SUSPICION
Fatal, fatal night! Why do I attempt to recall thee? The remembrance is
still so vivid. Such grief is never to be forgotten.
It was half-past nine when I reached the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, and I was
cross and sullen.
"How late you are!" said Marguerite, with a smile, as she approached me
in this friendly way; "but I am so eager to tell you my secret, my
project for the month of May, that I don't mean to waste any time in
scolding you. Sit down there near me, and be very quiet."
Pleased with this command which gave me an opportunity of hiding my
ill-humour, I kissed Marguerite's hand, saying, in a very serious voice
which she believed to be feigned:
"See how solemn I am, and how very attentively I am listening."
"What I am waiting for is to see how quickly your gravity and
attentiveness will vanish when you hear the unexpected news I am about
to tell you," said Madame de Pënâfiel, laughing. "No matter; don't
interrupt me. I wanted to go this morning to see Mlle. Lenormand, not
only about my birthday, but because I was curious to know if that
wonderful mind-reader would be able to foretell the greatest happiness
of my life, that I have ever dreamed of, was about to be realised. This
is my dream: the first of May I quit Paris."
"You are going away!"
"Be silent," said Marguerite, putting her pretty finger on her lips;
"see how excited you are already; what will it be by and by? I shall
begin again: I am going away the first of May, taking no one with me but
a confidential man servant, and my old _femme de chambre_, Mlle. de
Vandeuil. The apparent object of my journey is a visit of some months to
one of my country places in Lorraine that I have not seen for a long
time."
"I understand."
"You do not understand at all. When I get six leagues away from Paris I
halt; I leave my carriage with my maid's father, who is devotedly
attached to me, and I return to Paris. Guess where?"
"Truly, that is more than I can tell."
"To a modest and pretty little villa in a far distant quarter, and there
I am to install myself under the name of Madame Duval, a young widow,
who has come from Brittany to Paris to attend to a lawsuit. Well, what
did I tell you? You are even more astonished, more startled than I
expected," said Marguerite.
It was neither astonishment nor stupefaction that I felt, but something
very different. Whether it was the irritated state of mind that I was
in, or my natural distrust, I know not, but no sooner did I hear of this
plan of hers than I suddenly remembered one of the scandalous stories
that I heard about Madame de Pënâfiel, and the mysterious doings that
they said had taken place in some little villa that she possessed.
Marguerite had denied it, like so many other absurd falsehoods, which,
not being able to produce any evidence, were reduced to inventing a
thousand wonderful incidents. Lulled by the ideal happiness that I had
been tasting for the last two months, this brief season of felicity and
forgetfulness, I had put away from my mind all thoughts of the past.
While near this charming woman, I had blindly believed that which is so
convenient, so pleasant, and so wise to believe, that I was her only
love. I had blindly believed the noble explanations she had given me for
her conduct. I had even forgotten the cowardly and miserable suspicions
that had made me so cruelly unjust towards her. Why, then, did I
suddenly fall, on hearing of this project, into my former abominable
state of distrust? I know not why, alas! But doubt took possession of my
mind.
"As soon as I am settled in my little home," continued Marguerite, "I
will have a visit from my brother; this brother,--it is you, for you
must remain ostensibly in Paris, from time to time you must show
yourself at the Opéra, in society; then quickly leaving these brilliant
but tiresome scenes, you will come quietly here, every day, and spend
long hours with your well-beloved sister, all the time that you can
spare from your mundane apparitions. Well, Arthur, what have you to say
to this wild scheme, this folly? Will it not be charming? Oh, my friend,
if you only knew the childish joy I have promised myself in such an
existence, when so intimately shared by you, what happiness we will find
in this obscurity, this mystery, in our long walks, in our evenings,
spent far from an importunate and jealous world, in these long days
which will belong to us alone, and which we will fill with such varied
pleasures!
