inconveniences. Unfortunately there are two things in the world that
cannot be guided: love and ennui.--For my own part I make superhuman
efforts to conquer the drowsiness that steals over me in spite of
myself, and like the provincials who fall asleep at ten o'clock in
Parisian salons, I keep my eyes as wide open as possible and hold up
my eyelids with my fingers!--nothing serves the purpose and I take
conjugal liberties that are most unpalatable.
The dear child, who found the rural expedition so successful the other
day, took me off to her country estate yesterday.
It would not be out of place, perhaps, to give you a little description
of the aforesaid estate, which is very attractive; it will lighten up
all this metaphysics a little, and then, too, we must have a background
for the characters, and figures will not stand out in relief against
an empty void, or against the vague shade of brown with which painters
fill up the field of their canvas.
The approach is very picturesque.--Driving through a broad avenue,
lined with venerable trees, you come to a star, the centre of which is
marked by a stone obelisk surmounted by a sphere of gilded copper:
five roads form the points of the star. Then the land suddenly
descends. The road plunges down into a narrow valley, with a small
stream flowing at the bottom, which is crossed by a bridge of a single
span; then, ascends the opposite slope, where the village lies, whose
slated church-tower can be seen among the thatched roofs and the
rounded tops of the apple-trees. The view is not very extensive, for it
is limited on both sides by the crest of the hill, but it is bright and
pleasant and rests the eye.--Beside the bridge there is a mill and a
tower-shaped structure built of red stone: almost incessant barking and
the sight of a brach-hound or two and some young terriers with crooked
legs warming themselves in the sun before the door, would inform you
that it was the head-keeper's abode, if the buzzards and martens nailed
to the shutters could leave you for a moment in doubt. At that point an
avenue of sorb-trees begins; the red berries attract clouds of birds;
as there is little passing, there is only a band of white in the middle
of the road; all the rest is covered with short, fine moss, and, in the
double rut made by carriage wheels, little grasshoppers, as green as
emeralds, buzz and hop about.
After driving some little distance along this avenue you come to a
painted iron fence, with gilt trimmings, and bristling with spikes
and _chevaux de frise._ Thence the road leads to the château--which
is still invisible, for it is buried in verdure like a bird in its
nest--but its progress is leisurely and it frequently turns aside to
visit a brook and a fountain, a dainty summer-house or a point from
which a fine view can be had, crossing and recrossing the stream over
Chinese or rustic bridges. The inequality of the land and the dams
built for the purposes of the mill cause several waterfalls some four
or five feet in height, and you can imagine nothing more delightful
than to hear the splashing of all these cascades close beside you, but
generally out of sight, for the osiers and elders that line the bank
form an almost impenetrable curtain. But all that part of the park is,
so to speak, only the antechamber of the other part: unfortunately, a
public highway passes through the estate and cuts it in two, a drawback
for which a very ingenious remedy has been devised. Two high crenelated
walls, provided with barbicans and loopholes in imitation of a ruined
fortress, stand on each side of the road; connected with a tower on
the château side, completely covered by gigantic ivy plants, is a
genuine drawbridge which is lowered every morning, by iron chains, upon
the opposite bastion. You drive through a lovely ogive archway inside
the tower, and thence into the second enclosure, where the trees,
which have not been cut for more than a century, are of extraordinary
height, with gnarled trunks swathed in parasitic plants--the handsomest
and most curious trees I have ever seen. Some have leaves only at
the very top like broad umbrellas; others taper toward the top like
plumes; others, on the contrary, have a large tuft of foliage near
the bottom, from which the naked trunk rises toward the sky like a
second tree planted in the first; you would say it was the foreground
of a landscape painting or flies painted for a scene on the stage, the
trees are so curiously misshapen;--ivies that reach from one to another
and hug them so tight as to choke them, mingle their dark hearts with
the green leaves and seem like their shadow. Nothing can be more
picturesque. The stream widens at that spot, so as to form a little
lake, and it is so shallow that you can see, through the transparent
water, the lovely aquatic plants that carpet its bed. There are
nymphæas and lotuses swimming nonchalantly in the purest crystal with
the reflection of the clouds and the weeping-willows that lean over
the bank: the château is on the other side, and yonder little skiff,
painted apple-green and bright red, will save you a long detour to the
bridge. The château is a collection of buildings built at different
periods with gables of unequal heights and a multitude of little
turrets. One ell is of brick with stone trimmings; another portion is
in the rustic style, with quantities of excrescences and vermiculated
work. Another ell is entirely modern; it has a flat Italian roof with
vases and a tile balustrade, and a canvas porch in the shape of a tent.
