CONTRADICTIONS
After this interview, my anger and jealousy were for some hours so
furious that the only thing I regretted was not to have been even more
cruel and insolent to Madame de Pënâfiel.
By the violence of these transports of rage, I recognised the extent of
my love for her,--a love whose depths I had not before sounded.
This medallion that I had discovered was to my eyes sufficient proof of
the truth of my last suspicions, and if they were true, why should not
those other stories be true, that had distressed me so at first? Now I
no longer believed that she had wished to force me into confiding in her
so that she might mock at me afterwards. I thought that another refused
to requite the love that I would have given my life to obtain.
Then the calm of reason succeeded to the tumultuous excitement of
passion; I could think calmly of my real position towards Madame de
Pënâfiel. I had never alluded in any way to the great affection I bore
her; why, then, should I be astonished at her confession, and the secret
I thought I had discovered? How could I have treated her so? A woman,
suffering perhaps from an unreturned affection, an incurable love, who
was ignorant of my feelings towards her, and, relying on my generosity,
came to me, if not for consolation, at least for my sympathy and pity.
But my watchful jealousy and my anger were not to be quieted by these
wise reflections. Who was that man whose portrait I had meant to crush?
I had been in constant attendance on Madame de Pënâfiel for a long
time, and I had seen no one that I could suppose to be the object of
this unrequited passion that I suspected.
Her grief and her regrets, therefore, had existed for a long time. I
understood now many singularities that were never clearly seen before,
and that were so variously interpreted by the world, her sudden
silences, her ennui, her disdain, her wild outbursts of enthusiasm which
some souvenir would evoke, and which, as often as not, ended in fits of
regret or despair. There was some object in her coquetry and her
constant desire to please, but when could this mysterious personage
enjoy the sight of all these charms? I sought the answer to this enigma
in vain, though I remembered the reticence of her last conversation, and
her embarrassment when, no doubt, she was on the point of telling me her
secret sorrow.
But who could be the object of this fervent and unfortunate passion? Of
this love that had caused her for the last few weeks a more profound
grief than ever before?
Loving Marguerite as I loved her, ought I to attempt to offer her the
tenderest of consolations? Might I hope to supplant in her heart this
painful souvenir? Would I succeed if I made the attempt, should I dare
to try? Tortured by regret and despair, this unhappy woman, who was so
noble and refined, had become so susceptible through suffering, and so
shy, that, for fear of wounding her sensitive nature, I could not,
without the greatest tact, speak to her of a happier future.
And yet, in asking me to bewail her sufferings, had she not with rare
delicacy and tact understood that certain great misfortunes invest one
with such dignity, such majestic sorrow, that the most devoted, the most
loving are compelled to be silent, and to wait until the victim of this
royal grief speaks first, as other princes are obliged to do, and says,
"Come to me, for my misfortune is great."
What hope could I now have, even supposing Madame de Pënâfiel to have
given way to a secret liking for me when she addressed me with such
confidence? My language to her had been so brutal, so strange, that it
was impossible for me to imagine what the consequences might be.
Sometimes the very excess of my insolence reassured me. My answers had
been so insulting, so violent, such a contrast to my former behaviour
towards her, not to seem incomprehensible. Knowing her own merit,
surrounded by every attention, and constantly flattered, she must have
been more astounded than angered by my words, and she is probably still
at a loss to discover the key to my conduct.
I am not sure whether this thought was inspired by hope or despair. But
though I felt thoroughly ashamed of my impertinence, I ended by
persuading myself that the outrageousness of my conduct, far from
injuring my prospects, might be of great service to me, and, had I
planned it all, I could not have managed it better.
In every love affair, the main thing, I think, is to excite and fill the
imagination. To attain this end there is nothing more successful than a
contrast. Therefore, it is above all things necessary that the
impression you are to make should be essentially different from all
those hitherto received, though at some later day, by your devotion and
love, you may have to obliterate any bad impression you have made in the
beginning.
If a woman has ordinarily but few friends, and is unused to flattery,
there is no better way of captivating her mind, and afterwards her
heart, than by the most extreme carefulness of her comfort, by the most
delicate attentions; her vanity rejoices in these thousand respectful
and tender proofs of solicitude, to which she had never been accustomed.
It is in this manner we can explain the frequent and wonderful success
of men who are no longer young, but who have great refinement and
persistence. Such men can completely subjugate young girls, and even
young married women.
On the other hand, does a woman fill a high position? is she continually
and basely flattered? Then severity and haughtiness often have a
powerful effect on her. Some women have to be treated as clever
courtiers treat princes, with a certain amount of firmness, even
brusqueness. If the rude outspoken language does not please them at
first, it surprises, astonishes, and often subjugates them; for it is
such a contrast to the commonplace and stupid things they hear every
day, from every class of men, that it is frequently far from injuring
the man who dares to make use of it. Applying these thoughts to my
position, I said to myself: "The hardness and disdain with which I
received Madame de Pënâfiel's confidences, my anger at the sight of
the portrait she attempted to hide, can easily be attributed to the
violence of my love, which she has, no doubt, guessed by this time; now,
rages caused by love are always excusable, especially in the eyes of the
woman who is loved, and as Marguerite is high-minded and generous, she
will understand how miserable I was when I believed her about to
entertain me with a tale of her unrequited affection."
Sometimes, arguing in another way, I thought I might be mistaken, and
that, after all, Madame de Pënâfiel was not in love with any one else.
Then my old suspicions returned, and I wondered why I should ever have
dismissed them. This portrait was only one of the accessories of the
comedy I accused her of acting. Then, as I had but a poor and mean
opinion of myself, which was not improved by the realisation of my
latest conduct, it was, I believed, impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel
should have any sympathy for me, so I tried to explain her apparent
confidence by assigning her the meanest motives.
This aroused my anger more than ever, and I applauded my insolence.
In the midst of this uncertainty and anxiety this restless and agonising
fever, I received the following note from Madame de Pënâfiel:
"I am waiting for you. Come--you must--come immediately.
M."
It was nine o'clock, I started off instantly almost wild with joy. She
had sent for me. I might still hope.