"For you must know, Arthur, that we are to have a salon, where we will
be able to paint, and make music, where you will find the books you care
for, and I, those that I like. The house is small but comfortable, the
garden is large and shady. Our household--don't sneer too much at these
minor details--our household will consist of my _femme de chambre_, and
another woman that she is to engage, and a man servant for you. I am
promising myself already the greatest satisfaction in being able to
prove that one can be perfectly happy, though living in the simplest
way, and to judge for myself how so many modest lives are spent in a
manner that we rich never even suspect; indeed, dear friend, I mean to
live there until you are weary of the solitude of such a life. And then,
though it seems childish, I think it will be very amusing to live alone
so near Paris. It will amuse me, if our happiness leaves me any time for
amusement.
"Besides, such a project as this can succeed nowhere except in Paris,
for if we were both to disappear at the same time, our secret would very
soon be discovered; by remaining in town you will put every one on the
wrong track. What will be best of all, will be to hear the comments on
my absence, the stories of every sort that will be told, and the proofs
of their veracity. _Mon Dieu!_ When I think of all that you are going to
hear I envy you. You see I have abused the right I claimed in not being
interrupted; it is so hard to be silent when the subject is a long
desired pleasure,--desired, yes, with all the strength of love and
hope," added Marguerite, with enthusiasm, as she held out her hand to
me.
I had scarcely heard what she said. Her projects, as I have said, had
awakened those horrid suspicions that for two months of supreme delight
were dormant in my breast. The profound and pious adoration of her
former husband, which I had taken as an explanation of Marguerite's way
of living, was nothing but a vulgar fable invented to deceive me. I
believed more obstinately than ever in the truth of all the stories I
had heard. I was enraged to think that, in a moment of sentimental
confidence, I should have forgotten all my wise maxims, and lost my
powers of penetration and sagacity. An overpowering resentment filled my
heart. Taking for granted that what Marguerite had just proposed to me
with so much affectionate graciousness had been proposed to others in
the same manner, and with the same pretended simplicity, and revolting
from such gratuitous falsehood, I saw that I would be playing a most
detestable rôle should I pretend to believe in this sudden desire for
love in a cottage, which I was supposed to have awakened in Marguerite's
heart. Gathering all my hatred and scorn into one ironical frown, I
replied:
"Your plan is certainly a very charming one, and your idea of a
mysterious retreat in the heart of Paris would be very original if it
were not a copy. For my part, there are certain circumstances that would
make such a plan seem very flat and uninviting."
"_Mon Dieu!_ How can you treat my proposal with such coldness?" said
Marguerite, noticing my changed appearance. "I longed so to please you,
I hoped you would share my pleasure, I was so happy, so intensely happy,
in this future of mysterious love."
"That delightful joy shows the perpetual youth of your feelings. Were it
not for this rejuvenating power of yours, you would, probably, be rather
weary of mysterious love by this time!"
"What do you mean to say?"
"I mean to say that it would not be the first time your beautiful and
secret retreat had witnessed such mysterious and passionate love scenes
as those in which I am expected to enact the hero's part."
"Truly, I do not understand you, Arthur,--ah, for Heaven's sake, explain
yourself! I know not why, but you seem to have turned me to ice."
"You wish for an explanation? So shall it be. To hear the answer to
well-known riddles is another one of your whims, but it is no more than
a fancy for trying each successive lover's devotion by a dose of
solitude. It is the last experiment, and, if successful, each man can be
classified according to his merit."
"Arthur, I told you I did not understand you, your cold, ironical look
distresses me, it recalls that dreadful day when-- Speak to me, tell me
what is on your mind, explain yourself. _Mon Dieu!_ What can I have done
to offend you so? Does this plan displease you? I give it up, then, let
us think no more about it; but in Heaven's name, tell me what is the
matter? What has changed you so suddenly? Yesterday, this very morning
even, you were so kind, so affectionate, your last letter was so full of
tenderness!"
"Yesterday, and even this morning, I was a blind fool; I am as great a
fool as ever, perhaps, but at least I have my eyes open."