The windows are all of different sizes and do not correspond; there
are some of all styles, even the trefoil and ogive, for the chapel
is Gothic. Certain parts are trellised, like Chinese houses, with
trellises painted different colors, covered with climbing honeysuckle,
jasmin, nasturtiums, and virgin's bower, whose tendrils look familiarly
in at the chamber windows and seem to put out their hands to you as
they say good-morning.
Despite this lack of regularity, or rather because of it, it is a
fascinating structure; at least, one does not see it all at a single
glance; there is an opportunity for choice and one is always on the
lookout for something one has not seen.
This château, with which I was not familiar, for it is twenty leagues
from town, pleased me immensely at first sight, and I was extremely
grateful to Rosette for conceiving the admirable idea of selecting such
a nest for our love.
We arrived just at nightfall; and, as we were tired, after eating a
hearty supper there was nothing we were so anxious to do as to go to
bed--in separate rooms, mind you, for we intended to sleep in good
earnest.
I was dreaming some rose-colored dream, full of flowers and sweet
perfumes and birds, when I felt a warm breath on my forehead and a kiss
descend upon it with quivering wings. A slight smacking of the lips
and a pleasant moisture on the spot breathed upon led me to think that
I was not dreaming: I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was
Rosette's cool, white neck, as she leaned over the bed to kiss me. I
threw my arms around her waist and returned her kiss more passionately
than I had done for a long while.
She went and drew the curtain and opened the window, then returned and
sat on the edge of my bed, holding my hand in hers and playing with
my rings. Her costume was marked by the most coquettish simplicity.
She was without corsets or skirt, and had absolutely nothing on save
a lawn _peignoir_ as white as milk, very ample and full; her hair was
held in place on top of her head by a little white rose of the sort
that has only three or four petals; her ivory feet were encased in
embroidered slippers of brilliant, diversified colors, as small as they
possibly could be, although they were too large for her, and without
quarterings like those of the young Roman dames. I regretted, when I
saw her so, that I was already her lover and hadn't the prospect still
before me.
[Illustration: Chapter IV--_She went and drew the curtain and opened the
window, then returned and sat on the edge of my bed, holding my hand
in hers and playing with my rings. Her costume was marked by the most
coquettish simplicity._]
The dream I was dreaming at the moment that she waked me in such
pleasant fashion was not very far removed from the reality.--My
chamber looked on the little lake I described just now. The window
was surrounded by jasmin, which shook its stars over my floor in
a silvery shower: large, exotic flowers swayed in the wind under
my balcony as if to waft incense up to me; a vague, sweet perfume,
composed of a thousand different perfumes, penetrated to my bed, from
which I could see the water gleaming and flashing with millions of
spangles; the birds chattered and warbled and whistled and chirped;
it was a confusion of harmonious sounds like the hum and buzz of a
fête.--Opposite, on a hill-side lying in the sunlight, was a smooth
field of a golden green, with fat cattle feeding here and there, under
the care of a small boy.--Higher up the hill and farther away were
great patches of forest of a darker green, above which the bluish smoke
of charcoal-kilns rose in spiral columns.
Every detail of the picture was calm and fresh and smiling, and
wherever I turned my eyes, I saw only what was young and fair. My
chamber was hung with chintz, with mats on the floor, and blue Japanese
jars with rounded bodies and tapering necks, filled with strange
flowers, artistically arranged on étagères and on the dark-blue marble
chimney-piece; the fire-place also was filled with flowers. Panels
above the doors, representing rural or pastoral scenes, bright-colored
and daintily executed, sofas and divans in every nook and corner--and
a lovely young woman, all in white, whose flesh gave a delicate pink
tinge to the transparent dress where it came in contact with it: one
can conceive nothing better calculated to give pleasure to the soul as
well as to the eyes.
