Madame de Lorgeville is the sister of the handsome Léon de Varèzes.
Oh! ray of light! glimmer of sun through a dark cloud!
The handsome Léon de Varèzes! The ugly idea of troubadour beauty! A fop
fashioned by his tailor, and who passes his life looking at his figure
reflected in four mirrors as shiny and cold as himself!
I pressed M. de Balaincourt's hand and once again plunged into the
vortex of Paris.
If the handsome Léon were only hideous I would feel nothing but
indifference towards him, but he has more sacred rights to my hatred, as
you will see.
Three months ago this handsome Léon made a proposal of marriage to Mlle.
de Chateaudun--she refused him. This is evidently a preconcerted plan;
or it is a ruse. The handsome Léon had a lady friend well known by
everybody but himself, and he has deferred this marriage in order to
gild, after the manner of Ruolz, his last days of bachelorhood;
meanwhile Mlle. de Chateaudun received her liberty, and during this
truce I have played the rôle of suitor. Either of these conjectures is
probable--both may be true--one is sufficient to bring about a
catastrophe!
This fact is certain, the handsome Léon is at the waters of Ems enjoying
his expiring hours of single-blessedness in the society of his painted
friend, and his family are keeping Mile. de Chateaudun at the Château de
Lorgeville till the season at Ems is over. In a few days the handsome
Léon, on pretence of important business, will leave his Dulcinea, and,
considering himself freed from an unlawful yoke, will come to the
Château de Lorgeville to offer his innocent hand and pure homage to
Mile. de Chateaudun. In whatever light the matter is viewed, I am a
dupe--a butt! I know well that people say: "_Prince Roger is a good
fellow_" With this reputation a man is exposed to all the feline
wickedness of human nature, but when once aroused "the good fellow" is
transformed, and all turn pale in his presence.
No, I can never forgive a woman who holds before me a picture of bliss,
and then dashes it to the ground--she owes me this promised happiness,
and if she tries to fly from me I have a right to cry "stop thief."
Ah! Mlle. de Chateaudun, you thought you could break my heart, and leave
me nothing to cherish but the phantom of memory! Well! I promise you
another ending to your play than you looked for! We will meet again!
Stupid idiot that I was, to think of writing her an apology to vindicate
my innocent share of the scene at the Odeon! Vindication well spared!
How she would have laughed at my honest candor!... She shall not have an
opportunity of laughing! Dear Edgar, in writing these disconsolate lines
I have lost the calmness that I had imposed upon myself when I began my
letter. I feel that I am devoured by that internal demon that bears a
woman's name in the language of love--jealousy! Yes, jealousy fills my
soul with bitterness, encircles my brow with a band of iron, and makes
me feel a frenzied desire to murder some fellow-being! During my travels
I lost the tolerant manners of civilization. I have imbibed the rude
cruelty of savages--my jealousy is filled with the storms and fire of
the equator.
What do you pale effeminate young men know of jealousy? Is not your
professor of jealousy the actor who dashes about on the stage with a
paste-board sword?
I have studied the monster under other masters; tigers have taught me
how to manage this passion.
Dear Edgar, once night overtook us amidst the ruins of the fort that
formerly defended the mouth of the river Caveri in Bengal. It was a dark
night illumined by a single star like the lamp of the subterranean
temple of Elephanta. But this lone star was sufficient to throw light
upon the formidable duel that took place before us upon the sloping bank
of the ruined fort.
It was the season of love ... how sweet is the sound of these words!
A tawny monster with black spots, belonging to the fair sex of her noble
race, was calmly quenching her thirst in the river Caveri--after she had
finished drinking she squatted on her hind feet and stretched her
forepaws in front of her breast--sphinx-like--and luxuriously rubbed her
head in and out among the soft leaves scattered on the riverside.
At a little distance the two lovers watched--not with their eyes but
with their nostrils and ears, and their sharp growl was like the breath
of the khamsin passing through the branches of the euphorbium and the
nopal. The two monsters gradually reached the paroxysm of amorous rage;
they flattened their ears, sharpened their claws, twisted their tails
like flexible steel, and emitted sparks of fire from eyes and skin.
During this prelude the tigress stretched herself out with stoical
indifference, pretending to take no interest in the scene--as if she
were the only animal of her race in the desert. At intervals she would
gaze with delight at the reflected image of her grace and beauty in the
river Caveri.
A roar that seemed to burst from the breast of a giant crushed beneath a
rock, echoed through the solitude. One of the tigers described an
immense circle in the air and then fell upon the neck of his rival. The
two tawny enemies stood up on their hind legs, clenching each other like
two wrestlers, body to body, muzzle to muzzle, teeth to teeth, and
uttering shrill, rattling cries that cut through the air like the
clashing of steel blades. Ordinary huntsmen would have fired upon this
monstrous group. We judged it more noble to respect the powerful hate of
this magnificent love. As usual the aggressor was the strongest; he
threw his rival to the ground, crushed him with his whole weight, tore
him with his claws, and then fastening his long teeth in his victim's
throat, laid him dead upon the grass--uttering, as he did so, a cry of
triumph that rang through the forest like the clarion of a conqueror.
The tigress remained in the same spot, quietly licking her paw, and when
it was quite wet rubbed it over her muzzle and ears with imperturbable
serenity and charming coquetry.
This scene contained a lesson for both sexes, my dear Edgar. When nature
chooses our masters she chooses wisely.
Heaven preserve you from jealousy! I do not mean to honor by this name
that fickle, unjust, common-place sentiment that we feel when our vanity
assumes the form of love. The jealousy that gnaws my heart is a noble
and legitimate passion. Not to avenge one's self is to give a premium of
encouragement to wicked deeds. The forgiveness of wrongs and injuries
puts certain men and women too much at their ease. Vengeance is
necessary for the protection of society.
Dear Edgar, tell me of your love; fear not to wound me by a picture of
your happiness; my heart is too sympathetic for that. Tell me the traits
that please you most in the object of your tenderness. Let your soul
expand in her sweet smiles--revel in the intoxicating bliss of those
long happy talks filled with the enchanting grace and music of a first
love.
After reading my letter, remove my gloomy picture from your mind--forget
me quietly; let not a thought of my misery mar your present happiness.
I intend to honor the handsome Léon by devoting my personal attention to
his future fate.