"Your eyes open!" said Marguerite, stupidly.
"As to my last letter, you know as well as I, perhaps better, that
though it may be difficult to act a lie in speech and look and gesture,
nothing can be easier or commoner than to lie in studied phrases, and
with plenty of time at our disposal. Thus, when I wrote you that last
letter, so full of tender things, you say, I had just obtained the
promise of a rendezvous with Madame de V----."
"Arthur, Arthur! this is very cruel pleasantry. It may be amusing to
you, but you surely can not know how cruel it is to me."
"It does not amuse me at all, madame; and it is no pleasantry. I swear
it is not. On the contrary, I am speaking very seriously, as a friend,
so that you may no longer be deceived by my falseness, or I be your
dupe."
"Dupe? dupe of my falseness?"
"Yes."
"My falseness! my dupe! What strange language from you! And why should
you be my dupe? What does it mean? It is inexplicable. And why should
you say such things to me? _Mon Dieu!_"
"You know why I say such things better than I do. It is because I am not
the first one of your lovers to whom you have proposed this entertaining
suburban _pastorale_."
Marguerite clasped her hands and let them fall on her knees. She stared
at me with wide-open eyes, that were full of sorrow and amazement. But I
was quite determined to go on, though my heart was beating wildly, and
the souvenir of my last meeting with Hélène flashed through my mind
like a scorching tongue of flame.
"You see, my dear friend, amid the distractions of society, one can find
time to play the lover, and have the good sense to ignore all former
occupants in the beloved one's affections; for why should we worry about
the past? Does it belong to us? We have the future, and the devil knows
what it has in reserve for us.
"As for filling in any reputable way the part of the 'lover without
ancestry,' in that mystery play of yours, with you and your femme de
chambre as spectators, performing as others have done this rôle of
lover in your play, 'Love in a Cottage,' one must be a better comedian
than I am. Really, my dear Marguerite, I fear I should not act as well
as my predecessors, and I wish to retain the good opinion you have
always had of me."
"Ah, good God, am I dreaming? It is a frightful dream, and it has made
me ill," said she, placing her trembling hands on her head.
My heart was beating as though it would break. I was partly conscious of
the terrible distress I was causing this sweet woman, as with crushing
irony and coarse insolence I destroyed the beautiful picture her love
had painted. I shuddered to think of how she must suffer, if this really
was her first affection since her husband's death. But my furious
distrust worked itself to a higher and higher pitch, at the remembrance
of all the odious stories I had heard told of Marguerite, and by my fear
of being cheated, being taken for a dupe; so I stifled these gleams of
reason, and found no words too strong to express my scorn of what I
called the outrageous duplicity of this woman.
She soon was completely overcome, and fell to weeping bitterly.
She showed no signs of indignation at my words! She could tolerate such
insults! Truth would not have been so patient; only falsehood is
cowardly. She had given herself to me; why not to others? These were the
only thoughts that her silent and tearful grief awoke in me.
She wept in silence for a long time.
I said no word of consolation. I stood there staring at her with my
frowning look of anger towards her and irritation towards myself.
Suddenly Marguerite raised up her pale face, looked around as if dazed,
rose up, and took two or three steps forward, saying:
"No, no, 'tis not a dream; 'tis reality. It must be." Then, as though
her strength had all gone from her limbs, she sank on an armchair.
Wiping her eyes, she said to me, in a steady voice: "Pardon me this
weakness. It is the first time since I told you all that you have ever
treated me in such a manner. I believe, though, that you are not so
cruel as you seem. It is impossible that you should cause me such
suffering, unless you have a very good reason to believe in my
treachery. No, that were impossible! So I shall not be angry with you.
You have been deceived. You have heard some slanderous story, and you
have believed it. Ah, well, dear friend, neither you nor I will throw
away our future chances of happiness on some such miserable falsehood.
