difficult to imagine an existence in a setting so pure as mine. My
years were passed in the shadow of my mother's easy-chair, with my
little sisters and the house-dog. I saw about me only the kindly,
placid faces of old servants who had grown gray in our service and
were in a certain sense hereditary, of grave, sententious relations or
friends, dressed in black, who placed their gloves one after another
in their hat brims; a few aunts of uncertain age, plump and neat and
sedate, with dazzling linen, gray skirts, thread mitts, and hands upon
their waist-bands like people of a religious turn of mind; furniture
severely simple to the point of melancholy, bare oak wainscoting,
leather hangings--a gloomy, sober-hued interior such as some Flemish
masters have painted. The garden was damp and dark; the box that marked
the divisions, the ivy that covered the walls, and a few firs with
bare branches were entrusted with the duty of representing verdure
there and had but ill success; the brick house, with its very high
roof, although roomy and in good condition, had something dull and
drowsy about it. Certainly nothing could be better adapted to prepare
one for a secluded, austere, melancholy life than such a place of
abode. It seemed as if all the children brought up in such a house
must inevitably end by becoming priests or nuns: ah well! in that
atmosphere of purity and repose, amid that gloom and meditation, I
rotted away little by little, without any outward sign, like a medlar
on the straw. In the bosom of that upright, pious, saintly family I
reached a horrible depth of depravity.--It was not contact with the
world, for I had never seen it; nor the fire of passion, for I was
benumbed in the icy sweat that oozed from those stout walls.--The worm
did not crawl from the heart of another fruit to my heart. It came to
life of itself where my pulp was thickest and gnawed and furrowed it
in every direction: but nothing appeared outside and warned me that
I was tainted at the core. I had neither spot nor worm-hole; but I
was all hollow inside and nothing remained but a thin bright-colored
pellicle, which the slightest blow would have broken.--Is it not an
inexplicable thing that a child born of virtuous parents, brought up
with care and judgment, kept at a distance from everything bad, should
become perverted all by himself to such an extent, and reach the point
I have reached? I am sure that, even if you should go back to the sixth
generation, you would not find among my ancestors a single atom like
those of which I am made. I do not belong to my own family; I am not an
offshoot of that noble trunk, but a poisonous toadstool planted among
its mossy roots on some dark, stormy night; and yet no one ever had
more aspirations, more impulses towards the beautiful than I, no one
ever tried more obstinately to spread his wings; but every attempt has
made my fall the greater and the things that should have saved me have
been my ruin.
Solitude has a worse effect upon me than society, although I desire
the first more than the second. Whatever takes me out of myself is
salutary; society bores me, but it tears me by force from the vain
reverie whose winding staircase I ascend and descend, with bent head
and folded arms. And so, since one tête-à-tête came to an end and there
have been people here with whom I am compelled to put some constraint
upon myself, I am less subject to my black moods and am less tormented
by those immeasurable longings that pounce upon my heart like a swarm
of vultures, as soon as I am left for a moment without occupation.
There are some very pretty women and one or two young men who are very
pleasant and jovial; but of all this swarm of provincials, the one who
has the most charm for me is a young cavalier who arrived two or three
days ago. He took my fancy at the very first, and I became fond of him
simply from seeing him alight from his horse. It is impossible to be
more graceful; he is not very tall, but slender and well set-up; there
is something supple and undulating in his gait and his movements,
which is pleasing beyond expression; many women would envy him his
hand and foot. His only defect is that he is too beautiful and has too
delicate features for a man. He is blessed with a pair of the loveliest
and blackest eyes in the world, which have an expression impossible
to define and a glance that it is not easy to sustain; but, as he is
very young and has no sign of a beard, the softness and perfection
of the lower part of his face temper somewhat the vivacity of those
eagle eyes; his glossy, brown hair falls over his neck in great curls
and gives his head a character of its own.--Here then at last is one
of the types of beauty I have dreamed of, made flesh, and actually
before my eyes! What a pity that it's a man, or what a pity that I am
not a woman! This Adonis, who, in addition to his lovely face, has a
very keen intellect of very wide range, still enjoys the privilege of
having at the service of his bright remarks and his jests, a voice of a
silvery and penetrating quality which it is difficult to hear without
emotion.--He is really perfect.--It seems that he shares my taste for
beautiful things, for his clothes are very rich and well chosen, his
horse very spirited and a thoroughbred; and, in order that everything
might be complete and well assorted, he had behind him, riding a pony,
a page of some fourteen or fifteen years, fair-haired, pink-cheeked,
pretty as a seraph, who was half asleep, and so exhausted by his long
ride that his master was obliged to lift him from his saddle and carry
him to his room in his arms.
