etiquette, and made her society absolutely necessary to me. Once when
I was walking with her in the garden, and she leaned on my arm, she
said: “You are Bertollon’s most intimate friend and confidant. I
consider you mine also, and your character gives me a claim on your
kindness. Speak openly, Alamontade, for you know the reason--why does
Bertollon hate me?”
“He does not hate you, madame, he entertains the highest esteem for
you. Hate? he must be a monster if he can do that. No! he is a noble
man, he cannot hate any body.”
“You are right: he can hate no one, because he loves no one. He does
not consider himself born for the world, nor for any one; but that the
whole world, and every one in it, is made for him. Education, perhaps,
never poisoned a more feeling heart and a sounder head than his.”
“You judge, perhaps, too harshly, madame.”
“Would to Heaven I did! Pray convince me of the contrary.”
“I convince you? Not so, madame; observe your husband, and you will
change your mind.”
“Observe him? I always did so, and always found him the same.”
“He is a kind, amiable man, at least.”
“Amiable! he is so, he knows it, and takes pains to be so; but,
unfortunately, not to make others happy--only himself. For this I
cannot call him good, although I cannot call him bad.”
“Surely, madame, I do not understand you; permit me, however, to return
confidence for confidence. I never knew two human beings who so much
deserved to be happy, and were so calculated to render each other so,
as you and your husband, and yet you are estranged from each other. I
shall certainly believe I have lived long enough, and have accomplished
enough, if I can unite you more affectionately to each other, and
attach your now divided hearts.”
“You are very kind; but though half your wish is already
accomplished--for my heart has long been pursuing his, which flies from
me--I fear that you attempt an impossibility. However, if any one
could succeed in this, you are that one. You, Alamontade, are the
first to whom Bertollon has quite attached himself,--to whom he firmly
clings. Try it; change the disposition of the man.”
“You are joking; I change him? What other virtue do you wish Bertollon
to practise? He is generous, modest, the protector of innocence, of an
unvarying temper, without predominant passions, disinterested, kind.”
“You are right, he is all that.”
“And how shall I change him?”
“Make him a better man.”
“A better man?” replied I, astonished, stopping and looking with
embarrassment into the eyes of this beautiful woman, which were filled
with tears. “Is he, then, bad? Is he vicious?”
“That he is not,” she said; “but he is not good.”
“And yet, madame, you allow that he possesses all the noble qualities
for which I just now praised him? Do you not, perhaps, demand too much
from a mortal?”
“I do not deny that he possesses what you have praised in him,
Alamontade; but he does not use those qualities as virtues, only as
instruments. He does much good, not because it is good, but because it
is advantageous to him. He is not virtuous, but prudent. In every
action he only looks at the useful and injurious, never at the good and
evil. He would as soon employ hell for accomplishing his designs as
heaven. His happiness consists in the attainment of his desires, and
for this he is and does what suits his purpose under any given
circumstances. The world is to him the field of desire, wherein all
belongs to the most fortunate and cunning. The throng of men living
together created, in his opinion, states and laws, religions and
usages. The wisest man in his eyes is he who knows the entangled
tissue of circumstances to its finest threads; and he who knows that
can do any thing. Nothing is in itself right or wrong; opinion alone
sanctions and condemns. This, Alamontade, is a picture of my husband.
He cannot love me, for he only loves himself. His mind and taste
change, and with them his nature. With iron perseverance he pursues
and attains his ends. The son of a much respected family, which had
been reduced in circumstances, he wished to be rich, so he became a
merchant, went to distant lands and returned the possessor of a
million. He then wished to secure his wealth by uniting himself with
one of the most respectable families of this city, and I became his
wife. Desirous to possess influence in public affairs, without
exciting envy, he made himself popular, and refused the most honourable
posts of office. In his opinion nothing is unattainable; he considers
nothing sacred; he conquers every obstacle; no one is too strong for
him, because all are weak by some propensity, passion, and opinion.”
This picture of Bertollon’s character staggered me. I found it
corresponding to the original in every particular. I had never formed
a clear idea of all this, although I had felt it. I discovered the
enormous chasm that separated their hearts, and despaired of ever being
able to fill it up.
“But, madame,” said I, pressing her hand with emotion, “do not despair;
your persevering affection and virtue will finally triumph over him.”
