IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère).
RICHEPORT, July 6th 18--.
It is he! Valentine, it is he! I at once recognised him, and he
recognised me! And our future lives were given to each other in one of
those looks that decide a life. What a day! how agitated I still am! My
hand trembles, my heart beats so violently that I can scarcely write....
It is one o'clock; I did not close my eyes last night and I cannot sleep
to-night. I am so excited, my mind so foolishly disturbed, that sleep is
a state I no longer comprehend; I feel as if I could never sleep again.
Many hours will have to pass before I can extinguish this fire that
burns my eyes, stop this whirl of thoughts rushing through my brain; to
sleep, I must forget, and never, never can I forget his name, his voice,
his face! My dear Valentine, how I wished for you to-day! How proud I
would have been to prove to you the realization of all my dreams and
presentiments!
Ah! I knew I was right; such implicit faith could not be an error; I was
convinced that there existed on earth a being created for me, who would
some day possess and govern my heart! A being who had always possessed
my love, who sought me, and called upon me to respond to his love; and
that we would end by meeting and loving in spite of all obstacles. Yes,
often I felt myself called by some superior power. My soul would leave
me and travel far away in response to some mysterious command. Where did
it go? Then I was ignorant, now I know--it went to Italy, in answer to
the gentle voice, to the behest of Raymond! I was laughed at for what
was called my romantic idea, and I tried to ridicule it myself. I fought
against this fantasy. Alas! I fought so valiantly against it that it was
almost destroyed. Oh! I shudder when I think of it.... A few moments
more ... and I would have been irrevocably engaged; I would no longer
have been worthy of this love for which I had kept myself
irreproachable, in spite of all the temptations of misery, all the
dangers of isolation, and the long-hoped-for day of blissful meeting,
would have been the day of eternal farewell! This averted misfortune
frightened me as if it were still menacing. Poor Roger! I heartily
pardon him now; more than that, I thank him for having so quickly
disenchanted me.
Edgar!... Edgar!... I hate him when I remember that I tried to love him;
but no, no, there never was anything like love between us! Heavens! what
a difference!... And yet the one of whom I speak with such enthusiasm
... I saw yesterday for the first time ... I know him not ... I know him
not ... and yet I love him!... Valentine, what will you think of me?
This most important day of my life opened in the ordinary way; nothing
foreshadowed the great event that was to decide my fate, that was to
throw so much light upon the dark doubts of my poor heart. This
brilliant sun suddenly burst upon me unheralded by any precursory ray.
Some new guests were expected; a relative of Madame de Meilhan, and a
friend of Edgar, whom they call Don Quixote. This struck me as being a
peculiar nickname, but I did not ask its origin. Like all persons of
imagination, I have no curiosity; I at once find a reason for
everything; I prefer imagining to asking the wherefore of things; I
prefer suppositions to information. Therefore I did not inquire why this
friend was honored with the name of Don Quixote. I explained it to
myself in this wise: A tall, thin young man, resembling the Chevalier de
la Mancha, and who perhaps had dressed himself like Don Quixote at the
carnival, and the name of his disguise had clung to him ever since; I
fancied a silly, awkward youth, with an ugly yellow face, a sort of
solemn jumping-jack, and I confess to no desire to make his
acquaintance. He disturbed me in one respect, but I was quickly
reassured. I am always afraid of being recognised by visitors at the
château, and have to exercise a great deal of ingenuity to find out if
we have ever met. Before appearing before them, I inquire if they are
fashionable people, spent last winter in Paris, &c.? I am told Don
Quixote is almost a savage; he travels all the time so as to sustain his
character as knight-errant, and that he spent last winter in Rome....
This quieted my fears ... I did not appear in society until last winter,
so Don Quixote never saw me; knowing we could meet without the
possibility of recognition, I dismissed him from my mind.
Yesterday, at three o'clock, Madame de Meilhan and her son went to the
depot to meet their guests. I was standing at the front door when they
drove off, and Madame de Meilhan called out to me: "My dear Madame
Guérin, I recommend my bouquets to you; pray spare me the eternal
_soucis_ with which the cruel Etienne insists upon filling my rooms; now
I rely upon you for relief."
I smiled at this pun as if I had never heard it before, and promised to
superintend the arrangement of the flowers. I went into the garden and
found Etienne gathering _soucis_, more _soucis_, nothing but _soucis_. I
glanced at his flower-beds, and at once understood the cause of his
predilection for this dreadful flower; it was the only kind that deigned
to bloom in his melancholy garden: This is the secret of many
inexplicable preferences.