Rosette welcomed him very warmly and I think she has formed a plan
to use him to arouse my jealousy and thus kindle the tiny flame that
is sleeping under the ashes of my passion. However redoubtable such
a rival may be, I am little inclined to be jealous of him, and I am
so attracted to him that I would gladly abandon my love to secure his
friendship.
[Illustration: Chapter V--_A page of some fourteen or fifteen years,
fair-haired, pink-cheeked, pretty as a seraph, who was half asleep, and
so exhausted by his long ride that his master was obliged to lift him
from his saddle and carry him to his room in his arms._]
VI
At this point, with the permission of the indulgent reader, we propose
to abandon for some little time to his meditations, the worthy
personage who has thus far occupied the stage all by himself and has
spoken in his own behalf, and to adopt the ordinary form of the novel,
reserving the right, however, to resume the dramatic form hereafter,
if occasion should arise, and to draw still farther upon the species
of epistolary confession that the aforesaid young man addressed to his
friend, being fully persuaded that, however penetrating and sagacious
we may be, we certainly cannot know so much about him as he knows about
himself.
The little page was so overdone that he slept in his master's arms,
and his little head, with its hair all in disorder, rolled from side
to side as if he were dead. It was some distance from the stoop to the
apartment set aside for the new arrival, and the servant who escorted
him offered to take his turn at carrying the child; but the young
gentleman, to whom the burden seemed no more than a feather-weight,
thanked him and declined to relinquish it; he laid him gently on the
couch, taking the utmost care to avoid waking him; a mother could have
done no better. When the servant had retired and the door was closed,
he knelt beside him and tried to remove his boots; but his little feet
were so swollen and painful that the operation was a difficult one,
and the pretty sleeper uttered from time to time vague, inarticulate
exclamations, like a person who is on the point of waking; thereupon
the young gentleman would stop and wait until he was sound asleep
again. The boots yielded at last and the most important point was
gained; the stockings made little resistance.--This operation at an
end, the master took the child's feet and placed them side by side on
the velvet covering of the sofa; surely they were the two loveliest
feet in the world, no larger than that, white as new ivory, and
reddened a little by the pressure of the boots in which they had been
imprisoned seventeen hours--feet that were too small for a woman and
looked as if they had never walked; the part of the leg that could be
seen was round, plump, smooth, transparent, delicately veined, and of
the most exquisitely graceful shape--a leg worthy of the foot.
[Illustration: Chapter VI--_The pretty sleeper uttered from time to time
vague, inarticulate exclamations, like a person who is on the point of
waking; thereupon the young gentleman would stop and wait until he was
sound asleep again. The boots yielded at last and the most important
point was gained; the stockings made little resistance._]
The young man, still on his knees, gazed at the two little feet with
amorous, admiring intentness; he stooped, raised the left one and
kissed it, then the right one and kissed that; then, from kiss to kiss,
he ascended the leg to the place where the clothes began.--The page
raised his long lashes slightly and cast an affectionate, sleepy glance
at his master, in which there was no trace of surprise.--"My belt hurts
me," he said, passing his finger under the ribbon; and he fell asleep
again.--The master loosened the belt, placed a cushion beneath the
page's head, and finding that his feet, which had been burning hot,
were a little cold, he wrapped them carefully in his cloak, drew an
arm-chair close to the sofa and sat down. Two hours passed thus, the
young man watching the sleeping child and following the shadow of his
dreams on his brow. The only sounds to be heard in the room were his
regular breathing and the ticking of the clock.