“Virtue! Oh, my dear Alamontade, what can be expected from a man who
calls it a weakness, or one-sidedness of character, or prudery of mind?
From one who considers religion only as the toy of church and
education,--the toy with which the fancy of the shortsighted plays with
childish zeal?”
“But still he possesses a heart.”
“He has a heart, but only for himself--not for others. He wishes to be
loved without any sacrifice of feeling on his part. Alas! can one love
such a man? No, Alamontade, love demands something more; it gives
itself up to the beloved object, exists in it, and is not master of
itself; it does not calculate, it knows no care; it takes its chance
whether fidelity will at length bless it or treachery destroy it. But
it cannot exist without hope; it demands the heart of its object, and
in that finds its heaven.”
“And in that it finds its heaven,” sighed I, as I again stood in my own
chamber and thought of Clementine.
I took down the withered wreath, which had been hitherto a sacred
pledge of Clementine’s favour, and hung it upon my harp. Had she not
herself thrown it on the breast which incloses my loving heart? Did
she not then appear as if she wished to crown that heart with her own
hand? Could it only have been childish play? Ah! could it have been
indifferent to her whether it was a crown of thorns or a wreath of
blossoms which she was winding round my heart?
She was at the window. I raised the wreath and pressed it to my lips.
She seemed to perceive it; she suppressed a smile, bent forward and
looked into the street, but not again at me. This response plunged me
into inexpressible trouble. It seemed as if she was ashamed of the
gift she once had bestowed on me. I now suddenly became conscious of
what I expected and hoped from her. I wished an impossibility. I had
never thought of Clementine as my wife; I loved her and wished to be
loved by her. But she my wife? I, the poor son of a farmer who died
encumbered with debt. I who still had to battle with want, and only
saw an uncertain fate in the future--I expect the richest heiress in
Montpellier!
At this thought my proud spirit sank. I loved Clementine and forgave
her if she could not return my love. I saw clearly that I could not
change the relations of social life; and, in fact, was too proud to
make my fortune by marriage.
Henceforth I applied more ardently to my studies, wishing to pave my
way to Clementine’s elevation by my own energies. Many nights I passed
sleepless in study. Desirous of hearing the unbiassed judgment of
critics respecting my talents, I published, anonymously, a work on the
jurisprudence of the ancients, and a collection of poems, the greater
part of which were inspired by my secret passion.
This publication of my labours had an unexpected success. Curiosity
soon discovered the name of the author, who was everywhere courted.
The loud applause raised my self-esteem, and the success of my first
attempt rekindled the extinguished flame of hope by the light of which
I saw Clementine as my own, though at a distance which rendered her
indistinct.
She herself rewarded me in the most pleasing manner, by once reading my
poems at the window, when their author had become known. Indeed, from
a hundred allusions in the poems which she only understood, she might
have guessed their author. She looked across to me, smiled, and
pressed the book to her bosom, as if she wished to tell me, “I love it,
and what you express in it you have addressed to this heart, which
feels and is grateful.”
I again took up the withered wreath, at which I had often sung; smiled,
made a sigh, and retired.
But no one was more delighted by the applause I had gained than my
friend Bertollon. He became more affectionate and confidential. We
regarded each other as brothers; he was devoted to me, and proved, in a
thousand ways, that he had a heart for others. He did not let a day
pass without showing some kindness; it was only by chance that I
learned many of his noble deeds.
“Oh! Bertollon,” I once exclaimed, as I pressed him to my heart, “what
a man you are! Why must I pity as much as admire you?”
“You go too far in both points, for I deserve neither one nor the
other,” replied he, with a complacent smile.
“No! Bertollon, what I lament is, that you are good and virtuous,
without wishing to appear so; you call virtue fanaticism and narrowness
of ideas, and yet you constantly practise its precepts.”
“Well, then, Alamontade, rest satisfied with that. Why do you for ever
weary yourself with my conversion? When you are older I shall see you
treading in my footsteps; be, at least, tolerant for the present; the
same child has, perhaps, a twofold name.”
“I doubt it. Could you, Bertollon, voluntarily plunge yourself into
misery in order to support a righteous cause?”
