RENE DE CHATEAUDUN _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isere).
Paris, Aug. 5th 18--.
All of your letters have reached me at once. I received two yesterday
and one this morning, the latter being written first and dated at Berne.
Ah! if it had reached me in due time, what distress I would have been
spared! What! he wrote you, "I love her," and said nothing to me! When
he left me you know how unhappy he was, and I, who was made so miserable
by his departure, I thought he was indifferent!
When I told you that I was about to sacrifice myself to console Madame
de Meilhan, you must have thought me insane; I can see by your letter
from Geneva, which I received yesterday, that you were dreadfully
alarmed about me. Cursed journey! Cursed mail! A letter lost might have
destroyed my happiness for ever! This letter was delayed on the road
several days, and, during these several days, I suffered more torture
than I ever felt during the most painful moments of my life. These
useless sorrows, that I might so easily have avoided, render me
incredulous and trembling before this future of promised happiness. I
have suffered so much that joy itself finds me fearful; and then this
happiness is so great that it is natural to receive it with sadness and
doubt.
He told you of his delirious joy, on recognising me at the window; but
he did not tell you, he could not tell you, of my uneasiness, of my
dreadful suspicions, my despair when I saw him in this garret.
Our situations were not the same; what astonished and delighted him,
also astonished and delighted me, but at the same time filled me with
alarm. He believed me to be poor, discovered me in an attic; it was
nothing to be surprised at; the only wonderful thing about it was that
my garret should be immediately opposite the house where he lived.... I
knew he was wealthy; I knew he was the Count de Villiers; I knew he was
of an old and noble family; I knew from his conversation that he had
travelled over Italy in a manner suitable to his rank; I found him in
Richeport, elegant and generous; he possesses great simplicity of
manner, it is true, but it is the lordly simplicity of a great man....
In fact, everything I knew about him convinces me that his proper place
was not a garret, and that if I saw him there, I did not see him in his
own house.
Remember, Valentine, that for two months I have lived upon deceptions; I
have been disillusioned; I have inspired the most varied and excessive
griefs; I have studied the most picturesque consolations; I have seen
myself lamented at the Odeon, by one lover in a box with painted women,
... and at Havre by another in a tavern with a slave.... I might now see
myself lamented at Paris by a third in a garret with a grisette! Oh!
torture! in this one instant of dread, all the arrows of jealousy
rankled in my heart. Oh! I could not be indignant this time, I could not
complain, I could only die.... And I think that if I had not seen the
pure joy beaming in his eyes, lighting up his noble countenance; if I
had not instantly divined, comprehended everything, I believe I would
have dashed myself from the window to escape the strange agony that made
my heart cold and my brain dizzy--agony that I could not and would not
endure. But he looked too happy to be culpable; he made a sign, and I
saw that he was coming over to see me. I waited for him--and in what a
state! My hair was disarranged, and I called Blanchard to assist me in
brushing it; my voice was so weak she came running to me frightened,
thinking me ill ... a thousand confused thoughts rushed through my
brain; one thing was clear: I had found him again, I was about to see
him!
When I was dressed--oh! that morning little did I think I would need a
becoming dress, ... I sat on the sofa in my poor little parlor, and
there, pale with emotion, scarcely daring to breathe, I listened with
burning impatience to the different noises about the house. In a few
moments I heard a knock, the door open, a voice exclaim, "You, Monsieur
le Comte!" He did not wait to be announced, but came in at once to the
parlor where I was. He was so joyous at finding me, and I so delighted
at seeing him, that for the first blissful moments of our meeting
neither of us thought explanations necessary; his joy proved that he was
free to love me, and my manner showed that I might be everything to him.
When he found his voice, he said to me: "What! were you this cherished
star that I have loved for two years?"
Then I remembered my momentary fears, and said: "What! were you the
mysterious beacon? Why were you living there? Why did the Comte de
Villiers dwell in a garret?"
