XII.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,

Grenoble, (Isère).

PARIS, June 2d--Midnight.

Oh! How indignant I am! How angry and mortified are my feelings! Good

Heavens! how his shameful conduct makes me hate and despise him!... I

will try to be calm--to collect my scattered thoughts and give you a

clear account of what has just occurred--tell you how all of my plans

are destroyed--how I am once more alone in this cruel world, more sad,

more discouraged and more hopeless than I ever was in my darkest days of

misery and poverty.... but I cannot be calm--it is impossible for me to

control my indignation when I think of the shameful behavior of this

man--of his gross impertinence--his insolent duplicity.... Well, I went

to the Odeon; M. de Monbert was there, I saw him, he certainly made no

attempt to conceal his presence; you know he plumes himself upon being

open and frank--never hides anything from the world--wishes people to

see him in his true character, &c., precisely what I saw to-night. Yes,

Valentine, there he was as tipsy as a coachman--with those little

hair-brained de S.'s, the eldest simply tipsy as a lord, the young one,

George, was drunk, very drunk. This is not all, the fascinating Prince

was escort to two fashionable beauties, two miserable creatures of

distressing notoriety, two of those shameless women whom we cannot fail

to recognise on account of their scandalous behavior in public; sort of

market-women disguised as fashion-plates--half apple-venders, half

coquettes, who tap men on the cheek with their scented gloves and

intersperse their conversation with dreadful oaths from behind their

bouquets and Pompadour fans! ... these creatures talked in shrill tones,

laughed out loud enough to be heard by every one around--joined in the

chorus of the Choir of Antigone with the old men of Thebes!... People

in the gallery said: "they must have dined late," that was a charitable

construction to put upon their shameful conduct--I thought to myself,

this is their usual behavior--they are always thus.

I must tell you, so you can better appreciate my angry mortification,

that just as we were stepping into the carriage the servant handed me

the letters that I had sent him to bring from the Hotel de Langeac.

Among the number was one from M. de Monbert, written several days after

I had left Paris; this letter is worthy of being sent to Grenoble; I

enclose it. While reading it, my dear Valentine, don't forget that I

read it at the theatre, and my reading was constantly interrupted by the

vulgar conversation and noisy laughter of M. de Monbert and his choice

companions, and that each high-flown sentence of this hypocritical note

had at the same time a literal and free translation in the scandalous

remarks, bursts of laughter, and stupid puns of the despicable man who

had written it.

I confess that this flow of wit interfered with my perusal of these

touching reproaches; the brilliant improvisations of the orator

prevented me from becoming too much affected by the elegiacs of the

writer.

Here is the note that I was trying to decipher through my tears when

Monsieur de Monbert swaggered into the theatre.

"Is this a test of love--a woman's vengeance or an idle caprice,

Mademoiselle? My mind is not calm enough to solve the enigma. Be

merciful and drive me not to madness! To-morrow may be too late--then

your words of reason might be responded to by the jargon of insanity!

Beware! and cast aside your cloak of mystery before the sun once more

goes down upon my frenzy. All is desolation and darkness within and

without--nothing appears bright to my eyes, and my soul is wrapped in

gloom. In your absence I cease to live, but it seems as if my deep love

gives me still enough strength to hold a wandering pen that my mind no

longer guides. With my love I gave you my soul and mind--what remains to

me would excite your pity. I implore you to restore me to life.

"You cannot comprehend the ecstasy of a man who loves you, and the

despair of a man who loses you. Before knowing you I never could have

imagined these two extremes, separated by a whole world and brought

together in one instant. To be envied by the angels--to breathe the air

of heaven--to seek among the divine joys for a name to give one's

happiness, and suddenly, like Lucifer, to be dashed by a thunderbolt

into an abyss of darkness, and suffer the living death of the damned!

"This is your work!

"No, it cannot be a jest, it is not a vengeance; one does not jest with

real love, one does does not take vengeance on an innocent man; then it

must be a test! a test! ah well, it has been borne long enough, and my

bleeding heart cries out to you for mercy. If you prolong this ordeal,

you will soon have no occasion to doubt my love!... your grief will be

remorse.

