Dear,--no words can express the astonishment of all our party when, at
luncheon, we were told that you had both gone, and, above all, when the
postilion who took you to Marseilles handed me your mad letter. Why,
naughty child, it was of your happiness, and nothing else, that made the
theme of those talks below the rock, on the "Louise" seat, and you had
not the faintest justification for objecting to them. _Ingrata!_ My
sentence on you is that you return here at my first summons. In that
horrid letter, scribbled on the inn paper, you did not tell me
what would be your next stopping place; so I must address this to
Chantepleurs.
Listen to me, dear sister of my heart. Know first, that my mind is set
on your happiness. Your husband, dear Louise, commands respect, not only
by his natural gravity and dignified expression, but also because he
somehow impresses one with the splendid power revealed in his piquant
plainness and in the fire of his velvet eyes; and you will understand
that it was some little time before I could meet him on those easy terms
which are almost necessary for intimate conversation. Further, this man
has been Prime Minister, and he idolizes you; whence it follows that he
must be a profound dissembler. To fish up secrets, therefore, from the
rocky caverns of this diplomatic soul is a work demanding a skilful hand
no less than a ready brain. Nevertheless, I succeeded at last, without
rousing my victim's suspicions, in discovering many things of which you,
my pet, have no conception.
You know that, between us two, my part is rather that of reason, yours
of imagination: I personify sober duty, you reckless love. It has
pleased fate to continue in our lives this contrast in character
which was imperceptible to all except ourselves. I am a simple country
vicountess, very ambitious, and making it her task to lead her family on
the road to prosperity. On the other hand, Macumer, late Duc de Soria,
has a name in the world, and you, a duchess by right, reign in Paris,
where reigning is no easy matter even for kings. You have a considerable
fortune, which will be doubled if Macumer carries out his projects for
developing his great estates in Sardinia, the resources of which are
matter of common talk at Marseilles. Deny, if you can, that if either
has the right to be jealous, it is not you. But, thank God, we have
both hearts generous enough to place our friendship beyond reach of such
vulgar pettiness.
I know you, dear; I know that, ere now, you are ashamed of having fled.
But don't suppose that your flight will save you from a single word of
discourse which I had prepared for your benefit to-day beneath the rock.
Read carefully then, I beg of you, what I say, for it concerns you even
more closely than Macumer, though he also enters largely into my sermon.
Firstly, my dear, you do not love him. Before two years are over, you
will be sick of adoration. You will never look on Felipe as a husband;
to you he will always be the lover whom you can play with, for that
is how all women treat their lovers. You do not look up to him, or
reverence, or worship him as a woman should the god of her idolatry. You
see, I have made a study of love, my sweet, and more than once have I
taken soundings in the depth of my own heart. Now, as the result of a
careful diagnosis of your case, I can say with confidence, this is not
love.
Yes, dear Queen of Paris, you cannot escape the destiny of all queens.
The day will come when you long to be treated as a light-o'-love, to
be mastered and swept off your feet by a strong man, one who will not
prostrate himself in adoration before you, but will seize your arm
roughly in a fit of jealousy. Macumer loves you too fondly ever to be
able either to resist you or find fault with you. A single glance from
you, a single coaxing word, would melt his sternest resolution. Sooner
or later, you will learn to scorn this excessive devotion. He spoils
you, alas! just as I used to spoil you at the convent, for you are a
most bewitching woman, and there is no escaping your siren-like charms.
Worse than all, you are candid, and it often happens that our happiness
depends on certain social hypocrisies to which you will never stoop. For
instance, society will not tolerate a frank display of the wife's power
over her husband. The convention is that a man must no more show himself
the lover of his wife, however passionately he adores her, than a
married woman may play the part of a mistress. This rule you both
disregard.
In the first place, my child, from what you have yourself told me, it
is clear that the one unpardonable sin in society is to be happy. If
happiness exists, no one must know of it. But this is a small point.
What seems to me important is that the perfect equality which reigns
between lovers ought never to appear in the case of husband and wife,
under pain of undermining the whole fabric of society and entailing
terrible disasters. If it is painful to see a man whom nature has made a
nonentity, how much worse is the spectacle of a man of parts brought
to that position? Before very long you will have reduced Macumer to the
mere shadow of a man. He will cease to have a will and character of his
own, and become mere clay in your hands. You will have so completely
moulded him to your likeness, that your household will consist of only
one person instead of two, and that one necessarily imperfect. You will
regret it bitterly; but when at last you deign to open your eyes, the
evil will be past cure. Do what we will, women do not, and never
will, possess the qualities which are characteristic of men, and these
qualities are absolutely indispensable to family life. Already Macumer,
blinded though he is, has a dim foreshadowing of this future; he feels
himself less a man through his love. His visit to Sardinia is a proof to
me that he hopes by this temporary separation to succeed in recovering
his old self.