I thought with horror that Madame de Meilhan would continue to be a prey
to _soucis_ if I did not come to her rescue, so I said: "Etienne, what a
pity to cull them all! they are so effective in a garden; let us go look
for some other flowers--it is a shame to ruin your beautiful beds!" The
flattered Stephen eagerly followed me to a corner of the garden where I
had admired some superb catalpas. He gathered branches of them, with
which I filled the Japanese vases on the mantel, and ornamented the
corners of the parlor, thus converting it into a flowery grove. I also
arranged some Bengal roses and dahlias that had escaped Etienne's
culture, and with the addition of some asters and a very few _soucis_ I
must confess, I was charmed with the result of my labors. But I wanted
some delicate flowers for the pretty vase on the centre table, and
remembering that an old florist, a friend of Madame Taverneau and one
of my professed admirers, lived about a mile from the château, I
determined to walk over and describe to him the dreadful condition of
Madame de Meilhan, and appeal to him for assistance. Fortunately I found
him in his green-house, and delighted him by repeating the pun about
filling the house with _soucis_. Provincials have a singular taste for
puns; I never make them, and only repeat them because I love to please.
The old man was fascinated, and rewarded my flattery by making me up a
magnificent bouquet of rare, unknown, nameless, exquisite flowers that
could be found nowhere else; my bouquet was worth a fortune, and what
fortune ever exhaled such perfume? I started off triumphant. I tell you
all this to show how calm and little inclined I was to romance on that
morning.
I walked rapidly, for we can hardly help running when in an open field
and pursued by the arrows of the sun; we run till we are breathless, to
find shelter beneath some friendly tree.
I had crossed a large field that separates the property of the florist
from Madame de Meilhan's, and entered the park by a little gate; a few
steps off a fountain rippled among the rocks--a basin surrounded by
shells received its waters. This basin had originally been pretentiously
ornamented, but time and vegetation had greatly improved these efforts
of bad taste. The roots of a grand weeping willow had pitilessly
unmasked the imposture of these artificial rocks, that is, they have
destroyed their skilful masonry; these rocks, built at great expense on
the shore, have gradually fallen into the very middle of the water,
where they have become naturalized; some serve as vases to clusters of
beautiful iris, others serve as resting-places for the tame deer that
run about the park and drink at the stream; aquatic plants, reeds and
entwined convolvulus have invaded the rest; all the pretentious work of
the artist is now concealed; which proves the vanity of the proud
efforts of man. God permits his creatures to cultivate ugliness in their
cities only; in his own beautiful fields he quickly destroys their
miserable attempts. Vainly, under pretext of a fountain, do they heap up
in the woods and valleys masonry upon masonry, rocks upon rocks; vainly
do they lavish money upon their gingerbread work about the limpid
brooks; the water-nymph smilingly watches their labor, and then in her
capricious play amuses herself by changing their hideous productions
into charming structures; their den of a farmer-general into a poet's
nest; and to effect this miracle only three things are necessary--three
things that cost nothing, and which we daily trample under
foot--flowers, grass and pebbles.... Valentine, I know I have been
talking too long about this little lake, but I have an excuse: I love it
much! You shall soon know why....
I heard the purling of the water, and could not resist the seductive
freshness of its voice; I leaned over the rocks of the fountain, took
off my glove and caught in the hollow of my hand the sparkling water
that fell from the cascade, and eagerly drank it. As I was intoxicating
myself with this innocent beverage, I heard a footstep on the path; I
continued to drink without disturbing myself, until the following words
made me raise my head:
"Excuse me, _mademoiselle_, but can you direct me where to find Mad. de
Meilhan?"
He called me _Mademoiselle_, so I must be recognised; the idea made me
turn pale; I looked with alarm at the young man who uttered these words,
I had never seen him before, but he might have seen me and would betray
me. I was so disconcerted that I dropped half of my flowers in the
water; the current was rapidly whirling them off among the crevices of
the rocks, when he jumped lightly from stone to stone, and rescuing the
fugitive flowers, laid them all carefully by the others on the side of
the fountain, bowed respectfully and retraced his steps down the walk
without renewing his unanswered question. I was, without knowing why,
completely reassured; there was in his look such high-toned loyalty, in
his manner such perfect distinction, and a sort of precaution so
delicately mysterious, that I felt confidence in him. I thought, even if
he does know my name it will make no difference--for he would never
mention having met me--my secret is safe with a man of his character!