And so my gratified, careless glance wandered, with equal pleasure,
from a magnificent jar thickly strewn with dragons and mandarins,
to Rosette's slipper, and thence to the corner of her shoulder that
glistened under the lawn; it rested on the fluttering stars of the
jasmin and the white hairs of the willows on the bank, crossed the
water and sauntered over the hill-side, then returned to the chamber
to fix itself on the rose-colored ribbons of some shepherdess's long
corset.
Through the openings in the foliage the sky showed millions of blue
eyes; the water rippled gently and I gave myself up to the enjoyment of
the moment, plunged in blissful tranquillity, saying nothing, with my
hand still in Rosette's tiny hands.
It is of no use to talk: happiness is white and pink; it can hardly be
represented otherwise. Delicate colors belong to it as of right. It has
on its palette only sea-green, sky-blue and light yellow: its pictures
are all light like those of the Chinese painters. Flowers, bright
light, perfumes, a soft and velvety skin touching yours, a veiled
melody coming from you know not where,--with those one can be perfectly
happy; there is no way of being happy otherwise. I myself, who have
a horror of the commonplace, who dream only of strange adventures,
violent passions, frenzied bliss, unusual and difficult situations, I
must be happy like an animal in that way, and, whatever I may do, I can
find no other.
I beg you to believe that I made none of these reflections at the time;
they have come to me since as I sat here writing to you; at that moment
I thought of nothing but enjoying myself--the only occupation of a
reasonable man.
I will not describe the life we lead here, it is easily imagined. There
are walks under the great trees, violets and strawberries, kisses
and little blue flowers, luncheons on the grass, readings and books
forgotten under the trees; water parties with the end of a scarf or
a white hand dipping in the stream, long ballads and long laughter
repeated by the echoes of the bank;--the most Arcadian life imaginable!
Rosette overwhelms me with caresses and little attentions; more amorous
than the dove in May, she twines about me and envelops me in her folds;
she tries to let me breathe no other atmosphere than her breath and see
no other horizon than her eyes; she maintains a very strict blockade
and allows nothing to go in or out without permission; she has built
a little guard-house beside my heart, from which she keeps watch on
it night and day.--She says delightful things to me; she makes very
complimentary speeches; she sits on my knee and acts in my presence
exactly like a submissive slave before her lord and master; all of
which suits me very well, for I like such little humble ways and I have
a leaning toward Oriental despotism; she doesn't do the smallest thing
without asking my opinion, and seems to have completely laid aside her
own fancy and her will; she tries to divine my thought and anticipate
it; she crushes me with her wit, her affection and her submission; she
is perfect enough to throw out of the window.--How in the devil can I
leave a woman so adorable without seeming to be a monster? It would be
enough to discredit my heart forever.
Oh! how I would like to catch her tripping, to find some grievance
against her! how impatiently I await an opportunity for a quarrel!
but there is no danger that the hussy will give me one! When I speak
sharply to her, in a harsh tone, to bring about a quarrel, she answers
me so sweetly, in such a silvery voice, with her eyes swimming in
tears, and such a sad, loving expression, that I seem to myself to be
more than a tiger, or at least a crocodile, and, inwardly raging, I am
forced to ask her pardon.
She is literally murdering me with love; she puts me to the question
and every day she draws closer the planks between which I am caught.
She probably wants to drive me to tell her that I detest her, that she
bores me to death, and that, if she doesn't leave me in peace, I will
slash her face with my hunting crop. Pardieu! she will succeed, and if
she continues to be as amiable, it will be before long or may the devil
carry me off!