Then, dear Valentine, he told me his noble history; he confessed, rather
unwillingly, that he had been poor like myself; very poor, because he
had given all his fortune to save the honor of a friend, M. Frederick de
B---- Oh! how I wept, while listening to this touching story, so full of
sublime simplicity, generous carelessness and self-sacrifice! This would
have made me adore him if I had not already madly loved him. While he
was telling me, I was thinking of the unfortunate Frederick's wife, of
her anxiety, of the torture she suffered, as a wife and a mother, when
she believed her husband lost and her children ruined; of her
astonishment and wild joy when she saw them all saved; of her deep,
eternal gratitude! and I had but one thought, I said to myself: "How I
would like to talk with this woman of Raymond!"
I wished in turn to relate my own history; he refused to listen to me,
and I did not insist. I wished to be generous, and let him for some time
longer believe me to be poor and miserable. He was so happy at the idea
of enriching and ennobling me, that I had not the courage to disenchant
him.
However, yesterday, I was obliged to tell him everything; in his
impatience to hasten our marriage he had devoted the morning to the
drawing up of his papers, contracts and settlements; for two days he had
been tormenting me for my family papers in order to arrange them, and to
find the register of my birth, which was indispensable when he appeared
before the mayor. I had always put off giving it to him, but yesterday
he entreated me so earnestly, that I was compelled to assent. In order
to prepare him for the shock, I told him my papers were in my secretary,
and that if he would come into my room he could see them. At the sight
of the grand family pictures covering the walls of my retreat, he stood
aghast; then he examined them with uneasiness. Some of the portraits
bore the names and titles of the illustrious persons they represented.
Upon reading the name, Victor Louis de Chateaudun, Marechal de France,
he stopped motionless and looked at me with a strange air; then he read,
beneath the portrait of a beautiful woman, the following inscription:
"Marie Felicité Diane de Chateaudun, Duchesse de Montignan," and turning
quickly towards me, with a face deadly pale, he exclaimed: "Louise?"
"No, not Louise, but Irene!" I replied; and my voice rang with ancestral
pride when I thus appeared before him in my true character.
For a moment he was silent, and a bitter, sad expression came over his
countenance, that frightened me. Then I thought, it is nothing but envy;
it is hard for a man who knows he is generous to be outdone in
generosity. It is disappointing, when he thinks he is bestowing
everything, to find he is about to receive millions; it is cruel, when
he dreams of making a sacrifice like the hero of a novel, to find
himself constrained to destroy all the romance by conducting the affair
on a business basis. But Raymond was more than sad, and his almost
severe demeanor alarmed my love, as well as my dignity ... he crossed to
the other side of the room and sat down. I followed him, trembling with
agitation, and my eyes filled with tears.
"You no longer love me," I said.
"I dare not love the fiancée of my friend."
"Don't mention M. de Monbert, nor your scruples, he would not understand
them."
"But he told you he loved you, Mlle., why did you leave him so
abruptly?"
"I distrusted this love and wished to test it."
"What is the result of the test?"
"He does not love me, and I despise him."
"He does love you, and you ought to respect him."
Then, in order to avoid painful explanations and self-justification, I
handed him a long letter I had written to my cousin, in which I related,
without telling her of my disguise, that I had seen the Prince de
Monbert at the theatre, described the people whom he was with, and my
disgust at his conduct. I begged her to read this letter to the Prince
himself, who is with her now--he has followed her to one of her estates
in Brittany; he would see from the decided tone of my letter, that my
resolution was taken, that I did not love him, and that the best thing
he could do was to forget me.
I had written this letter yesterday, under your inspiration, and to ward
off the imaginary dangers you feared. Rely upon it, my dear Valentine,
M. de Monbert knows that he has acted culpably towards me; he might,
perhaps, endeavor to prevent my marriage, but when he knows I am no
longer free, he will be compelled to resign himself to my loss; don't be
alarmed, I know of two beautiful creatures whom he will allow to console
him. A man really unhappy would not have confided the story of his
disdained love to all his friends, valets and the detectives; he would
not hand over to idle gossip a dear and sacred name; a man who has no
respect for his love, does not love seriously; he deserves neither
regard nor pity. I will write to him myself to-morrow, if you desire it;
but as to a quarrel, what does he claim? I have never given him any
rights; if he threatens to provoke my husband to a duel, I have only to
say: "Take for your seconds Messrs. Ernest and George de S., who were
intoxicated with you at the Odeon," and he will blush with shame, and
instantly recognise how odious and ridiculous is his anger.