"ROGER."

Yes, you are right this time, my dear Prince; my sorrow is remorse, deep

remorse; I shall never forgive myself for having been momentarily

touched by your hear-trending moans and for having shed real tears over

your dramatic pathos.

I was seated in the corner of our box, trembling with emotion and

weeping over these tender reproaches--yes, I wept!--he seemed so sad, so

true to me--I was in an humble frame of mind, thoroughly convinced by

this touching appeal that I had been wicked and unjust to doubt so

faithful a heart. I was overcome by the magnitude of my offence--at

having caused this great despair by my cruelty. Each word of this

elaborate dirge was a dagger to my heart; I credulously admired the

eloquence and simplicity of the style; I accepted as beautiful writing

all these striking images--these antitheses full of passion and

pretension: "_Reason responded to by insanity_." "_The power of love

that gives him strength to hold a pen. Extremes separated by a whole

world and brought together in an instant, and this living death that he

suffers, this name for his past happiness that had to be sought for

among the joys of heaven!_"

I accepted as gospel truth all these high-flown fictions, and was

astonished at nothing until I came to the _Lucifer_ part; that, I

confess, rather startled me--but the finishing tirade composed me. I

thought it fascinating, thrilling, heart-rending! In my enthusiastic

pity I was, by way of expiation, admiring the whole letter when I was

disturbed by a frightful noise made by people entering the adjoining

box. I felt angry at their insulting my sadness with their heartless

gayety. I continue to read, admire and weep--my neighbors continue to

laugh and make a noise. Amidst this uproar I recognise a familiar

voice--I listen--it is certainly the Prince de Monbert--I cannot be

mistaken. Probably he has come here with strangers--he has travelled so

much that he is obliged to do the honors of Paris to grand ladies who

were polite to him abroad--but from what part of the world could these

grand ladies have come? They seem to be indulging in a queer style of

conversation. One of them boldly looked in our box, and exclaimed, "Four

women! Four monsters!" I recognised her as a woman I had seen at the

Versailles races--all was explained.

Then they played a sort of farce for their own pleasure, to the great

annoyance of the audience. I will give you a sample of it, so you can

have an idea of the wit and good taste displayed by these gentlemen. The

most intoxicated of the young men asked, between two yawns, who were the

authors of _Antigone?_ "Sophocles," said M. de Monbert. "But there are

two, are there not?" "Two _Antigones?_" said the Prince laughing; "yes,

there is Ballanche's." "Ah, yes! Ballanche, that is his name," cried out

the ignorant creature; "I knew I saw two names on the hand-bill! Do you

know them?"

"I am not acquainted with Sophocles," said the Prince, becoming more and

more jovial, "but I know Ballanche; I have seen him at the Academy."

This brilliant witticism was wonderfully successful; they all clapped so

loud and laughed so hilariously that the audience became very angry, and

called out, "Silence!" "Silence!" For a moment the noisy were quiet, but

soon they were worse than ever, acting like maniacs. At the end of each

scene, little George de S., who is a mere school-boy, cried out in

deafening tones: "Bravo! Ballanche!" then turning to the neighboring

boxes he said: "My friends, applaud; you must encourage the author;" and

the two bold women clapped their hands and shrieked out, "Let us

encourage Ballanche! Bravo! Ballanche!" It was absurd.

