D’Arthez allowed love to enter his heart after the manner of my Uncle
Toby, without making the slightest resistance; he proceeded by adoration
without criticism, and by exclusive admiration. The princess, that noble
creature, one of the most remarkable creations of our monstrous Paris,
where all things are possible, good as well as evil, became--whatever
vulgarity the course of time may have given to the expression--the angel
of his dreams. To fully understand the sudden transformation of this
illustrious author, it is necessary to realize the simplicity that
constant work and solitude leave in the heart; all that love--reduced
to a mere need, and now repugnant, beside an ignoble woman--excites of
regret and longings for diviner sentiments in the higher regions of the
soul. D’Arthez was, indeed, the child, the boy that Madame de Cadignan
had recognized. An illumination something like his own had taken place
in the beautiful Diane. At last she had met that superior man whom all
women desire and seek, if only to make a plaything of him,--that power
which they consent to obey, if only for the pleasure of subduing it;
at last she had found the grandeurs of the intellect united with
the simplicity of a heart all new to love; and she saw, with untold
happiness, that these merits were contained in a form that pleased her.
She thought d’Arthez handsome, and perhaps he was. Though he had reached
the age of gravity (for he was now thirty-eight), he still preserved
a flower of youth, due to the sober and ascetic life which he had led.
Like all men of sedentary habits, and statesmen, he had acquired
a certainly reasonable embonpoint. When very young, he bore some
resemblance to Bonaparte; and the likeness still continued, as much as a
man with black eyes and thick, dark hair could resemble a sovereign
with blue eyes and scanty, chestnut hair. But whatever there once was of
ardent and noble ambition in the great author’s eyes had been somewhat
quenched by successes. The thoughts with which that brow once teemed had
flowered; the lines of the hollow face were filling out. Ease now spread
its golden tints where, in youth, poverty had laid the yellow tones
of the class of temperament whose forces band together to support a
crushing and long-continued struggle. If you observe carefully the noble
faces of ancient philosophers, you will always find those deviations
from the type of a perfect human face which show the characteristic to
which each countenance owes its originality, chastened by the habit of
meditation, and by the calmness necessary for intellectual labor. The
most irregular features, like those of Socrates, for instance, become,
after a time, expressive of an almost divine serenity.
To the noble simplicity which characterized his head, d’Arthez added a
naive expression, the naturalness of a child, and a touching kindliness.
He did not have that politeness tinged with insincerity with which, in
society, the best-bred persons and the most amiable assume qualities in
which they are often lacking, leaving those they have thus duped wounded
and distressed. He might, indeed, fail to observe certain rules of
social life, owing to his isolated mode of living; but he never shocked
the sensibilities, and therefore this perfume of savagery made the
peculiar affability of a man of great talent the more agreeable; such
men know how to leave their superiority in their studies, and come
down to the social level, lending their backs, like Henry IV., to the
children’s leap-frog, and their minds to fools.
If d’Arthez did not brace himself against the spell which the princess
had cast about him, neither did she herself argue the matter in her own
mind, on returning home. It was settled for her. She loved with all her
knowledge and all her ignorance. If she questioned herself at all, it
was to ask whether she deserved so great a happiness, and what she had
done that Heaven should send her such an angel. She wanted to be worthy
of that love, to perpetuate it, to make it her own forever, and to
gently end her career of frivolity in the paradise she now foresaw. As
for coquetting, quibbling, resisting, she never once thought of it. She
was thinking of something very different!--of the grandeur of men of
genius, and the certainty which her heart divined that they would never
subject the woman they chose to ordinary laws.
Here begins one of those unseen comedies, played in the secret regions
of the consciousness between two beings of whom one will be the dupe of
the other, though it keeps on this side of wickedness; one of those
dark and comic dramas to which that of _Tartuffe_ is mere child’s
play,--dramas that do not enter the scenic domain, although they are
natural, conceivable, and even justifiable by necessity; dramas which
may be characterized as not vice, only the other side of it.
The princess began by sending for d’Arthez’s books, of which she had
never, as yet, read a single word, although she had managed to maintain
a twenty minutes’ eulogism and discussion of them without a blunder. She
now read them all. Then she wanted to compare these books with the best
that contemporary literature had produced. By the time d’Arthez came to
see her she was having an indigestion of mind. Expecting this visit, she
had daily made a toilet of what may be called the superior order; that
is, a toilet which expresses an idea, and makes it accepted by the eye
without the owner of the eye knowing why or wherefore. She presented an
harmonious combination of shades of gray, a sort of semi-mourning, full
of graceful renunciation,--the garments of a woman who holds to life
only through a few natural ties,--her child, for instance,--but who is
weary of life. Those garments bore witness to an elegant disgust, not
reaching, however, as far as suicide; no, she would live out her days in
these earthly galleys.