You need not laugh at me for prematurely deciding upon his
character,... for my surmises proved correct!
The dinner hour was drawing near, and I hurried back to the château to
dress. I was compelled, in spite of myself, to look attractive, on
account of having to put on a lovely dress that the treacherous
Blanchard had spread out on the bed with the determination that I should
wear it; protesting that it was a blessed thing she had brought this
one, as there was not another one fit for me to appear in before Mad. de
Meilhan's guests. It was an India muslin trimmed with twelve little
flounces edged with exquisite Valenciennes lace; the waist was made of
alternate tucks and insertion, and trimmed with lace to match the skirt.
This dress was unsuitable to the humble Madame Guérin--it would be
imprudent to appear in it. How indignant and angry I was with poor
Blanchard! I scolded her all the time she was assisting me to put it on!
Oh! since then how sincerely have I forgiven her! She had brought me a
fashionable sash to wear with the dress, but I resisted the temptation,
and casting aside the elegant ribbon, I put on an old lilac belt and
descended to the parlor where the company were assembled.
The first person I saw, on entering the room, was the young man I had
met by the fountain. His presence disconcerted me. Mad. de Meilhan
relieved my embarrassment by saying: "Ah! here you are! we were just
speaking of you. I wish to introduce to you my dear Don Quixote," I
turned my head towards the other end of the room where Edgar was talking
to several persons, thinking that Don Quixote was one of the number; but
Mad. de Meilhan introduced the young man of the fountain, calling him M.
de Villiers: he was Don Quixote.
He addressed some polite speech to me, but this time he called me
madame, and in uttering this word there was a tone of sadness that
deeply touched me, and the earnest look with which he regarded me I can
never forget--it seemed to say, I know your history, I know you are
unhappy, I know this unhappiness is unjustly inflicted upon you, and you
arouse my tenderest sympathy. I assure you, my dear Valentine, that his
look expressed all this, and much more that I refrain from telling you,
because I know you will laugh at me.
Madame de Meilhan having joined us, he went over to Edgar.
"What do you think of her?" asked Edgar, who did not know that I was
listening.
"Very beautiful."
"She is a companion, engaged by my mother to stay here until I marry."
The hidden meaning of this jesting speech seemed to disgust M. de
Villiers; he cast upon his friend a severe and scornful look that
clearly said: You conceited puppy! I think, but am not certain, this
look also signified: Would-be Lovelace! Provincial Don Juan, &c.
At dinner I was placed opposite him, and all during the meal I was
wondering why this handsome, elegant, distinguished-looking young man
should be nicknamed Don Quixote. Thoughtful observation solved the
enigma. Don Quixote was ridiculed for two things: being very ugly and
being too generous. And I confess I felt myself immediately fascinated
by his captivating characteristics.
After dinner we were on the terrace, when he approached me and said with
a smile:
"I am distressed, madame, to think that without knowing you, I must have
made a disagreeable impression."
"I confess that you startled me."
"How pale you turned!... perhaps you were expecting some one!" ... He
asked this question with a troubled look and such charming anxiety that
I answered quickly--too quickly, perhaps:
"No, monsieur, I did not expect any one."
"You saw me coming up the walk?"
"Yes, I saw you coming."
"But was there any reason why I should have caused you this sudden
fright!... some resemblance, perhaps?--no?--It is strange ... I am
puzzled."
"And I am also very much puzzled, monsieur."
"About me!... What happiness!"
"I wish to know why you are called Don Quixote?"
"Ah! you embarrass me by asking for my great secret, Madame, but I will
confide it to you, since you are kind enough to be interested in me. I
am called Don Quixote because I am a kind of a fool, an original, an
enthusiastic admirer of all noble and holy things, a dreamer of noble
deeds, a defender of the oppressed, a slayer of egotists; because I
believe in all religions, even the religion of love. I think that a man
ought to respect himself out of respect to the woman who loves him; that
he should constantly think of her with devotion, avoid doing anything
that could displease her, and be always, even in her absence, courteous,
pleasing, amiable, I would even say _loveable_, if the word were
admissible; a man who is beloved is, according to my ridiculous ideas, a
sort of dignitary; he should thenceforth behave as if he were an idol,
and deify himself as much as possible. I also have my patriotic
religion; I love my country like an old member of the National Guard....