Madame Taverneau and her friends were indignant; they had heard the

compliment bestowed upon us--"Four women. Four monsters!" This rapid

appreciation of our elegant appearance did not make them feel indulgent

towards our scandalous neighbors. Near us were several newspaper men who

gave the names of the Prince de Monbert, the Messrs. de S., and their

two beauties. These journalists spoke with bitter contempt of what they

called the young lions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, of the rude

manners of the aristocracy, of the ridiculous scruples of those proud

legitimists, who feared to compromise themselves in the interests of

their country, and yet were compromised daily by a thousand

extravagances; then they related falsehoods that were utterly without

foundation, and yet were made to appear quite probable by the

disgraceful conduct of the young men before us. You may imagine how

cruelly I suffered, both as a fiancée and as a legitimist. I blushed for

our party in the presence of the enemy; I felt the insult offered to me

personally less than I did the abuse brought upon our cause. In

listening to those deserved sneers I detested Messrs. de S. as much as I

did Roger. I decided during this hour of vexation and shame that I would

rather always remain simple Madame Gruérin than become the Princess de

Monbert.

What do you think of this despair, the result of champagne? Ought I not

to be touched by it? How sweet it is to see one's self so deeply

regretted!

It is quite poetical and even mythological; Ariadne went no further than

this. She demanded of Bacchus consolation for the sorrows caused by

love. How beautifully _he_ sang the hymn to Bacchus in the last act of

Antigone! He has a fine tenor voice; until now I was not aware of his

possessing this gift. How happy he seemed among his charming

companions! Valentine, was I not right in saying that the trial of

discouragement is infallible? In love despair is a snare; to cease to

hope is to cease to feign; a man returns to his nature as soon as

hypocrisy is useless. The Prince has proved to me that he prefers low

society, that it is his natural element; that he had completely

metamorphosed himself so as to appear before us as an elegant, refined,

dignified gentleman!

Oh! this evening he certainly was sincere; his real character was on the

surface; he made no effort to restrain himself; he was perfectly at

home, in his element; and one cannot disguise his delight at being in

his element. There is a carelessness in his movements that betrays his

self-satisfaction; he struts and spreads himself with an air of

confidence; he seems to float in the air, to swim on the crest of the

wave ... People can conceal their delight when they have recognised an

adored being among a crowd ... can avoid showing that a piece of

information casually heard is an important fact that they have been

trying to discover for weeks; ... can hide sudden fear, deep vexation,

great joy; but they cannot hide this agreeable impression, this

beatitude that they feel upon suddenly returning to their element, after

long days of privation and constraint. Well, my dear, the element of

Monsieur de Monbert is low company. I take credit to myself for not

saying anything more.

I have often observed these base proclivities in persons of the same

high condition of life as the Prince. Men brought up in the most refined

and cultivated society, destined to fill important positions in life,

take the greatest pleasure in associating-with common people; they

impose elegance upon themselves as a duty, and indulge in vulgarity as a

recreation; they have a spite against these charming qualities they are

compelled to assume, and indemnify themselves for the trouble of

acquiring them by rendering them mischievously useless when they seek

low society and attempt to shine where their brilliancy is

unappreciated. This low tendency of human nature explains the eternal

struggle between nature and education; explains the taste, the passion

of intelligent distinguished men for bad company; the more reserved and

dignified they are in their manners, the more they seek the society of

worthless men and blemished women. Another reason for this low

proclivity is the vanity of men; they like to be admired and flattered,

although they know their admirers are utterly worthless and despicable.

All these turpitudes would be unimportant if our poor nobility were

still triumphantly occupying their rightful position; but while they are

struggling to recover their prestige what can be done with such

representatives? Oh, I hated those little fools who by their culpable

folly compromised so noble a cause! Can they not see that each of their

silly blunders furnishes an arm against the principles they defend,

against their party, against us all? They are at war with a country that

distrusts their motives and detests and envies their advantages ... and

they amuse themselves by irritating the country by their aggressive

hostility and blustering idleness. By thus displaying their ill manners

and want of sense, it seems as if they wished to justify all the

accusations of their enemies and gain what they really deserve, a worse

reputation than they already bear. They are accused of being ignorant

... they are illiterate! They are accused of being impudent ... They are

insolent! They are accused of being beasts ... They show themselves to

be brutes! And yet not much is exacted of them, because they are known

to be degenerate. Only half what is required from others is expected

from them. They are not asked for heroism or talent, or genius: they are

only expected to behave with dignity, they cannot even assume it! They

are not asked to add to the lustre of their names, they are only

entreated to respect them--and they drag them in the mire! Ah, these

people make me die of shame and indignation.