She received d’Arthez as a woman who expected him, and as if he had
already been to see her a hundred times; she did him the honor to treat
him like an old acquaintance, and she put him at his ease by pointing
to a seat on a sofa, while she finished a note she was then writing. The
conversation began in a commonplace manner: the weather, the ministry,
de Marsay’s illness, the hopes of the legitimists. D’Arthez was an
absolutist; the princess could not be ignorant of the opinions of a
man who sat in the Chamber among the fifteen or twenty persons who
represented the legitimist party; she found means to tell him how she
had fooled de Marsay to the top of his bent, then, by an easy transition
to the royal family and to “Madame,” and the devotion of the Prince
de Cadignan to their service, she drew d’Arthez’s attention to the
prince:--
“There is this to be said for him: he loved his masters, and was
faithful to them. His public character consoles me for the sufferings
his private life has inflicted upon me--Have you never remarked,” she
went on, cleverly leaving the prince aside, “you who observe so much,
that men have two natures: one of their homes, their wives, their
private lives,--this is their true self; here no mask, no dissimulation;
they do not give themselves the trouble to disguise a feeling; they are
what they ARE, and it is often horrible! The other man is for others,
for the world, for salons; the court, the sovereign, the public often
see them grand, and noble, and generous, embroidered with virtues,
adorned with fine language, full of admirable qualities. What a horrible
jest it is!--and the world is surprised, sometimes, at the caustic smile
of certain women, at their air of superiority to their husbands, and
their indifference--”
She let her hand fall along the arm of her chair, without ending her
sentence, but the gesture admirably completed the speech. She saw
d’Arthez watching her flexible figure, gracefully bending in the depths
of her easy-chair, noting the folds of her gown, and the pretty little
ruffle which sported on her breast,--one of those audacities of the
toilet that are suited only to slender waists,--and she resumed the
thread of her thoughts as if she were speaking to herself:--
“But I will say no more. You writers have ended by making ridiculous
all women who think they are misunderstood, or ill-mated, and who try to
make themselves dramatically interesting,--attempts which seem to me, I
must say, intolerably vulgar. There are but two things for women in that
plight to do,--yield, and all is over; resist, and amuse themselves; in
either case they should keep silence. It is true that I neither yielded
wholly, nor resisted wholly; but, perhaps, that was only the more reason
why I should be silent. What folly for women to complain! If they
have not proved the stronger, they have failed in sense, in tact, in
capacity, and they deserve their fate. Are they not queens in France?
They can play with you as they like, when they like, and as much as they
like.” Here she danced her vinaigrette with an airy movement of feminine
impertinence and mocking gayety. “I have often heard miserable little
specimens of my sex regretting that they were women, wishing they were
men; I have always regarded them with pity. If I had to choose, I should
still elect to be a woman. A fine pleasure, indeed, to owe one’s triumph
to force, and to all those powers which you give yourselves by the
laws you make! But to see you at our feet, saying and doing foolish
things,--ah! it is an intoxicating pleasure to feel within our souls
that weakness triumphs! But when we triumph, we ought to keep silence,
under pain of losing our empire. Beaten, a woman’s pride should gag her.
The slave’s silence alarms the master.”
This chatter was uttered in a voice so softly sarcastic, so dainty, and
with such coquettish motions of the head, that d’Arthez, to whom this
style of woman was totally unknown, sat before her exactly like a
partridge charmed by a setter.
“I entreat you, madame,” he said, at last, “to tell me how it was
possible that a man could make you suffer? Be assured that where, as you
say, other women are common and vulgar, you can only seem distinguished;
your manner of saying things would make a cook-book interesting.”
“You go fast in friendship,” she said, in a grave voice which made
d’Arthez extremely uneasy.
The conversation changed; the hour was late, and the poor man of genius
went away contrite for having seemed curious, and for wounding the
sensitive heart of that rare woman who had so strangely suffered. As
for her, she had passed her life in amusing herself with men, and was
another Don Juan in female attire, with this difference: she would
certainly not have invited the Commander to supper, and would have got
the better of any statue.
It is impossible to continue this tale without saying a word about
the Prince de Cadignan, better known under the name of the Duc de
Maufrigneuse, otherwise the spice of the princess’s confidences would
be lost, and strangers would not understand the Parisian comedy she was
about to play for her man of genius.
The Duc de Maufrigneuse, like a true son of the old Prince de Cadignan,
is a tall, lean man, of elegant shape, very graceful, a sayer of witty
things, colonel by the grace of God, and a good soldier by accident;
brave as a Pole, which means without sense or discernment, and hiding
the emptiness of his mind under the jargon of good society. After the
age of thirty-six he was forced to be as absolutely indifferent to
the fair sex as his master Charles X., punished, like that master, for
having pleased it too well. For eighteen years the idol of the faubourg
Saint-Germain, he had, like other heirs of great families led a
dissipated life, spent solely on pleasure. His father, ruined by the
revolution, had somewhat recovered his position on the return of the
Bourbons, as governor of a royal domain, with salary and perquisites;
but this uncertain fortune the old prince spent, as it came, in keeping
up the traditions of a great seigneur before the revolution; so that
when the law of indemnity was passed, the sums he received were all
swallowed up in the luxury he displayed in his vast hotel.
