XXII.

ROGER DE MONBERT _to_ M. LE COMTE DE VILLIERS,

Pont de l'Arche (Eure).

Rouen, July 10th 18--.

Very rarely in life do we receive letters that we expect; we always

receive those that we don't expect. The expected ones inform us of what

we already know; the unexpected ones tell us of things entirely new. A

philosopher prefers the latter--of which I now send you one.

I passed some hours at Richeport with you and Edgar, and there I made a

discovery that you must have made before me, and a reflection that you

will make after me. I am sixty years old in my feelings--travel ages one

more than anything else--you are twenty-five, according to your

baptismal register. How fortunate you are to have some one able to give

you advice! How unfortunate I am that my experience has been sad enough

to enable me to be that one to give it! But I have a vague presentiment

that my advice will bring you happiness, if followed. We should never

neglect a presentiment. Every man carries in him a spark of Heaven's

intelligence--it is often the torch that illumines the darkness of our

future. This is called presentiment.

Read attentively, and do not disturb yourself about the end. I must

first explain by what means of observation I made my discovery. Then the

dénoûement will appear in its proper place, which is not at the

beginning.

The following is what I saw at the Château de Richeport. You did not see

it, because you were an actor. I was merely a spectator, and had that

advantage over you.

You, Edgar, and myself were in the parlor at noon. It is the hour in the

country when one takes shelter behind closed blinds to enjoy a friendly

chat. One is always sad, dreamy, meditative at this hour of a lovely

summer-day, and can speak carelessly of indifferent things, and at the

same time have every thought concentrated upon one beloved object.

These are the mysteries of the _Démon de Midi_, so much dreaded by the

poet-king.

There was in one corner of the room a little rosewood-table, so frail

that it could be crushed by the weight of a man's hand. On this table

was a piece of embroidery and a crystal vase filled with flowers.

Suspended over this table was a copy of Camille Roqueplan's picture:

"_The Lion in Love_." In the recess near the window was a piano open,

and evidently just abandoned by a woman; the little stool was

half-overturned by catching in the dress of some one suddenly rising,

and the music open was a soprano air from _Puritani_:--

"Vien diletto, in ciel e luna,

Tutto tace intorno...."

You will see how by inductions I reached the truth. I don't know the

woman of this piano; I nevertheless will swear she exists. Moreover, I

know she is young, pretty, has a good figure, is graceful and easy in

her manner, and is adored by some one in the château. If any ordinary

woman had left her embroidery on the table, if she had upset the stool

in leaving the piano, two idle nervous young men like yourselves would

from curiosity and ennui have examined the embroidery, disarranged the

vase of flowers, picked up the stool, and closed the piano. But no hand

dared to meddle with this holy disorder under pretext of arranging it.

These evidences, still fresh and undisturbed, attest a respect that

belongs only to love.

This woman, to me unknown, is then young and pretty, since she is so

ardently loved, and by more than one person, as I shall proceed to

prove. She has a commanding figure, because her embroidery is fine. I

know not if she be maid or wife, but this I do know, if she is not

married, the vestiges that she left in the parlor indicate a great

independence of position and character. If she is married, she is not

governed by her husband, or indeed she may be a widow.

Allow me to recall your conversation with Edgar at dinner. Hitherto I

have remarked that in all discussions of painting, music, literature

and love, your opinions always coincided with Edgar's; to hear you speak

was to hear Edgar, and _vice versa_. In opinions and sentiments you were

twin-brothers. Now listen how you both expressed yourselves before me on

that day.

"I believe," said Edgar, "that love is a modern invention, and woman was

invented by André Chénier, and perfected by Victor Hugo, Dumas and

Balzac. We owe this precious conquest to the revolution of '89. Before

that, love did not exist; Cupid with his bow and quiver reigned as a

sovereign. There were no women, there were only _beauties_.

"O, miracle des belles,

Je vous enseignerais un nid de tourterelles."

