It is with kisses as with confidences, the first leads to another. They
are multiplied, they interrupt conversation, they take its place; they
scarce leave time for a sigh to escape. Silence followed. We could hear
it, for silence may be heard. We rose without a word and began to walk
again.
“We must go in,” said she, “for the air of the river is icy, and it is
not worth while--”
“I think to go in would be more dangerous,” I answered.
“Perhaps so! Never mind, we will go in.”
“Why, is this out of consideration for me? You wish doubtless to save me
from the impressions which I may receive from such a walk as this--the
consequences which may result. Is it for me--for me only--?”
“You are modest,” she said smiling, “and you credit me with singular
consideration.”
“Do you think so? Well, since you take it in this way, we will go in; I
demand it.”
A stupid proposition, when made by two people who are forcing themselves
to say something utterly different from what they think.
Then she compelled me to take the path that led back to the chateau. I
do not know, at least I did not then know, whether this course was one
which she forced upon herself, whether it was the result of a vigorous
resolution, or whether she shared my disappointment in seeing an
incident which had begun so well thus suddenly brought to a close but
by a mutual instinct our steps slackened and we pursued our way gloomily
dissatisfied the one with the other and with ourselves. We knew not the
why and the wherefore of what we were doing. Neither of us had the right
to demand or even to ask anything. We had neither of us any ground for
uttering a reproach. O that we had got up a quarrel! But how could I
pick one with her? Meanwhile we drew nearer and nearer, thinking how we
might evade the duty which we had so awkwardly imposed upon ourselves.
We reached the door, when Madame de T-----said to me:
“I am angry with you! After the confidences I have given you, not to
give me a single one! You have not said a word about the countess.
And yet it is so delightful to speak of the one we love! I should have
listened with such interest! It was the very best I could do after I had
taken you away from her!”
“Cannot I reproach you with the same thing?” I said, interrupting her,
“and if instead of making me a witness to this singular reconciliation
in which I play so odd a part, you had spoken to me of the marquis--”
“Stop,” she said, “little as you know of women, you are aware that their
confidences must be waited for, not asked. But to return to yourself.
Are you very happy with my friend? Ah! I fear the contrary--”
“Why, madame, should everything that the public amuses itself by saying
claim our belief?”
“You need not dissemble. The countess makes less a mystery of things
than you do. Women of her stamp do not keep the secrets of their loves
and of their lovers, especially when you are prompted by discretion to
conceal her triumph. I am far from accusing her of coquetry; but a prude
has as much vanity as a coquette.--Come, tell me frankly, have you not
cause of complaint against her?”
“But, madame, the air is really too icy for us to stay here. Would you
like to go in?” said I with a smile.
“Do you find it so?--That is singular. The air is quite warm.”
She had taken my arm again, and we continued to walk, although I did not
know the direction which we took. All that she had hinted at concerning
the lover of the countess, concerning my mistress, together with this
journey, the incident which took place in the carriage, our conversation
on the grassy bank, the time of night, the moonlight--all made me feel
anxious. I was at the same time carried along by vanity, by desire, and
so distracted by thought, that I was too excited perhaps to take notice
of all that I was experiencing. And, while I was overwhelmed with these
mingled feelings, she continued talking to me of the countess, and my
silence confirmed the truth of all that she chose to say about her.
Nevertheless, certain passages in her talk recalled me to myself.
“What an exquisite creature she is!” she was saying. “How graceful! On
her lips the utterances of treachery sound like witticism; an act of
infidelity seems the prompting of reason, a sacrifice to propriety;
while she is never reckless, she is always lovable; she is seldom tender
and never sincere; amorous by nature, prudish on principle; sprightly,
prudent, dexterous though utterly thoughtless, varied as Proteus in her
moods, but charming as the Graces in her manner; she attracts but she
eludes. What a number of parts I have seen her play! _Entre nous_, what
a number of dupes hang round her! What fun she has made of the baron,
what a life she has led the marquis! When she took you, it was merely
for the purpose of throwing the two rivals off the scent; they were on
the point of a rupture; for she had played with them too long, and they
had had time to see through her. But she brought you on the scene. Their
attention was called to you, she led them to redouble their pursuit, she
was in despair over you, she pitied you, she consoled you--Ah! how happy
is a clever woman when in such a game as this she professes to stake
nothing of her own! But yet, is this true happiness?”
This last phrase, accompanied by a significant sigh, was a
master-stroke. I felt as if a bandage had fallen from my eyes, without
seeing who had put it there. My mistress appeared to me the falsest of
women, and I believed that I held now the only sensible creature in the
world. Then I sighed without knowing why. She seemed grieved at having
given me pain and at having in her excitement drawn a picture, the truth
of which might be open to suspicion, since it was the work of a woman.
