(Letter discovered one day in a casket, while she was making me wait a
long time and trying to get rid of a hanger-on who could not be made to
understand hidden meanings. I caught cold—but I got hold of this
letter.)
This fatuous note was found on a paper which the notary’s clerks had
thought of no importance in the inventory of the estate of M. Ferdinand
de Bourgarel, who was mourned of late by politics, arts and amours, and
in whom is ended the great Provencal house of Borgarelli; for as is
generally known the name Bourgarel is a corruption of Borgarelli just
as the French Girardin is the Florentine Gherardini.
An intelligent reader will find little difficulty in placing this
letter in its proper epoch in the lives of Adolphe and Caroline.
“My dear Friend:
“I thought myself lucky indeed to marry an artist as superior in his
talent as in his personal attributes, equally great in soul and mind,
worldly-wise, and likely to rise by following the public road without
being obliged to wander along crooked, doubtful by-paths. However, you
knew Adolphe; you appreciated his worth. I am loved, he is a father, I
idolize our children. Adolphe is kindness itself to me; I admire and
love him. But, my dear, in this complete happiness lurks a thorn. The
roses upon which I recline have more than one fold. In the heart of a
woman, folds speedily turn to wounds. These wounds soon bleed, the evil
spreads, we suffer, the suffering awakens thoughts, the thoughts swell
and change the course of sentiment.
“Ah, my dear, you shall know all about it, though it is a cruel thing
to say—but we live as much by vanity as by love. To live by love alone,
one must dwell somewhere else than in Paris. What difference would it
make to us whether we had only one white percale gown, if the man we
love did not see other women dressed differently, more elegantly than
we—women who inspire ideas by their ways, by a multitude of little
things which really go to make up great passions? Vanity, my dear, is
cousin-german to jealousy, to that beautiful and noble jealousy which
consists in not allowing one’s empire to be invaded, in reigning
undisturbed in a soul, and passing one’s life happily in a heart.
“Ah, well, my woman’s vanity is on the rack. Though some troubles may
seem petty indeed, I have learned, unfortunately, that in the home
there are no petty troubles. For everything there is magnified by
incessant contact with sensations, with desires, with ideas. Such then
is the secret of that sadness which you have surprised in me and which
I did not care to explain. It is one of those things in which words go
too far, and where writing holds at least the thought within bounds by
establishing it. The effects of a moral perspective differ so radically
between what is said and what is written! All is so solemn, so serious
on paper! One cannot commit any more imprudences. Is it not this fact
which makes a treasure out of a letter where one gives one’s self over
to one’s thoughts?
“You doubtless thought me wretched, but I am only wounded. You
discovered me sitting alone by the fire, and no Adolphe. I had just
finished putting the children to bed; they were asleep. Adolphe for the
tenth time had been invited out to a house where I do not go, where
they want Adolphe without his wife. There are drawing-rooms where he
goes without me, just at there are many pleasures in which he alone is
the guest. If he were M. de Navarreins and I a d’Espard, society would
never think of separating us; it would want us always together. His
habits are formed; he does not suspect the humiliation which weighs
upon my heart. Indeed, if he had the slightest inkling of this small
sorrow which I am ashamed to own, he would drop society, he would
become more of a prig than the people who come between us. But he would
hamper his progress, he would make enemies, he would raise up obstacles
by imposing me upon the salons where I would be subject to a thousand
slights. That is why I prefer my sufferings to what would happen were
they discovered.
“Adolphe will succeed! He carries my revenge in his beautiful head,
does this man of genius. One day the world shall pay for all these
slights. But when? Perhaps I shall be forty-five. My beautiful youth
will have passed in my chimney-corner, and with this thought: Adolphe
smiles, he is enjoying the society of fair women, he is playing the
devoted to them, while none of these attentions come my way.
“It may be that these will finally take him from me!