You never scruple to use the power which his love has placed in your
hand. Your position of vantage may be read in a gesture, a look, a tone.
Oh! darling, how truly are you the mad wanton your mother called you!
You do not question, I fancy, that I am greatly Louis' superior. Well,
I would ask you, have you ever heard me contradict him? Am I not always,
in the presence of others, the wife who respects in him the authority of
the family? Hypocrisy! you will say. Well, listen to me. It is true that
if I want to give him any advice which I think may be of use to him, I
wait for the quiet and seclusion of our bedroom to explain what I
think and wish; but, I assure you, sweetheart, that even there I never
arrogate to myself the place of mentor. If I did not remain in private
the same submissive wife that I appear to others, he would lose
confidence in himself. Dear, the good we do to others is spoilt unless
we efface ourselves so completely that those we help have no sense of
inferiority. There is a wonderful sweetness in these hidden sacrifices,
and what a triumph for me in your unsuspecting praises of Louis! There
can be no doubt also that the happiness, the comfort, the hope of the
last two years have restored what misfortune, hardship, solitude, and
despondency has robbed him of.
This, then, is the sum-total of my observations. At the present moment
you love in Felipe, not your husband, but yourself. There is truth in
your father's words; concealed by the spring-flowers of your passion
lies all the great lady's selfishness. Ah! my child, how I must love you
to speak such bitter truths!
Let me tell you, if you will promise never to breathe a word of this
to the Baron, the end of our talk. We had been singing your praises
in every key, for he soon discovered that I loved you like a
fondly-cherished sister, and having insensibly brought him to a
confidential mood, I ventured to say:
"Louise has never yet had to struggle with life. She has been the spoilt
child of fortune, and she might yet have to pay for this were you not
there to act the part of father as well as lover."
"Ah! but is it possible?..." He broke off abruptly, like a man who sees
himself on the edge of a precipice. But the exclamation was enough for
me. No doubt, if you had stayed, he would have spoken more freely later.
My sweet, think of the day awaiting you when your husband's strength
will be exhausted, when pleasure will have turned to satiety, and he
sees himself, I will not say degraded, but shorn of his proper dignity
before you. The stings of conscience will then waken a sort of remorse
in him, all the more painful for you, because you will feel yourself
responsible, and you will end by despising the man whom you have not
accustomed yourself to respect. Remember, too, that scorn with a woman
is only the earliest phase of hatred. You are too noble and generous, I
know, ever to forget the sacrifices which Felipe has made for you; but
what further sacrifices will be left for him to make when he has, so to
speak, served up himself at the first banquet? Woe to the man, as to
the woman, who has left no desire unsatisfied! All is over then. To our
shame or our glory--the point is too nice for me to decide--it is of
love alone that women are insatiable.
Oh! Louise, change yet, while there is still time. If you would only
adopt the same course with Macumer that I have done with l'Estorade, you
might rouse the sleeping lion in your husband, who is made of the stuff
of heroes. One might almost say that you grudge him his greatness.
Would you feel no pride in using your power for other ends than your own
gratification, in awakening the genius of a gifted man, as I in raising
to a higher level one of merely common parts?
Had you remained with us, I should still have written this letter, for
in talking you might have cut me short or got the better of me with your
sharp tongue. But I know that you will read this thoughtfully and weigh
my warnings. Dear heart, you have everything in life to make you happy,
do not spoil your chances; return to Paris, I entreat you, as soon
as Macumer comes back. The engrossing claims of society, of which I
complained, are necessary for both of you; otherwise you would spend
your life in mutual self-absorption. A married woman ought not to be too
lavish of herself. The mother of a family, who never gives her household
an opportunity of missing her, runs the risk of palling on them. If I
have several children, as I trust for my own sake I may, I assure you I
shall make a point of reserving to myself certain hours which shall
be held sacred; even to one's children one's presence should not be a
matter of daily bread.
Farewell, my dear jealous soul! Do you know that many women would be
highly flattered at having roused this passing pang in you? Alas! I can
only mourn, for what is not mother in me is your dear friend. A thousand
loves. Make what excuse you will for leaving; if you are not sure of
Macumer, I am of Louis.