I do not know how I answered; for without realizing the drift of all I
heard, I set out with her on the high road of sentiment, and we mounted
to such lofty heights of feeling that it was impossible to guess what
would be the end of our journey. It was fortunate that we also took the
path towards a pavilion which she pointed out to me at the end of the
terrace, a pavilion, the witness of many sweet moments. She described
to me the furnishing of it. What a pity that she had not the key! As she
spoke we reached the pavilion and found that it was open. The clearness
of the moonlight outside did not penetrate, but darkness has many
charms. We trembled as we went in. It was a sanctuary. Might it not be
the sanctuary of love? We drew near a sofa and sat down, and there we
remained a moment listening to our heart-beats. The last ray of the moon
carried away the last scruple. The hand which repelled me felt my heart
beat. She struggled to get away, but fell back overcome with tenderness.
We talked together through that silence in the language of thought.
Nothing is more rapturous than these mute conversations. Madame de
T----- took refuge in my arms, hid her head in my bosom, sighed and then
grew calm under my caresses. She grew melancholy, she was consoled,
and she asked of love all that love had robbed her of. The sound of the
river broke the silence of night with a gentle murmur, which seemed in
harmony with the beating of our hearts. Such was the darkness of the
place it was scarcely possible to discern objects; but through the
transparent crepe of a fair summer’s night, the queen of that lovely
place seemed to me adorable.
“Oh!” she said to me with an angelic voice, “let us leave this dangerous
spot. Resistance here is beyond our strength.”
She drew me away and we left the pavilion with regret.
“Ah! how happy is she!” cried Madame de T-----.
“Whom do you mean?” I asked.
“Did I speak?” said she with a look of alarm.
And then we reached the grassy bank, and stopped there involuntarily.
“What a distance there is,” she said to me, “between this place and the
pavilion!”
“Yes indeed,” said I. “But must this bank be always ominous? Is there a
regret? Is there--?”
I do not know by what magic it took place; but at this point the
conversation changed and became less serious. She ventured even to speak
playfully of the pleasures of love, to eliminate from them all moral
considerations, to reduce them to their simplest elements, and to
prove that the favors of lovers were mere pleasure, that there were no
pledges--philosophically speaking--excepting those which were given to
the world, when we allowed it to penetrate our secrets and joined it in
the acts of indiscretion.
“How mild is the night,” she said, “which we have by chance picked out!
Well, if there are reasons, as I suppose there are, which compel us to
part to-morrow, our happiness, ignored as it is by all nature, will not
leave us any ties to dissolve. There will, perhaps, be some regrets, the
pleasant memory of which will give us reparation; and then there will be
a mutual understanding, without all the delays, the fuss and the tyranny
of legal proceedings. We are such machines--and I blush to avow it--that
in place of all the shrinkings that tormented me before this scene took
place, I was half inclined to embrace the boldness of these principles,
and I felt already disposed to indulge in the love of liberty.
“This beautiful night,” she continued, “this lovely scenery at this
moment have taken on fresh charms. O let us never forget this pavilion!
The chateau,” she added smilingly, “contains a still more charming
place, but I dare not show you anything; you are like a child, who
wishes to touch everything and breaks everything that he touches.”
Moved by a sentiment of curiosity I protested that I was a very good
child. She changed the subject.
“This night,” she said, “would be for me without a regret if I were not
vexed with myself for what I said to you about the countess. Not that
I wish to find fault with you. Novelty attracts me. You have found me
amiable, I should like to believe in your good faith. But the dominion
of habit takes a long time to break through and I have not learned the
secret of doing this--By the bye, what do you think of my husband?”
“Well, he is rather cross, but I suppose he could not be otherwise to
me.”
“Oh, that is true, but his way of life isn’t pleasant, and he could
not see you here with indifference. He might be suspicious even of our
friendship.”
“Oh! he is so already.”
“Confess that he has cause. Therefore you must not prolong this visit;
he might take it amiss. As soon as any one arrives--” and she added with
a smile, “some one is going to arrive--you must go. You have to keep up
appearance, you know. Remember his manner when he left us to-night.”
I was tempted to interpret this adventure as a trap, but as she noticed
the impression made by her words, she added:
“Oh, he was very much gayer when he was superintending the arrangement
of the cabinet I told you about. That was before my marriage. This
passage leads to my apartment. Alas! it testifies to the cunning
artifices to which Monsieur de T----- has resorted in protecting his
love for me.”
“How pleasant it would be,” I said to her, keenly excited by the
curiosity she had roused in me, “to take vengeance in this spot for the
insults which your charms have suffered, and to seek to make restitution
for the pleasures of which you have been robbed.”
She doubtless thought this remark in good taste, but she said: “You
promised to be good!”
* * * * *
I threw a veil over the follies which every age will pardon to youth,
on the ground of so many balked desires and bitter memories. In the
morning, scarcely raising her liquid eyes, Madame de T-----, fairer than
ever, said to me:
“Now will you ever love the countess as much as you do me?”