“What do you call a righteous cause? Your ideas are not clear.”
“If you could save Montpellier from destruction by sacrificing
yourself, would you be capable of suffering poverty or death?”
“M. Colas, you rave again. Only fanatics can demand and make such
sacrifices, and it is good for the world that there are such. But now
come for once to your senses; I am sorry that you are always indulging
such whims, for in this way you will never be happy. Run over the
whole world and collect the fools who would meet death for your
notions: you will not find one in a hundred million. Every thing is
true, good, useful, just, and noble, only under certain circumstances.
The ideas of men vary everywhere; many have fancied that they could
save the world by their death. They died, but for their own caprice,
not for the world, and were afterwards laughed at as fools.”
“For these words I could despise you, Bertollon.”
“Then you would not be over virtuous, according to your own notions.”
“If you could increase your wealth by plunging me into misery, would
you do so!”
“For such a question I ought to despise you, Colas?”
“And yet I may put it, for you say that you only strive after that
which is useful to yourself. You weigh the goodness of an action only
by the result.”
“Dear Colas, I see you will be a bad advocate, and will make a poor
fortune, if you only defend causes which are right according to your
notions, and never an unjust one by which you might gain.”
“I swear to you, Bertollon, I should abhor myself as long as I lived,
if ever I moved my lips for the accusation of innocence, and the
defence of crime.”
“And yet you, good-hearted simpleton, you will do it more than once,
because you will not always find guilt or innocence written on men’s
foreheads. You will be the world’s fool, if you will not walk its way.”
In this manner we often disputed. I was sometimes puzzled with him,
and could have feared him, had he not always expressed his terrible
opinions so jocosely, that he did not seem to believe them himself. He
only wished to irritate me, and when he had succeeded, laughed
heartily. But his actions contradicted his words.
Madame Bertollon, on the contrary, daily displayed more of the noble
sentiments that animated her. She glowed for the virtuous actions
which she practised with religious ardour.
I became her guest, and we were never in want of conversation. Alone
with her I spent the long winter evenings, and from me she learned the
harp. Soon I could accompany her charming voice, while she sang my
songs with deep feeling. She was lovely, and her beauty would have
been dangerous to me, had not my heart been fixed on Clementine.
When I spoke of her with enthusiasm to Bertollon, he smiled; if I
reproached him for leaving such a lovely creature to herself, he
replied, “Our tastes differ; let every one follow his own inclination.
Would you, dear despot, have all heads and hearts moulded in the same
form? I know my wife loses nothing by me, consequently she is not made
unhappy by my treating her in the manner so customary in fashionable
society. She knew this beforehand. If you are happy in her society I
am glad; and I rejoice if she also finds pleasure in your conversation.
You see, virtuous Colas, that I, also, am capable of great sacrifices,
for I leave you to her often when I most sincerely desire your company.”
I had finished my studies, had taken the degree of Doctor of Laws, and
had obtained permission to practise as attorney before the tribunals of
the kingdom. My increased occupations during this time prevented me
from visiting Madame Bertollon as frequently as before; but she
received me the more joy fully when we met; and I felt now, more than
ever, how sincerely I was attached to her. We never confessed how
indispensable we were to each other; but each of us betrayed it in
every feature, and by the cordiality of demeanour.
At times it seemed to me as if she were more melancholy than she had
been, and then, again, more affable and complaisant; at other times she
appeared to treat me with marked coldness and reserve; and then, again,
as if she wished, with sisterly affection, to quiet my anxiety. This
change of behaviour surprised me, and I vainly endeavoured to discover
the reason of it. I could not help perceiving that she no longer
possessed her former serenity and equanimity. I often found her with
eyes that evinced recent weeping. She sometimes spoke with singular
enthusiasm of the retirement of a convent, and withdrew more and more
from her usual society. A hidden melancholy gnawed the bud of her
youth.
These reflections make me also melancholy, and I in vain endeavoured to
cheer her. The calm sadness of her look, the vanishing bloom of her
cheek, her deep silence, and her efforts to conceal, by an affected
cheerfulness, the grief which was gnawing her heart, added to my
friendship the genial warmth and tenderness of sympathy. How gladly
would I have sacrificed my life to procure happiness for her!
