RAYMOND DE VILLIERS _to_ MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère).
Paris, Aug. 11th 18--.
This is probably the last letter that I shall ever write to you. Do not
pity me, my fate is more worthy of envy than of pity. I never knew, I
never dreamed of anything more beautiful. It has been said time and
again that real life is tame, spiritless and disenchanted by the side of
the fictions of the poets. What a mistake! There is a more wonderful
inventor than any rhapsodist, and that inventor is called reality. It
wears the magic ring, and imagination is but a poor magician compared
with it. Madame, do not write to Mademoiselle de Chateaudun. Since you
have not done so my letters must necessarily have miscarried. Blessed be
the happy chance which prevented you from following my advice! What did
I say to you? I was a fool. Be careful not to alarm my darling. The man
has lived long enough upon whom she has bestowed her love for one single
day. Do not write, it is too late; but admire the decrees of fate. The
diamond that I had sought with the Prince de Monbert, I have unwittingly
found; I assisted in searching for it, while it was hid, unknown to me,
in my heart. Louise is Irene. Madame Guérin is Mademoiselle de
Chateaudun. If you could have seen her delight in revealing her
identity! I saw her joyful and triumphant as if her love were not the
most precious gift she could bestow. When she proclaimed herself, I felt
an icy chill pass through me; but I thanked God for the bliss which I
shall not survive, so great that death must follow after.
"Do you not love me well enough," she said, "to pardon me my fortune?"
How was she to know that in revealing herself she had signed my
death-warrant?
She spoke, laughingly, of M. de Monbert, as she had done of Edgar; to
excuse herself she related a story of disenchantment which you already
know, madame. It would have been honorable in me, at this juncture, to
have undeceived Irene and enlightened her upon the Prince's passion. I
did so, but feebly. When happiness is offered us loaded with ball, we
have no longer the right to be generous.
We are to be married privately to-morrow, without noise or display. A
plain-looking carriage will wait for us on the Place de la Madeleine;
immediately on leaving the church we shall set out for Villiers. M. de
Meilhan is at Richeport. M. de Monbert is in Brittany. Eight days must
elapse before the news can reach them. Thus I have before me eight days
of holy intoxication. What man has ever been able to say as much?
Recall to mind the words of one of your poet friends; It is better to
die young and restore to God, your judge, a heart pure and full of
illusions. Your poet is right; only it is more ecstatic to die in the
arms of happiness, and to be buried with the flower of a love which has
not yet faded.
My love would never have followed the fatal law of common-place
affection; years would never have withered it in their passage. But what
signifies its duration, if we can crowd eternity into an hour? What
signifies the number of days if the days are full?
Nevertheless, I cannot refrain from regretting an existence which
promises so much beauty. We would have been very happy in my little
château on the Creuse. I was born for fireside joys, the delights of
home. I already saw my beautiful children playing over my green lawns,
and pressing joyfully around their mother. What exquisite pleasure to be
able to initiate into the mysteries of fortune the sweet and noble being
whom I then believed to be poor and friendless! I would take possession
of her life to make a long fête-day of it. What tender care would I not
bestow upon so dear and charming a destiny! Downy would be her nest,
warm the sun that shone upon her, sweet the perfumes that surrounded
her, soft the breezes that fanned her cheek, green and velvety the turf
under her delicate feet! But a truce to such sweet dreams. I know M. de
Monbert; what I have seen of him is sufficient. M. de Meilhan, too, will
not disappoint me. I shall not conceal myself; in eight days these two
men will have found me. In eight days they will knock at my door, like
two creditors, demanding restitution, one of Louise, the other of Irene.
If I were to descend to justification, even if I were to succeed in
convincing them of my loyalty and uprightness, their despair would cry
out all the louder for vengeance. Then, madame, what shall I do? Shall I
try to take the life of my friends after having robbed them of their
happiness? Let them kill me; I shall be ready; but they shall see upon
my lips, growing cold in death, the triumphant smile of victorious love;
my last sigh, breathing Irene's name, will be a cruel insult to these
unhappy men, who will envy me even in the arms of death.
I neither believe nor desire that Irene should survive me. My soul, in
leaving, will draw hers after it. What would she do here below, without
me? You will see, that feeling herself gently drawn upward, she will
leave a world that I no longer inhabit. I repeat, that I would not have
her live on earth without me. But sorrow does not always kill; youth is
strong, and nature works miracles. I have seen trees, struck by
lightning, still stand erect and put forth new leaves. I have seen
blasted lives drag their weary length to a loveless old age. I have seen
noble hearts severed from their mates, slowly consumed by the weariness
of widowhood and solitude. If we could die when we have lost those we
love, it would be too sweet to love. Jealous of his creature, God does
not always permit it. It is a grace which he accords only to the elect.
If, by a fatality not without precedent, Irene should have the strength
and misfortune to survive me, to you, madame, do I confide her. Care for
her, not with the hope of consoling her, but to banish all bitterness
from her regrets. Picture my death to her, not as the expiation of the
innocent whim of her youth, but as that of a happiness too great to go
unchecked. Tell her that there are great joys as well as great sorrows,
and that when they have outweighed the human measure of happiness, the
heart which holds them must break and grow still. Tell her, ah! above
all, tell her that I have dearly loved her, and if I carry her whole
life away with me, I leave her mine in exchange. Finally, madame, tell
her that I died blessing her, regretting that I had but one life to lay
down as the price of her love.
While I write, I see her at her window, smiling, radiant, beautiful,
beaming with happiness, resplendent with life and youth.
Farewell, madame; an eternal farewell!