My friends say I am a real Vaudeville Frenchman. I reply that it is
better to be a real Vaudeville Frenchman than an imitation of English
jockeys, as they are; they call me knight-errant because I reprove them
for speaking coarsely of women. I advise them to keep silent and conceal
their misdeeds. I tell them that their boasted preferences only prove
their blindness and bad taste; that I am more fortunate than they; all
the women of my acquaintance are good and perfect, and my greatest
desire in life is to be worthy of their friendship. I am called Don
Quixote because I love glory and all those who have the ambition to seek
it; because in my eyes there is nothing true but the hopeful future, as
we are deceived at every step we take in the present. Because I
understand inexplicable disinterestedness, generous folly; because I can
understand how one can live for an idea and die for a word; I can
sympathize with all who struggle and suffer for a cherished belief;
because I have the courage to turn my back upon those whom I despise and
am eccentric enough to always speak the truth; I assert that nobody is
worth the hypocrisy of a falsehood; because I am an incorrigible,
systematic, insatiable dupe; I prefer going astray, making a mistake by
doing a good deed, rather than being always distrustful and suspicious;
while I see evil I believe in good; doubtless the evil predominates and
daily increases, but then it is cultivated, and if the same cultivation
were bestowed upon the good perfection would be attained. Finally,
madame, and this is my supreme folly, I believe in happiness and seek it
with credulous hope; I believe that the purest joys are those which are
most dearly bought; but I am ready for any sacrifice, and would
willingly give my life for an hour of this sublime joy that I have so
long dreamed of and still hope to possess.... Now you know why I am
called Don Quixote. To be a knight-errant in the present day is rather
difficult; a certain amount of courage is necessary to dare to say to
unbelievers: I believe; to egotists, I love; to materialists, I dream;
it requires more than courage, it requires audacity and insolence. Yes,
one must commence by appearing aggressive in order to have the right to
appear generous. If I were merely loyal and charitable, my opinions
would not be supported; instead of being called _Don Quixote_, I would
be called _Grandison_ ... and I would be a ruined man! Thus I hasten to
polish my armor and attack the insolent with insolence, the scoffers
with scoffing; I defend my enthusiasm with irony; like the eagle, I let
my claws grow in order to defend my wings." ... Here he stopped....
"Heavens!" he exclaimed, "how could I compare myself to an eagle; I beg
your pardon, madame, for this presumptuous comparison.... You see to
what flights your indulgence leads me" ... and he laughed at his own
enthusiasm, ... but I did not laugh, my feelings were too deeply
stirred.
Valentine, what I repeat to you is very different from his way of saying
it. What eloquence in his noble words, his tones of voice, his sparkling
eyes! His generous sentiments, so long restrained, were poured forth
with fire; he was happy at finding himself at last understood, at being
able for once in his life to see appreciated the divine treasures of
his heart, to be able to impart all his pet ideas without seeing them
jeered at and their name insulted! Sympathy inspired him with confidence
in me. With delight I recognised myself in his own description. I saw
with pride, in his profound convictions, his strong and holy truths, the
poetical beliefs of my youth, that have always been treated by every one
else as fictions, and foolish illusions; he carried me back to the happy
days of my early life, by repeating to me, like an echo of the past,
those noble words that are no longer heard in the present--those noble
precepts--those beautiful refrains of chivalry in which my infancy was
cradled.... As I listened I said to myself: how my mother would have
loved him! and this thought made my eyes fill with tears. Ah! never,
never did such an idea cross my mind when I was with Edgar, or near
Roger.... Now you must acknowledge, my dear Valentine, that I am right
when I say that: It is he! It is he!
We had been absorbed an hour in these confidential reveries, forgetting
the persons around us, the place we were in, who we were ourselves, and
the whole world!
The universe had disappeared, leaving us only the delicate perfume of
the orange blossoms around us, and the soft light of the stars peeping
forth from the sky above us.
We returned to the parlor and I was seated near the centre-table, when
Edgar came up to me and said:
"What is the matter with you this evening? You seem depressed; are you
not well?"
"I have a slight cold."
"What a tiresome general--he continued--he monopolizes all my evening,
... a tiresome hero is _so_ hard to entertain!"