The old prince died some little time before the revolution of July aged
eighty-seven. He had ruined his wife, and had long been on bad terms
with the Duc de Navarreins, who had married his daughter for a first
wife, and to whom he very reluctantly rendered his accounts. The Duc
de Maufrigneuse, early in life, had had relations with the Duchesse
d’Uxelles. About the year 1814, when Monsieur de Maufrigneuse was
forty-six years of age, the duchess, pitying his poverty, and seeing
that he stood very well at court, gave him her daughter Diane, then in
her seventeenth year, and possessing, in her own right, some fifty or
sixty thousand francs a year, not counting her future expectations.
Mademoiselle d’Uxelles thus became a duchess, and, as her mother very
well knew, she enjoyed the utmost liberty. The duke, after obtaining
the unexpected happiness of an heir, left his wife entirely to her
own devices, and went off to amuse himself in the various garrisons of
France, returning occasionally to Paris, where he made debts which his
father paid. He professed the most entire conjugal indulgence, always
giving the duchess a week’s warning of his return; he was adored by
his regiment, beloved by the Dauphin, an adroit courtier, somewhat of
a gambler, and totally devoid of affectation. Having succeeded to his
father’s office as governor of one of the royal domains, he managed to
please the two kings, Louis XVIII. and Charles X., which proves he made
the most of his nonentity; and even the liberals liked him; but his
conduct and life were covered with the finest varnish; language, noble
manners, and deportment were brought by him to a state of perfection.
But, as the old prince said, it was impossible for him to continue the
traditions of the Cadignans, who were all well known to have ruined
their wives, for the duchess was running through her property on her own
account.
These particulars were so well understood in the court circles and
in the faubourg Saint-Germain, that during the last five years of
the Restoration they were considered ancient history, and any one who
mentioned them would have been laughed at. Women never spoke of the
charming duke without praising him; he was excellent, they said, to his
wife; could a man be better? He had left her the entire disposal of her
own property, and had always defended her on every occasion. It is
true that, whether from pride, kindliness, or chivalry, Monsieur de
Maufrigneuse had saved the duchess under various circumstances which
might have ruined other women, in spite of Diane’s surroundings, and
the influence of her mother and that of the Duc de Navarreins, her
father-in-law, and her husband’s aunt.
For several ensuing days the princess revealed herself to d’Arthez as
remarkable for her knowledge of literature. She discussed with perfect
fearlessness the most difficult questions, thanks to her daily and
nightly reading, pursued with an intrepidity worthy of the highest
praise. D’Arthez, amazed, and incapable of suspecting that Diane
d’Uxelles merely repeated at night that which she read in the morning
(as some writers do), regarded her as a most superior woman. These
conversations, however, led away from Diane’s object, and she tried to
get back to the region of confidences from which d’Arthez had prudently
retired after her coquettish rebuff; but it was not as easy as she
expected to bring back a man of his nature who had once been startled
away.
However, after a month of literary campaigning and the finest platonic
discourses, d’Arthez grew bolder, and arrived every day at three
o’clock. He retired at six, and returned at nine, to remain until
midnight, or one in the morning, with the regularity of an ardent and
impatient lover. The princess was always dressed with more or less
studied elegance at the hour when d’Arthez presented himself. This
mutual fidelity, the care they each took of their appearance, in fact,
all about them expressed sentiments that neither dared avow, for the
princess discerned very plainly that the great child with whom she had
to do shrank from the combat as much as she desired it. Nevertheless
d’Arthez put into his mute declarations a respectful awe which was
infinitely pleasing to her. Both felt, every day, all the more united
because nothing acknowledged or definite checked the course of their
ideas, as occurs between lovers when there are formal demands on one
side, and sincere or coquettish refusals on the other.
Like all men younger than their actual age, d’Arthez was a prey to those
agitating irresolutions which are caused by the force of desires and
the terror of displeasing,--a situation which a young woman does not
comprehend when she shares it, but which the princess had too often
deliberately produced not to enjoy its pleasures. In fact, Diane enjoyed
these delightful juvenilities all the more keenly because she knew that
she could put an end to them at any moment. She was like a great artist
delighting in the vague, undecided lines of his sketch, knowing well
that in a moment of inspiration he can complete the masterpiece still
waiting to come to birth. Many a time, seeing d’Arthez on the point
of advancing, she enjoyed stopping him short, with an imposing air and
manner. She drove back the hidden storms of that still young heart,
raised them again, and stilled them with a look, holding out her hand
to be kissed, or saying some trifling insignificant words in a tender
voice.
These manoeuvres, planned in cold blood, but enchantingly executed,
carved her image deeper and deeper on the soul of that great writer and
thinker whom she revelled in making childlike, confiding, simple, and
almost silly beside her. And yet she had moments of repulsion against
her own act, moments in which she could not help admiring the grandeur
of such simplicity. This game of choicest coquetry attached her,
insensibly, to her slave. At last, however, Diane grew impatient with
an Epictetus of love; and when she thought she had trained him to the
utmost credulity, she set to work to tie a thicker bandage still over
his eyes.