You will therefore confide in me, and tell me what has caused this
distrust, of what I am suspected, and what proofs you believe you have
of my falseness. You will tell me what is this accusation, and with a
single word I will destroy it. Do you hear me? With a single word, for
the language of truth is irresistible. Again I tell you, Arthur, I am
not angry with you. To treat a woman as you have treated me, when
radiant with hope and love she came to offer you-- No, no, we will say
no more of that. But to treat a woman with such scorn and severity, you
should have some serious proof of her treachery. Say then, tell me, tell
me, I beg of you, what have I done?"
This calm and noble language only irritated me the more, as it made me
ashamed of my conduct. Could I dare to tell her that it was only my
miserable, incurable spirit of doubt, only the vague recollection of a
slanderous story, only the spite I felt at not succeeding as soon as I
hoped with Madame de V----, that had provoked my brutal and insolent
words? Thus I was too proud to admit that I had acted like a crazy man,
and continued to be cruel and unjust,--or, rather, fiendishly spiteful.
"Madame," said I, in a lofty way, "I am not called on to explain my
convictions; they are quite sufficient for me, and I shall stick to
them."
"But they are not sufficient for me! Some one has told you lies about
me, and I wish to justify myself!"
"No one has told any lies. I believe what I have to believe."
"He believes! Great God, he believes! You are not ashamed to believe
that I have ever spoken to another as I have to you? And you dare to
believe that I am so vile, so cowardly, so base, as to spend my whole
life in a continual series of falsehoods, that infamy has become a
matter of habit?"
"There is neither infamy nor cowardice, neither baseness nor falsehood;
you have made a great many men happy, none can know how happy better
than I. You have related to me a lovely story of conjugal fidelity,
which even survived the dear departed one, exactly like the widows in
Malabar.
"This souvenir of the dear absent one, who was adored, fêted, caressed,
as though he were still living, was a rather free translation of your
life which was so amorously spent. It was a very clever plan you laid to
entrap me into the belief that I was the only one. I replied to your
wiles by a trick of my own, which was simply to pretend that I was your
fool, and did not see through your schemes; besides, I was supposed to
be the first to triumph over the poor dear marquis,--not a very
flattering contest,--with a dead man--"
"How dare you!" cried out Marguerite, interrupting me, and standing
erect, majestic, almost menacing, her eyes flashing, and her cheeks
blazing with indignation. Then leaning suddenly on a console, she said,
in a low voice, as though crushed by remorse: "I have deserved this, I
have deserved it all. Suffer, miserable woman; who will ever pity you
now?"
In the midst of the tumultuous waves of hate and anger that were surging
in my breast, I was seized with the deepest sense of pity and terror;
perhaps I should then have returned to my senses and listened to the
voice of reason, when Marguerite, having wiped away her tears, said, in
a solemn voice: "For the last time, monsieur, do you believe in a single
one of the scandalous stories you have heard about me? Take time to
answer, for your answer will decide my destiny and your own!"
This threatening tone drove me perfectly wild. I became almost
crazy,--the puppet of an insane fury.
Going close up to Marguerite, I said, as I held her by the waist:
"Positively, dearest, indignation is as becoming to you as one of Madame
Baudrand's bonnets; you never looked so beautiful. Come, my angel, my
feminine Don Juan, let us deceive yesterday's lovers and those of
to-morrow, let us commit one more infidelity in honour of the poor dear
marquis--"
At first she looked at me with amazement, then, with a heartrending cry,
she repulsed me violently, and disappeared in her bedroom, locking the
door after her.
I came home like a drunken man.
I had only a confused recollection of what had taken place.
That night I was taken ill with a violent attack of fever. I was
delirious all night long. The next day my valet handed me a sealed
package.
It contained the letters I had written to Marguerite.
"Who brought this?" I said to him.
"Mlle. Vandeuil, monsieur, at two o'clock this morning."
"And Madame de Pënâfiel?"
"Madame la marquise started off last night in her carriage. Her people
do not know her destination."