who bemoans with his sister her unrequited love."
She looked wildly at me; her hands fell again on her knees; she was
unable to utter a word. I continued:
"But we will not speak of that. I wish to tell you, as a friend, the
various convictions which, thanks to my knowledge of your frankness,
have passed through my mind since I saw you bowed at the foot of the
crucifix. As for that charming pantomime, I must say that you were in a
most artistic pose. Your eyes raised to heaven, your clasped hands, your
tears,--it was a beautiful piece of acting; so, as I had no faith in
your grief, but a great deal in your talent for mystification, I waited
to see the comedy acted out."
"A comedy!" said she, not seeming to understand my words.
"A mystification, madame, of which I should have been the ridiculous
object, had I been weak enough to offer to console you, or to make you
any sentimental speeches on the subject of melancholy, misanthropy, lost
illusions, and other strange nightmares that were supposed to be wearing
my life away."
"This is all very dreadful!" said she, as though stunned by a blow. "I
am horrified, and yet I do not understand--"
"Then I must speak more clearly, madame. The confession you wished me to
make was to serve as amusement for your friends, when you should tell it
in your charmingly malicious way,--like the way you told me about M. de
Cernay's offer of marriage."
"But what you are saying is horrible!" she cried, wringing her hands in
alarm. "Could you believe--?"
"Yes, I believed it at first, but after your confession of disgust for
the world, and a nameless sorrow, which I now can easily understand, I
recognised that the second rôle I was to play was even worse than this;
for, in the first rôle, I was to force a woman of your rank to play a
comedy to puzzle me, and it was so well performed, that I was quite
proud to serve in any capacity that would give you an opportunity of
exercising your rare talent for serious comedy."
"Monsieur," cried Madame de Pënâfiel, rising to her full height, "do
you understand that you are speaking to me?" But she suddenly changed
her haughty accent, and, clasping her hands, said: "It is enough to make
me insane. I beseech you, explain yourself. What is it that you mean?
Why should I wish to puzzle you? What rôle did I wish you to perform?
Ah, be merciful, and do not blight the only moment of confidence, the
only appeal for sympathy that I have given way to for so many long,
weary months. If you only knew."
"I know," said I, in the fiercest and most insulting way, as I
approached her, so that I might place my foot on the medallion, and
crush it,--"I know, madame, that if I were a woman, and a man should
scorn my love, I would rather die of shame and despair than to make the
first comer, who cared nothing about them, such humiliating confessions,
as weak and silly for the one who tells them as they are revolting and
wearisome to the one who is obliged to hear them."
"Monsieur, how dare you be so audacious? How dare you to suppose--?"
"This!" said I, pointing with a scornful look at the portrait at her
feet; then, pressing my boot on the medallion, I crushed the crystal.
"It is a sacrilege!" cried out Madame de Pënâfiel, quickly stooping to
seize the portrait, which she took in her two hands, and turned on me
her eyes that were blazing with indignation.
"It may be sacrilege, madame, but I treat your divinity as well as he
treats you." Then I bowed myself out.