"These two lines have undergone a thousand variations under the pens of

a thousand poets. Women were only commended for their eyes--very

beautiful things when they _are_ beautiful, but they should not be made

the object of exclusive admiration. A beauty possessing no attraction

but beautiful eyes would soon lose her sway over the hearts of men.

Racine has used the words _eye_ and _eyes_ one hundred and sixty-five

times in _Andromache_. Woman has been deprived of her divine crown of

golden or chestnut hair; she has been dethroned by having it covered

with white powder. We have avenged woman for her long neglect; we have

preserved the _eyes_ and added all the other charms. Thus women love us

poets; and in our days Orpheus would not be torn to pieces by snowy

hands on the shores of the Strymon."

"Ah! that is just like you, Edgar," you said, with a sad laugh and a

would-be calm voice. "At dessert you always give us a dish of paradoxes.

I myself greatly prefer Montmorency cherries."

Some minutes after Edgar said:

"The other day I paid a visit to Delacroix. He has commenced a picture

that promises to be superb; my dear traveller, Roger, it will possess

the sky you love--pure indigo, the celestial carpet of the blue god."

"I abhor blue," you said; "I dread ophthalmia. Surfeit of blue compels

the use of green spectacles. I adore the skies of Hobbema and

Backhuysen; one can look at them with the naked eye for twenty years,

and yet never need an oculist in old age."

After some rambling conversation you uttered an eulogy on a sacred air

of Palestrina that you heard sung at the Conservatory concert. When you

had finished, Edgar rested his elbows on the table, his chin on his

hand, and let fall from his lips the following words, warmed by the

spiritual fire of his eyes.

"I have always abhorred church-music," said he. "Sacred music is

proscribed in my house as opium is in China. I like none but sentimental

music. All that does not resemble in some way the _Amor possente nome_

of Rossini must remained buried in the catacombs of the piano. Music was

only created for women and love. Doubtless simplicity is beautiful, but

it so often only belongs to simple people.

"Art is the only passion of a true artist. The music of Palestrina

resembles the music of Rossini about as much as the twitter of the

swallow resembles the song of the nightingale."

It was evident to me, my young friend, that neither of you expressed

your genuine convictions and true opinions. You were sitting opposite,

and yet neither looked at the other while speaking. You both were

handsome and charming, but handsome and charming like two English cocks

before a fight. What particularly struck me was that neither of you ever

said: "What is the matter with you to-day, my friend? you seem to

delight in contradicting me." Edgar did not ask you this question, nor

did you ask it of him. You thought it useless to inquire into the cause

of these half-angry contradictions; you both knew what you were about.

You and Edgar both love the same woman. It is the woman who suddenly

retreated from the piano. Perhaps she left the house after some

disagreeable scene between you two in her presence.

I watched all your movements when we three were together in the parlor.

The tone of your voices, naturally sonorous, sounded harsh and

discordant; you held in your hand a branch of _hibiscus_ that you idly

pulled to pieces. Edgar opened a magazine and read it upside downwards;

it was quite evident that you were a restraint upon each other, and

that I was a restraint upon you both.

At intervals Edgar would cast a furtive glance at the open piano, at the

embroidery, and the vase of flowers; you unconsciously did the same; but

your two glances never met at the same point; when Edgar looked at the

flowers, you looked at the piano; if either of you had been alone, you

would have never taken your eyes off these trifles that bore the

perfumed impression of a beloved woman's hand, and which seemed to

retain some of her personality and to console you in her absence.

You were the last comer in the house adorned by the presence of this

woman; you are also the most reasonable, therefore your own sense and

what is due to friendship must have already dictated your line of

conduct--let me add my advice in case your conscience is not quite

awake--fly! fly! before it is too late--linger, and your self-love, your

interested vanity, will no longer permit you to give place to a friend

who will have become a rival. Passion has not yet taken deep root in

your heart; at present it is nothing more than a fancy, a transitory

preference, a pleasant employment of your idle moments.

