EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to the_ PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Porte Restante (Rouen).
PARIS, Aug. 11th 18--.
Here I am in Paris, gloomy, with nothing to do, not knowing how to fill
up the void in my life, discontented with myself, ridiculous in my own
eyes, alike in my love and in my despair. I have never felt so sad, so
wretched, so cast-down. My days and nights are passed in endless
self-accusation: one by one I revise every word and action relating to
Louise Guérin. I compose superb sentences which I had forgotten to
pronounce, the effect of which would have been irresistible. I tell
myself: "On such a day, you were guilty of a stupid timidity, which
would have made even a college-boy laugh." It was the moment for daring.
Louise, unseen, threw you a look which you were too stupid to
understand. The evening that Madame Taverneau was at Rouen, you allowed
yourself to be intimidated like a fool, by a few grand airs, an
affectation of virtue over which the least persistence would have
triumphed. Your delicacy ruined you. A little roughness doesn't hurt
sometimes, especially with prudes. You have not profited by a single one
of your advantages; you let every opportunity pass. In short, I am like
a general who has lost a battle, and who, having retired to his tent, in
the midst of a field strewn with the dead and the dying marks out, too
late, a strategic plan which would have infallibly gained him the
victory!
What a pitiless monster an unsatiated desire is, tearing your heart with
its sharp claws and piercing beak for want of other prey! The punishment
of Prometheus pales beside it, for the arrows of Hercules cannot reach
this unseen vulture! This is my first unsuccessful love; the first
falcon that has returned to me without bringing the dove in his talons;
I am devoured by an inexpressible rage; I pace my room like a wild
beast, uttering inarticulate cries; I do not know whether I love or
hate Louise the most, but I should take infinite delight in strangling
her with her blonde tresses and trampling her, affrighted and suppliant,
under my feet.
My good Roger, I weary you with my lamentations; but whom can we weary,
if not our friends? When will you return to Paris? Soon, I hope, since
you have ceased writing to me.
I have gone back to the lady with the turban, passing nearly every
evening in the catafalque, which she calls her drawing-room. This
lugubrious habitation suits my melancholy. She finds me more gloomy,
more Giaour-like, more Lara-like than usual; I am her hero, her god! or
rather her demon, for she has now taken to the sorceries of the satanic
school! I assure you that she annoys me inexpressibly, and yet I feel a
sort of pleasure in being admired by her. It consoles my vanity for
Louise's disdain, but not my heart. Alas! my poor heart, which still
bleeds and suffers. I caught a glimpse of Paradise through a half-open
door. The door is shut, and I weep upon the threshold!
If Louise were dead, I might be calm; but she exists, and not for
me--that thought makes life insupportable. I can think of nothing else,
and I scarcely know whether the words I write to you make any sense. I
leave my letter unfinished. I will finish it this evening if I can
succeed in diverting myself, for a moment, from this despair which
possesses me.
Roger, something incredible has happened, overturning every calculation,
every prevision. I am stupefied, benumbed--I was at the Marquise's,
where it was darker than usual. One solitary lamp flickered in a corner,
dozing under a huge shade. A fat gentleman, buried in an easy-chair,
drowsily retailed the news of the day.
I was not listening to him; I was thinking of Louise's little white
couch, from which I had once lifted the snowy curtain; with that
sorrowful intensity, those poignant regrets which torture rejected
lovers. Suddenly a familiar name struck my ear--the name of Irene de
Chateaudun. I became attentive--"She is to be married to-morrow,"
continued the well-posted gentleman, "to--wait a minute, I get confused
about names and dates; with that exception, my memory is excellent--a
young man, Gaston, Raymond, I am not certain which, but his first name
ends in _on_ I am sure."
I eagerly questioned the fat man; he knew nothing more; hastily
returning to my rooms I sent Joseph out to obtain further information.
My servant, who is quick and intelligent, and merits a master more given
to intrigue and gallantry than I, went to the twelve mayors' offices. He
brought me a list of all the banns that had been published.
The news was true; Irene de Chateaudun marries Raymond. What does that
signify? Irene your fiancée, Raymond our friend! What comedy of errors
is being played here? This, then, was the motive of these flights, these
disappearances. They were laughing at you. It seems to me rather an
audacious proceeding. How does it happen that Raymond, who knew of your
projected marriage with Mademoiselle de Chateaudun, should have stepped
in your shoes? This comes of deeds of prowess à la Don Quixote, and
rescues of old Englishwomen.
Hasten, my friend, by railroad, post-horses, in the stirrup, on
hippogriff's wing; what am I talking about? You will scarcely receive my
letter ere the marriage has taken place. But I will keep watch for you.
I will acquit myself of your revenge, and Mademoiselle Irene de
Chateaudun shall not become Madame Raymond de Villiers until I have
whispered that in her ear which will make her paler than her marriage
veil. As to Raymond, I am not astonished at what he has done; I felt
towards him at Richeport a hate which never deceives me and which I
always feel towards cowards and hypocrites; he talked too much of virtue
not to be a scoundrel. I would I had the power to raze out from my life
the time that I loved him. It is impossible to oppose this revolting
marriage. How is it possible that Irene de Chateaudun, who was to enjoy
the honor of being your wife, whom you had represented to me as a woman
of high intelligence and lofty culture, could have allowed herself to
be impressed, after having known you, by the jeremiads of this
sentimental sniveller? Since Eve, women have disliked all that is noble,
frank and loyal; to fall is an unconquerable necessity of their nature;
they have always preferred, to the voice of an honorable man, the
perfidious whisper of the evil spirit, which shows its painted face
among the leaves and wraps its slimy coils around the fatal tree.