One evening when I accompanied her singing on my harp, a sudden burst
of tears choked her voice. Alarmed, I ceased playing. She rose, and
was on the point of hurrying to her apartment to conceal her grief.
How touching, in moments of quiet suffering, are youth, beauty, and
innocence. I seized her hand, and held her back.
“No!” she exclaimed, “let me go.”
“Stay, I cannot possibly let you go in this excited state. May I not
witness your grief? Am I not your friend? Do you not yourself call me
so? And does not this pleasing name give me a right to ask you the
cause of that affliction which you in vain endeavour to conceal from
me?”
“Leave me, I conjure you, leave me,” she cried, as she endeavoured,
with feeble efforts, to free herself.
“No,” said I, “you are unhappy.”
“Unhappy, alas!” she sighed, with unrestrained grief, drooping her
beautiful face on my bosom to conceal her tears.
Involuntarily I clasped my arms around the gentle sufferer. A deep
sympathy seized me. I stammered forth some words of consolation, and
begged her to be calm.
“Alas! I am unhappy,” she exclaimed, sobbing, and with vehemence. I
dared not endeavour further to appease the storm of feeling by my
untimely persuasions; and, letting her weep without interruption, I led
her back to her seat, as I felt that she became exhausted and
trembling, her head resting still on my bosom.
“You are not well?” I asked timidly.
“I feel better now,” she replied; and, becoming more tranquil, she
looked up, and seeing tears in my eyes, asked, “Why do you weep,
Alamontade?”
“Can I remain unmoved by your sorrows?” I answered, bending down to
her. Silently we sat absorbed in our feelings, hand in hand, gazing at
each other. A tear rolled down her cheek, which I kissed away, and
drew the sufferer closely to my heart, unconscious of what I was doing.
During this embrace our fears evaporated with the glow of our cheeks;
and what we called friendship, was changed into love.
We parted; ten times we bade each other farewell, and as often I
clasped her in my arms, forgetting the separation.
Keeling as if intoxicated, I entered my room; the harp, wreath, and
window, terrified me.
I had never been in a greater state of confusion than I was on the
following morning. I could not understand myself, and wavered between
contradictions. Madame Bertollon appeared to love me; but hitherto she
had heroically struggled with feelings which seemed to wound the
nobility of her mind. I was the wretch who, without loving her, could
encourage her passion, and fan the fatal flame by which she must be
consumed, and I must be dishonoured still more than the unhappy woman
herself.
In vain I called to mind the sacredness of my duties; in vain I
disclosed to myself the base ingratitude I committed against
Bertollon’s generous friendship; in vain I remembered my own and
Clementine’s vows; all that once had been to her pleasing and estimable
had lost its power and influence. The tumult of my senses continued
without intermission: only Bertollon’s lovely wife floated in my
imagination; I still felt on my lip the glow of her kiss, and my
flattered vanity overwhelmed the earnest warnings of my conscience with
illusive sophistry.
“Wretch! you will feel remorse, you will some day blush at your own
disgraceful act, and the snow of advanced age will not quench the
burning of an evil conscience!”
With these words I endeavoured to arouse my better feelings. While I
still revelled in the remembrance of the previous evening, and dark
forebodings were rising in my mind, I sat down at the table to write to
Madame Bertollon, to describe to her the danger to which we should both
expose ourselves by further intercourse, and to tell her that to
continue worthy of her friendship I must leave her and Montpellier.
But while reason dictated her precepts, and I wished to make the first
heavy sacrifice to virtue, I wrote to Madame Bertollon the most solemn
oaths of my attachment, declaring falsely that a secret passion for her
had long consumed me, and that I saw my happiness only in her love. I
entreated and conjured her not to let me despair, and unrolled to her
imagination a vivid picture of our bliss.
I started up, read the letter over and over, tore it, and wrote
another, repeating only what I had written, and then again destroyed
it. As if by an unknown power I was drawn against my will to a crime
at which my soul vainly shuddered. While vowing to myself, in a
half-suppressed voice, that I would start for Nismes, and never again
see the walls of Montpellier, I also vowed unconsciously I would never
leave the charming though unhappy woman; but that I would cling to her,
although my passion should lead to inevitable death.