It was certainly a very lovely picture. In the contrast between the two
types of beauty there was an opportunity for effect, of which a skilful
painter might have made good use.--The master was as beautiful as a
woman--the page as lovely as a young girl. The round, rosy face, set
in its frame of hair, resembled a peach among its leaves; it had the
same fresh and velvety look, although the fatigue of the journey had
lessened somewhat its usual brilliancy; the half-open mouth disclosed
two rows of small teeth of a milky whiteness, and beneath the full,
gleaming temples a network of blue veins crossed and recrossed; his
eyelashes, like the golden threads around the heads of virgins in
missals, reached almost to the middle of his cheeks; his long, silky
hair resembled both gold and silver--gold in the shadow, silver in the
light; his neck was at the same time plump and slender, and gave no
sign of the sex indicated by his clothes; two or three buttons of his
doublet were unbuttoned to enable him to breathe more freely and as the
fine shirt of Dutch lawn beneath was open, a glimpse was afforded of
an inch or two of firm rounded flesh of admirable whiteness, and the
beginning of a certain curved line difficult to account for on a young
boy's breast; upon looking closely one might have discovered also that
his hips were a little too fully developed.--The reader will form what
opinion he chooses; these are simple conjectures that we put forward;
we have no better information on the subject than he, but we hope
to learn something more in a short time, and we promise to keep him
fully informed of our discoveries.--Let the reader, if his sight is
keener than ours, bury his eyes under the lace of that shirt and decide
conscientiously whether the contour is too swelling or not; but we warn
him that the curtains are drawn and that there is a sort of half-light
in the room, ill-adapted to that sort of investigation.
The young gentleman was pale, but his was a golden pallor, full of
strength and vitality; his eyes swam in a crystalline blue fluid; his
straight, thin nose imparted a wonderful air of pride and energy to his
profile, and the flesh was of so fine a texture that it allowed the
light to pass through it on the edge; his mouth wore the sweetest smile
at certain moments, but ordinarily it was arched at the corners, curving
in rather than out, as in some of the faces we see in the pictures of
the old Italian masters; a detail that gave a charmingly disdainful
expression to his face, a _smorfia_ alluring beyond words, an air of
childish sulkiness and ill humor, very unusual and very fascinating.
What were the bonds that united the master to the page and the page to
the master? Assuredly there was something more between them than any
conceivable affection between master and servant. Were they friends
or brothers?--In that case, why this masquerading?--It would have been
difficult for any one witnessing the scene we have just described to
believe that those two individuals were just what they seemed to be and
nothing more.
"Dear angel, how he sleeps!" murmured the young man; "I don't believe
he ever travelled so far in his life. Twenty leagues in the saddle,
and he so delicate! I'm afraid that he will be sick with fatigue. But
no, it will amount to nothing; to-morrow there will be no sign of it;
he will have recovered his brilliant color and will be fresher than
a rose after the rain.--How handsome he is like that! If I weren't
afraid of waking him I would eat him up with kisses. What a fascinating
dimple he has in his chin! what fine, white skin!--Sleep soundly, sweet
treasure.--Ah! I am downright jealous of your mother, and I wish I had
brought you into the world.--He can't be sick? No, his breathing is
regular and he doesn't stir.--But I believe some one knocked."
In fact, some one had knocked twice, as gently as possible, on the
panel of the door.
The young man rose, but, fearing that he might be mistaken, waited for
a repetition of the knocking before opening the door.--Two more taps
followed, a little more pronounced, and a soft female voice said, in a
very low tone:--"It is I, Théodore."
Théodore opened the door, but with less eagerness than a young man
naturally exhibits about admitting a woman whose voice is soft and
who knocks mysteriously at his door at nightfall.--The open door gave
passage to--whom do you suppose?--to the mistress of the perplexed
D'Albert, to the Princess Rosette in person, rosier than her name, and
her bosom as deeply moved as ever woman was upon entering a handsome
youth's room in the evening.