Notwithstanding all this fine show, Rosette is surfeited with me as I
am with her; but as she has done some notoriously foolish things for
me, she doesn't want to take to herself the discredit of a rupture
in the eyes of the excellent corporation of sensible women. Every
great passion claims to be everlasting, and it is very convenient
to assume the credit of that everlastingness without suffering its
disadvantages.--Rosette reasons thus:--"Here is a young man who has
hardly a vestige of fondness left for me, and, as he is simple-minded
and easy-going, he doesn't dare show it openly and doesn't know which
way to turn: it is plain that I bore him, but he will wear his life out
in the toils rather than take it on himself to leave me. As he is a
poet after a fashion, he has his head full of fine phrases about love
and passion, and considers himself bound in conscience to be a Tristan
or an Amadis. Now, as nothing in the world is more insupportable than
the caresses of a person one is beginning not to love--and to cease to
love a woman is to hate her intensely--I propose to lavish them on him
in a way to sicken him, and the result will be either that he will send
me to the devil or will begin to love me again as he did on the first
day, which he will take very good care not to do."
No reasoning could be better.--Isn't it charming to play the part of
the abandoned Ariadne?--People pity you and admire you, and there are
no imprecations strong enough for the infamous wretch who has been so
inhuman as to abandon such an adorable creature; you assume an air of
grieved resignation, you put your hand under your chin and your elbow
on your knee so as to show off the pretty blue veins in your wrist. You
wear your hair more dishevelled, and your dresses for some little time
are of soberer hue. You avoid mentioning the ingrate's name, but you
make roundabout allusions to him, at the same time heaving beautifully
modulated little sighs.
A woman so good, so beautiful, so passionate, who has made such great
sacrifices, who has done nothing worthy of blame, a chosen vessel, a
pearl of love, a spotless mirror, a drop of milk, a white rose, an
ideal essence to perfume a life;--a woman whom you should have adored
on your knees, and who will have to be cut in little pieces after her
death, to make relics:--such a woman to be abandoned iniquitously,
villainously, fraudulently! Why a pirate would do no worse! To give her
her death-blow!--for she certainly will die of it.--One must have a
paving-stone in his breast, instead of a heart, to act so.
O men! men!
I say this to myself, but perhaps it's not true.
However great actresses women naturally are, I find it hard to believe
that they carry it as far as that; and, when all is said, are all
Rosette's demonstrations simply the exact expression of her sentiments
for me?--However it may be, the continuation of the tête-à-tête is
impossible, and the fair chatelaine has at last issued invitations to
her acquaintances in the neighborhood. We are busily engaged making
preparations to receive the worthy provincials.--Adieu, my dear fellow.
V
I was mistaken.--My evil heart, incapable of love, seized upon that
reason to deliver itself from the burden of a gratitude it did not
wish to bear; I joyfully grasped that idea to excuse myself to my own
conscience; I clung fast to it, but nothing could be farther from the
truth. Rosette was not playing a part, and if ever woman was true, she
is the woman.--Ah! well! I am almost angry with her for the sincerity
of her passion, which is an additional bond and makes a rupture more
difficult or less excusable; I would prefer her to be false and fickle.
What an extraordinary position! You long to go, but you stay; you
long to say: "I hate you," but you say: "I love you;"--your past
urges you forward and prevents you from turning back or stopping.
You are faithful and you regret it. An indefinable sense of shame
prevents your abandoning yourself altogether to other acquaintances
and leads you to compromise with yourself. You give to one all you
can steal from the other and at the same time keep up appearances; the
opportunities for meeting which formerly came about so naturally are
very hard to find to-day.--You begin to remember that you have business
of importance.--Such a perplexing situation as that is very painful,
but it is much less so than my present situation.--When it is a new
friendship that steals you from the old, it is easier to extricate
yourself. Hope smiles sweetly upon you from the threshold of the house
that contains your new-born love.--A fairer and rosier illusion hovers
on its white wings over the scarce-closed tomb of its sister who has
died; another flower, blooming more radiantly and of sweeter perfume,
upon whose petals trembles a celestial tear, has suddenly sprung forth
from among the withered calyxes of the old bouquet;--lovely, azure-hued
perspectives open before you; avenues of fresh and unpretentious
beeches stretch away to the horizon; there are gardens with white
statues here and there, or a bench against an ivy-covered wall, lawns
dotted with marguerites, narrow balconies, on whose rails you lean and
gaze at the moon, and shadows cut by fleeting rays of light;--salons
from which the daylight is excluded by heavy curtains;--all the
darkness and isolation that the passion craves which dares not avow
itself. It is as if your youth had come again. You have, moreover,
a complete change of haunts and habits and persons; you feel a sort
of remorse, to be sure; but the desire that flutters and hums about
your head, like a bee in spring, prevents your hearing its voice; the
void in your heart is filled and your memories are effaced by present
impressions,--But in my case it is different: I love no one and it is
from weariness and disgust with myself rather than with her that I wish
I were able to break with Rosette.