I left Raymond alone in my room reading this letter, and I returned to
the saloon to weep bitterly. I could not bear to see him displeased with
me; I knew he would accuse me of being trifling and capricious--the idea
of having offended him pierced my heart with anguish. I know not if the
letter justified me in his eyes, whether he thought it honest and
dignified, but as soon as he had finished reading it he called me:
"Irene," he said, and I trembled with sweet emotion on hearing him, for
the first time, utter my real name; I returned to the next room, he took
my hand and continued: "Pardon me for believing, for a moment, that you
were capricious and trifling, and I forgive you for having made me act
an odious part towards one of my friends."
Then he told me in a tender voice that he understood my conduct, and
that it was right; that when one is not sure of loving her intended, or
of being loved by him, she has a right to test him, and that it was only
honest and just. Then he smilingly asked me if I did not wish to try
him, and leave him a month or two to see if I was beloved by him.
"Oh! no," I cried, "I believe in you. I do not wish to leave you. Oh!
how can true lovers live apart from each other? How can they be
separated for a single day?"
I recalled what you told me when I abandoned M. de Monbert, and
acknowledged that you were right when you said: "Genuine love is
confiding, it shuns doubt because it cannot endure it."
This sad impression that he felt upon learning that Louise Guérin was
Irene de Chateaudun, was the only cloud that passed over our happiness.
Soon joy returned to us lively and pure--and we spoke of you tenderly;
he was the poor wounded man that gave you so much uneasiness; he was the
model husband you had chosen for me, and whom I refused with such proud
scorn!
Ah! my good Valentine, how I thank you for having nursed him as a
sister; how noble and charming you were to him; I would like to reward
you by having you here to witness our happiness. And you must thank the
esteemed M. de Braimes for me, and my beautiful Irene, who taught him to
love my name, and brought him a bouquet every morning; and your handsome
Henri, the golden-haired angel, who brought him his little doves in your
work-basket to take care of, while he studied his lessons. Embrace for
me these dear children he caressed, who cheered his hours of suffering,
whom I so love for his sake and yours.
Will you not let me show my appreciation of my little goddaughter by
rendering her independent of future accidents, enabling her without
imprudence to marry for love?
I am so happy in loving that I can imagine it to be the only source of
joy to others; yet this happiness is so great that I find myself asking
if my heart is equal to its blessings; if my poor reason, wearied by so
many trials, will have sufficient strength to support these violent
emotions; if happiness has not, like misery, a madness. I endeavor when
alone to calm my excited mind; I sit down and try to quietly think over
my past life with that inflexibility of judgment, that analyzing
pedantry, of which you have so often accused me.
You remember, Valentine, more than once you have told me you saw in me
two persons, a romantic young girl and a disenchanted old
philosopher.... Ah! well, to-day the romantic young girl has reached the
most thrilling chapter of her life; she feels her weak head whirl at the
prospect of such intoxicating bliss, and she appeals to the old
philosopher for assistance. She tells him how this bliss frightens her;
she begs him to reassure her about this beautiful future opening before
her, by proving to her that it is natural and logical; that it is the
result of her past life, and finally that however great it may be,
however extraordinary it may seem, it is possible, it is lasting,
because it is bought at the price of humiliation, of sorrow, of trials!
Yes, I confess it, these happy events appear to be so strange, so
impossible, that I try to explain them, to calmly analyze them and
believe in their reality.
I recall one by one all my impressions of the last four years, and exert
my mind to discover in the strangeness, in the fatality, in the
excessive injustice of my past misfortunes, a natural explanation for
extraordinary and incredible events of the present. The reverses
themselves were romantic and improbable, therefore the reparations and
consolations should in their turn be equally romantic. Is it an ordinary
thing for a young girl reared like myself in Parisian luxury, belonging
to an illustrious family, to be reduced to the sternest poverty, and
through family pride and dignity to conceal her name? Is not such
dignity, assailed by fate, destined sooner or later to vindicate itself?