It is from this nursery of worthless, idle young fops that I, Irene de

Chateaudun, will be forced to choose a husband. No, never will I suffer

the millions that Providence has bestowed upon me to be squandered upon

ballet-dancers and the scum of Paris! If it be absolutely necessary that

my fortune should be enjoyed by women, I will bestow it upon a convent,

where I will retire for the rest of my life; but I certainly would

prefer becoming the wife of a poor, obscure, but noble-minded student,

thirsting for glory and ambitious of making illustrious his plebeian

name, seeking among the dust of ages for the secret of fame ... than to

marry one of the degenerate scions of an old family, who crawl around

crushed by the weight of their formidable name; these little burlesque

noblemen who retain nothing of their high position but pride and vanity;

who can neither think, act, work nor suffer for their country; these

disabled knights who wage war against bailiffs and make their names

notorious in the police offices and tap-rooms of the Boulevard.

It is glorious to feel flowing in one's veins noble, heroic blood, to be

intoxicated with youthful pride when studying the history of one's

country, to see one's school-mates forced to commit to memory as a duty,

the brilliant record of the heroic deeds of our ancestors! To enter upon

a smooth path made easy and pleasant for us by those gone before; to be

already armed with the remembrance of noble deeds, laden with generous

promises; to have praiseworthy engagements to fulfil, grand hopes to

realize; to have in the past powerful protectors, inspiring models that

one can invoke in the hour of crisis like exceptional patrons, like

saints belonging exclusively to one's own family; to have one's conduct

traced out by masters of whom we are proud; to have nothing to

imagine--nothing to originate, no good example to set, nothing to do but

to nobly continue the work grandly commenced, to keep up the tradition,

to follow the old routine--it is especially glorious when the tradition

is of honor, when the routine is of glory.

But who comprehends these sentiments now? Who dares utter these noble

words without an ironical smile? Only a few helpless believers like

myself who still energetically but vainly protest against these

degradations. Some go to Algeria to prove their hereditary bravery and

obtain the Cross of Honor they are deprived of here; others retire to

their châteaux and study the fine arts, thus enjoying the only generous

resource of discouraged souls; surrounded by the true and the beautiful,

they try to forget an ungrateful and degenerate party. Others, disciples

of Sully, temper their strength by hard work in the fruitful study of

sacred science, and become enthusiastic, absorbed husbandmen, in order

to conceal their misanthropy. But what can they do? Fight all alone for

a deserted cause? What can the best officers accomplish without

soldiers?

You see, Valentine, I forget my own sorrows in thinking of our common

woes; when I reflect upon the sad state of public affairs, I find Roger

doubly culpable. Possessing so brilliant a mind, such superb talents, he

could by his influence bring these young fools back to the path of

honor. How unpardonable it is in him to lead them further astray by his

dangerous example?

Oh, Valentine! I feel that I am not fitted to live in times like these.

Everything displeases me. The people of past ages seemed unintelligent,

impracticable the people of the present day are coarse and

hypocritical--the former understand nothing, the latter pervert

everything. The former had not the attainments that I require, the

latter have not the delicacy that I exact. The world is ugly; I have

seen enough of it. It is sad to think of one so young as I, just

entering upon life, having my head weighed down by the cares and

disappointments of sixty years! For a blonde head this weight is very

heavy!

What! in this grand world, not one noble being, not one elevated soul

possessed of high aspirations and a holy respect for love!

For a young woman to own millions and be compelled to hoard them because

she has no one to bestow them upon! To be rich, young, free, generous,

and forced to live alone because no worthy partner can be found!...

Valentine, is not this a sad case?

Now my anger is gone--I am only sad, but I am mortally sad.... I know

not what to do.... Would I could fly to your arms! Ah! mother! my

mother! why am I left to struggle all alone in this unfeeling world!