My former ideas, which had become a little indistinct in my mind, are
coming to the front again, more foolish than ever.--I am, as formerly,
tortured by the longing to have a mistress, and, as formerly, even in
Rosette's arms I doubt whether I have ever had one.--I see once more
the lovely lady at her window, in her park of the time of Louis XIII.,
and the huntress on her white horse gallops along the forest path.--My
ideal beauty smiles upon me from her hammock of clouds, I fancy that
I recognize her voice in the song of the birds, in the rustling of
the foliage; it seems to me that some one is calling me from every
direction, and that the daughters of the air brush my face with the
fringe of their invisible scarfs. As in the days of my agitation,
I imagine that, if I should set out instantly and go somewhere very
far away at great speed, I should reach some place where things that
concern me are taking place and where my destiny is being decided.--I
feel that somebody is impatiently awaiting my coming in some corner of
the earth, I don't know where. Some suffering soul who cannot come to
me is calling eagerly to me and dreaming of me; that is the reason of
my uneasiness and of my inability to remain in one place; I am being
violently drawn away from my centre. Mine is not one of those natures
to which others flock, one of those fixed stars about which other
radiant bodies gravitate; I must needs wander through the expanse of
heaven like an erratic meteor, until I have fallen in with the planet
whose satellite I am to be, the Saturn about whom I am to pass my ring.
Oh! when will that union take place? Until then I cannot hope for rest
or peace of mind, but I shall be like the bewildered, vacillating
needle of a compass, seeking its pole.
I allowed my wing to be caught in the deceitful snare, hoping to leave
only a feather there and to retain the power to fly away when it seemed
good to me: nothing could be more difficult; I find myself covered by
an invisible net, harder to break than the one forged by Vulcan, and
the mesh is so fine and close that there are no openings through which
I can escape. The net is large and roomy, however, and I can move about
in it with an appearance of freedom; it is hardly perceptible except
when you try to break it; but then it resists and becomes as firm as a
wall of brass.
How much time I have lost, O my ideal! without the slightest effort to
realize thee! How basely I have yielded to the temptation of a night's
pleasure! and how little I deserve to meet thee!
Sometimes I think of forming another liaison; but I have no one in
view; more frequently I make up my mind that, if I succeed in bringing
about a rupture, I will never again involve myself in such bonds,
and yet there is nothing to justify that resolution, for the present
connection has been, to all appearance, a very happy one and I have
no reason in the world for complaining of Rosette.--She has always
been kind to me, and has behaved as well as any one could; she has
been exemplarily faithful to me and has not given an opening for
suspicion; the most alert and most anxious jealousy could have had no
word of blame for her and must have slept in security.--A jealous
man could have been jealous only of the past; in that direction, it
is true, there was ample ground for jealousy. But luckily, jealousy
of that sort is a very rare article, and one has quite enough to do
to look after the present without going back to fumble under the
ashes of extinct passion for phials of poison and cups of gall.--What
woman could a man love, if he thought of all that?--You may have a
sort of vague idea that a woman has had several lovers before you;
but you say to yourself--a man's pride has so many tortuous folds and
counterfolds!--that you are the first she has really loved, and that
it was through a combination of fatal circumstances that she became
connected with men unworthy of her, or else through a vague craving of
a heart that sought to satisfy itself and changed because it had not
met its affinity.