In the country, every young woman is more or less disposed to break the

hearts of young men, like you, who gravitate like satellites. Women

delight in this play--but like many other tragic plays, it commences

with smiles but terminates in tears and blood! Moreover, my young

friend, in withdrawing seasonably, you are not only wise, you are

generous!

I know that Edgar has been for a long time deeply in love with this

woman; you are merely indulging in a rural flirtation, a momentary

caprice. In a little while, vain rivalry will make you blind, embitter

your disposition, and deceive you as to the nature of your

sentiments--believing yourself seriously in love you will be unable to

withdraw. To-day your pride is not interested; wait not until to-morrow.

Edgar is your friend, you must respect his prerogatives. A woman gave

you a wise example to follow--she suddenly withdrew from the presence of

you both when she saw a threatening danger.

A pretty woman is always dangerous when she comes to inaugurate the

divinity of her charms in a lonely château, in the presence of two

inflammable young men. I detect the cunning of the fair unknown: she

lavishes innocent smiles upon both of you--she equally divides her

coquetries between you; she approaches you to dazzle--she leaves you to

make herself regretted; she entangles you in the illusion of her

brilliant fascination; she moves to seduce your senses; she speaks to

charm your soul; she sings to destroy your reason.

Forget yourself for one instant, my young friend, on this flowery slope,

and woe betide you when you reach the bottom! Be intoxicated by this

feast of sweet words, soft perfumes and radiant smiles, then send me a

report of your soul's condition when you recover your senses! At

present, in spite of your skirmishes of wit, you are still the friend of

Edgar ... hostility will certainly come. Friendship is too feeble a

sentiment to struggle against love. This passion is more violent than

tropical storms--I have felt it--I am one of its victims now! There

lives another woman--half siren, half Circe--who has crossed my path in

life, as you well know. If I had collected in my house as many friends

as Socrates desired to see in his, and all these friends were to become

my rivals, I feel that my jealousy would fire the house, and I would

gladly perish in the flames after seeing them all dead before my eyes.

Oh, fatal preoccupation! I only wished to speak of your affairs, and

here I am talking of my own. The clouds that I heap upon your horizon

roll back towards mine.

In exchange for my advice, render me a service. You know Madame de

Braimes, the friend of Mlle. de Chateaudun. Madame de Braimes is

acquainted with everything that I am ignorant of, and that my happiness

in life depends upon discovering. It is time for the inexplicable to be

explained. A human enigma cannot for ever conceal its answer. Every

trial must end before the despair of him who is tried. Madame de Braimes

is an accomplice in this enigma; her secret now is a burden on her

lips, she must let it fall into your ear, and I will cherish a life-long

gratitude to you both.

Any friend but you would smile at this apparently strange language--I

write you a long chapter of psychological and moral inductions to show

my knowledge about the management of love affairs and affairs

otherwise--I divine all your enigmas; I illuminate the darkness of all

your mysteries, and when it comes to working on my own account, to be

perspicacious for my own benefit, to make discoveries about my own love

affair, I suddenly abdicate, I lose my luminous faculties, I put a band

over my eyes, and humbly beg a friend to lend me the thread of the

labyrinth and guide my steps in the bewildering darkness. All this must

appear singular to you, to me it is quite natural. Through the thousand

dark accidents that love scatters in the path of life, light can only

reach us by means of a friend. We ourselves are helpless; looking at

others we are lynx-eyed, looking at ourselves we are almost blind. It is

the optical nerve of the passions. It is mortifying to thus sacrifice

the highest prerogatives of man at the feet of a woman, to feel

compelled to yield to her caprices and submit to the inexorable

exigencies of love. The artificial life I am leading is odious to me.

Patience is a virtue that died with Job, and I cannot perform the

miracle of resuscitating it.

Take my advice--be prudent--be wise--be generous--leave Richeport and

come to me; we can assist and console each other; you can render me a

great service, I will explain how when we meet--I will remain here for a

few days; do not hesitate to come at once--Between a friend who fears

you and a friend who loves you and claims you--can you hesitate?