“No one undergoes slight without feeling it, and I feel that I am
slighted, though young, beautiful and virtuous. Now, can I keep from
thinking this way? Can I control my anger at the thought that Adolphe
is dining in the city without me? I take no part in his triumphs; I do
not hear the witty or profound remarks made to others! I could no
longer be content with bourgeois receptions whence he rescued me, upon
finding me _distinguee_, wealthy, young, beautiful and witty. There
lies the evil, and it is irremediable.
“In a word, for some cause, it is only since I cannot go to a certain
salon that I want to go there. Nothing is more natural of the ways of a
human heart. The ancients were wise in having their _gyneceums_. The
collisions between the pride of the women, caused by these gatherings,
though it dates back only four centuries, has cost our own day much
disaffection and numerous bitter debates.
“Be that as it may, my dear, Adolphe is always warmly welcomed when he
comes back home. Still, no nature is strong enough to await always with
the same ardor. What a morrow that will be, following the evening when
his welcome is less warm!
“Now do you see the depth of the fold which I mentioned? A fold in the
heart is an abyss, like a crevasse in the Alps—a profundity whose depth
and extent we have never been able to calculate. Thus it is between two
beings, no matter how near they may be drawn to each other. One never
realizes the weight of suffering which oppresses his friend. This seems
such a little thing, yet one’s life is affected by it in all its
length, in all its breadth. I have thus argued with myself; but the
more I have argued, the more thoroughly have I realized the extent of
this hidden sorrow. And I can only let the current carry me whither it
will.
“Two voices struggle for supremacy when—by a rarely fortunate chance —I
am alone in my armchair waiting for Adolphe. One, I would wager, comes
from Eugene Delacroix’s _Faust_ which I have on my table.
Mephistopheles speaks, that terrible aide who guides the swords so
dexterously. He leaves the engraving, and places himself diabolically
before me, grinning through the hole which the great artist has placed
under his nose, and gazing at me with that eye whence fall rubies,
diamonds, carriages, jewels, laces, silks, and a thousand luxuries to
feed the burning desire within me.
“‘Are you not fit for society?’ he asks. ‘You are the equal of the
fairest duchesses. Your voice is like a siren’s, your hands command
respect and love. Ah! that arm!—place bracelets upon it, and how
pleasingly it would rest upon the velvet of a robe! Your locks are
chains which would fetter all men. And you could lay all your triumphs
at Adolphe’s feet, show him your power and never use it. Then he would
fear, where now he lives in insolent certainty. Come! To action! Inhale
a few mouthfuls of disdain and you will exhale clouds of incense. Dare
to reign! Are you not next to nothing here in your chimney-corner?
Sooner or later the pretty spouse, the beloved wife will die, if you
continue like this, in a dressing-gown. Come, and you shall perpetuate
your sway through the arts of coquetry! Show yourself in salons, and
your pretty foot shall trample down the love of your rivals.’
“The other voice comes from my white marble mantel, which rustles like
a garment. I think I see a veritable goddess crowned with white roses,
and bearing a palm-branch in her hand. Two blue eyes smile down on me.
This simple image of virtue says to me:
“‘Be content! Remain good always, and make this man happy. That is the
whole of your mission. The sweetness of angels triumphs over all pain.
Faith in themselves has enabled the martyrs to obtain solace even on
the brasiers of their tormentors. Suffer a moment; you shall be happy
in the end.’
“Sometimes Adolphe enters at that moment and I am content. But, my
dear, I have less patience than love. I almost wish to tear in pieces
the woman who can go everywhere, and whose society is sought out by men
and women alike. What profound thought lies in the line of Moliere:
“‘The world, dear Agnes, is a curious thing!’
“You know nothing of this petty trouble, you fortunate Mathilde! You
are well born. You can do a great deal for me. Just think! I can write
you things that I dared not speak about. Your visits mean so much; come
often to see your poor
“Caroline.”
“Well,” said I to the notary’s clerk, “do you know what was the nature
of this letter to the late Bourgarel?”
“No.”
“A note of exchange.”
Neither clerk nor notary understood my meaning. Do you?