It was as if two distinct souls were struggling within me with equal
power and skill. But consciousness became more dim, and the feeling of
duty expired in the feeling of the all-engrossing desire. I resolved
to hasten to Madame Bertollon, thinking that she was perhaps tormenting
herself with reproaches at the weakness she had shown, or that she also
might be determined to leave me and Monpellier. I intended to detain
her to reason away her fears, and to endeavour to persuade her of the
lawfulness of our love.
I started up and ran to the door. A voice within me again cried, “You
are going to sin then?--to lose the long guarded feeling of innocence?”
I hesitated, and stepped back, saying to myself, “Be pure as God and
continue so. One day more and this storm will pass over, and then you
are safe.”
This holy feeling exalted me; the words, “Be pure as God,” sounded
above the tumult of my agitated feelings, and deterred me, for the time
at least, from hastening to Madame Bertollon. But the struggle
remained undecided; my yearnings became more impetuous, and I scorned
my own virtuous intentions.
At this moment the door of my room opened, and M. Bertollon entered.
“How are you, dear Colas,” he asked, “are you unwell?” At this
question I first perceived that I had thrown myself on my bed, from
which I jumped up, but had not the courage to take the hand which he
extended to me.
“But what is the matter with you, Colas?” he said again, “you look
confused and pale.”
Before I could reply, the voice within me again called, “Disclose all
to him, disclose all to her husband, and a barrier will be raised
between you and his wife; you will remain pure, you will not be the
seducer of a woman, nor the traitor and deceiver of your noble
benefactor and friend.”
“Bertollon,” said I, hastily, fearing that I might not finish my
confession; “I am unhappy, because I love your wife.” I had scarcely
uttered the last syllable when remorse seized me; but it was too late,
it was done, the husband knew all, and I was now for once right. In
the wild tumult of the senses, when powerful passion struggles with the
sense of duty, it is only a sudden and decided act which we perceive to
be a remedy, that can save us. We must as it were forcibly drive the
reluctant body to accomplish it, until we can no more return. I felt
like one who is tossed about by the waves of the ocean, and who, when
on the point of drowning, indistinctly perceives before his giddy eye
the branches on the shore, and hears a voice within him saying, “Seize
them.”
Bertollon changed colour and said, “What did you say, Colas?”
“I must go, I must flee Montpellier, you and your wife, for I love
her,” replied I.
“I think you are a fool,” said he, smiling, and he regained his usual
colour.
“No, Bertollon, I am in earnest; I must not remain here. Your wife is
a virtuous woman! and I fear my intercourse with her will prove her
ruin and my own. It is yet time. You are my friend, my benefactor, I
will not deceive you. Take this bitter confession as a proof of my
love for you. I am too weak to be always master of myself, and your
wife is too lovely for me to remain indifferent near her.”
“A saint like you, Colas,” said Bertollon, laughing loud, “who with
pious devotion confesses the secrets of his heart to the husband
himself, will not be dangerous to any husband. Compose yourself; you
will remain with us. What folly to make so much ado about a passion?
I trust you, and have suspicion neither of you nor of my wife; let that
suffice. If you love each other, what can I do against your hearts?
If I interpose the world between you, would you love each other less
for that? Will your removal remove also your heart? Love each other;
I know you both think too nobly to forget yourselves.”
He said all this so ingenuously and cheerfully, and with a tone of such
unsuspecting confidence, that I pressed him with emotion to my heart.
His noble-mindedness renewed my virtuous resolutions; I was ashamed of
my baseness and even of the fact that it had cost me so hard a struggle.
“No! dear Bertollon,” said I. “I should indeed be a wretch if I could
betray your confidence and requite your friendship so disgracefully.
You have brought me back to a sense of my better self; I will remain
here, and the recollection of your trust in me will preserve me against
any dishonourable intention. I will remain and prove that I am worthy
of you, by breaking off all intercourse with your wife. I will never
see her alone; I will----”
“Why tell me all this?” interrupted Bertollon. “It is enough that I
trust you. Do you imagine that I have not long observed that my wife
loves you, that her love is characterised by her violent, impetuous
temper, and that her passion is the more powerful the more she conceals
it? Impress her with your noble principles, and cure her if you wish;
but be cautious. I know her; her love might soon change into terrible
hatred, and then woe be to you.”