You see that through myself I would have been restored to my rank. M. de
Meilhan wished to marry me without fortune or name.... Yesterday, M. de
Villiers knew not who I was; my uncle's inheritance has therefore been
of no assistance to me. I believe that native dignity will always
imperceptibly assert itself. I believe in the logic of events; order has
imperious laws; it is useless to throw statues to the ground, the time
always comes when they are restored to their pedestals. From my rank I
fell unjustly, unhappily. I must be restored to it justly. Every glaring
injustice has a natural consequent, a brilliant reparation, I have
suffered extraordinary misfortune; I have a right to realize ideal
happiness. At twenty, I lost in one year my noble and too generous
father and my poor mother; it is only just that I should have a lover to
replace these lost ones.
As to these violent passions which you pretend I have inspired, but
which are by no means serious, I examine them calmly and find in the
analysis an explanation of many of the misfortunes, many of the mistakes
of poor women, who are accused of inconstancy and perfidy, and who are,
on the contrary, only culpable through innocence and honest faith. They
believe they love, and engage themselves, and then, once engaged, they
discover that they are not in love. Genuine love is composed of two
sentiments; we experience one of these when we believe we love; we are
uneasy, agitated by an imperfect sentiment that seeks completion; we
struggle in its feeble ties; we are neither bound nor free; not happy,
nor at liberty to seek happiness at another source.... The old
philosopher speaks--hear him.
There are two kinds of love, social love and natural love; voluntary
love and involuntary love. An accomplished and deserving young man loves
a woman; he loves her, and deserves to be loved in return; she wishes to
love him, and when alone thinks of him; if his name is mentioned, she
blushes; if any one says in her presence, "Madame B. used to be in love
with him," she is disturbed, agitated. These symptoms are certain proofs
of the state of her heart, and she says to herself, "I love Adolphe,"
just as I said, "I love Roger." ... But the voice of this man does not
move her to tears; his fiery glances do not make her turn pale or blush;
her hand does not tremble in the presence of his.... She only feels for
him social love; there exists between them a harmony of ideas and
education, but no sympathy of nature.
The other love is more dangerous, especially for married women, who
mistake remorse for that honest repugnance necessarily inspired in every
woman of refined mind and romantic imagination.
I frankly confess that if I had been married, if I had no longer control
of my actions, I should have thought I was in love with Edgar.... I
should have mistaken for an odious and culpable passion, the fearful
trouble, insupportable uneasiness that his love caused me to feel. But
my vigilant reason, my implacable good faith watched over my heart; they
said: "Shun Roger;" they said: "Fear Edgar...." If I had married Roger,
woe to me! Conventional love, leaving my heart all its dreams, would
have embittered my life.... But if, more foolish still, I had married
Edgar, woe, woe to me! because one does not sacrifice with impunity to
an incomplete love all of one's theories, habits and even weaknesses and
early prejudices.
What enlightened me quickly upon the unreality of this love was the
liberty of my position. Why being free should I fear a legitimate love?
Strange mystery! wonderful instinct! With Roger, I sadly said to myself:
"I love him, but it is not with love." ... With Edgar, I said in fright:
"This is love, yet I do not love him." And then when Raymond appeared,
my heart, my reason, my faith at the first glance recognised him, and
without hesitation, almost without prudence, I cried out, "It is he....
I love him." ... Now this is what I call real love, ideal love, harmony
of ideas and sympathy of hearts.
Oh! it does me good to be a little pedantic; I am so excited, it calms
me; I am not so afraid of going crazy when I adopt the sententious
manner. Ah! when I can laugh I am happy. Anything that for a moment
checks my wild imagination, reassures me.
This morning we laughed like two children! You will laugh too; when I
write one name it will set you off; he said to me, "I must go to my
coachmaker's and see if my travelling carriage needs any repairs." I
said, "I have a new one; I will send for it, and let you see it." In an
hour my carriage was brought into the court-yard. With peals of laughter
he recognised Lady Penock's carriage. "Lady Penock! What! do you know
Lady Penock? Are you the audacious young lover who pursued her until she
was compelled to sell me her carriage." "Yes, I was the man." Ah! how
gay we were; he was the hero of Lady Penock, his was the little light,
he was the wounded man, he was the husband selected for me! Ah! it all
makes me dizzy; and we shall set off to travel in this carriage.
Ah! Lady Penock, you must pardon him.