"Théodore!" said Rosette.
Théodore lifted his finger and placed it on his lips so as to represent
a statue of silence, and, pointing to the sleeping child, led her into
the adjoining room.
"Théodore," continued Rosette, who seemed to take strange pleasure
in repeating the name, and at the same time to be collecting her
thoughts,--"Théodore," she continued, retaining the hand the young man
had offered her to lead her to her chair, "so you have returned at
last? What have you been doing all the time? where have you been?--Do
you know that it is six months since I saw you! Ah! Théodore, that is
not right; we owe some consideration, some pity to those who love us,
even if we do not love them."
THÉODORE.
What have I been doing.--I have no idea.--I have gone
away and come home, I have waked and slept, I have sung
and wept, I have been hungry and thirsty, I have been too
warm and too cold, I have been bored, I have less money
and am six months older--I have lived, that's the whole of
it.--And how about yourself, what have you been doing?
ROSETTE.
I have loved you.
THÉODORE.
Have you done nothing but that?
ROSETTE.
Absolutely nothing.--I have made a bad use of my time,
haven't I?
THÉODORE.
You might have made a better use of it, my poor Rosette;
for example, you might have loved some one who could
return your love.
ROSETTE.
I am unselfish in love as in everything.--I don't lend
love at interest; it is a pure gift on my part.
THÉODORE.
That is a very rare virtue and one that can exist only
in a noble heart. I have often wished that I could
love you, especially as you desire it; but there is an
insurmountable obstacle between us which I cannot tell
you.--Have you had any other lover since I left you?
ROSETTE.
I have had one whom I still have.
THÉODORE.
What sort of a man is he?
ROSETTE.
A poet.
THÉODORE.
The devil! who is this poet, and what has he written?
ROSETTE.
I haven't a very clear idea--a volume that nobody knows
anything about, and that I tried to read one evening.
THÉODORE.
So you have an unpublished poet for a lover?--That must
be interesting.--Is he out at elbows, does he wear dirty
linen and rumpled stockings?
ROSETTE.
No; he dresses very well, washes his hands and has no
ink-spots on the end of his nose. He's a friend of C----;
I met him at Madame de Thémines',--you know, that tall
woman, who plays the child and puts on such innocent airs.
THÉODORE.
And might one know the name of this eminent personage?
ROSETTE.
Oh! _Mon Dieu_, yes! he is the Chevalier d'Albert.
THÉODORE.
Chevalier d'Albert! I think that was the young man who was
on the balcony when I alighted from my horse.
ROSETTE.
Precisely.
THÉODORE.
And who examined me so closely.
ROSETTE.
Himself.
THÉODORE.
He's a very good-looking fellow.--And he has not made you
forget me?
ROSETTE.
No. Unfortunately you are not one of those whom one
forgets.
THÉODORE.
He loves you dearly no doubt?
ROSETTE.
I am not so sure of that.--There are moments when you
would think he loved me very dearly; but at heart he
doesn't love me, and he is not far from hating me, for
he is angry with me because he can't love me.--He did as
many others before him have done; he developed a very
keen taste for passion, and was greatly surprised and
disappointed when his desire was surfeited.--It is a
mistake to think that two people must mutually adore each
other because they have lain together.
THÉODORE.
And what do you propose to do with this lover who is not a
lover?
ROSETTE.
What we do with bygone quarters of the moon or with last
year's fashions.--He hasn't courage enough to leave me
the first, and although he does not love me in the true
sense of the word, he is bound to me by the habit of
enjoyment, and those are the habits it is hardest to
break. If I don't assist him, he is quite capable of
conscientiously submitting to be bored with me till the
last judgment and beyond; for he has within him the germ
of all noble qualities; and the flowers of his soul ask
naught but an opportunity to bloom in the sunshine of
everlasting love.--Really I am very sorry that I did not
prove to be the sunbeam for him. Of all my lovers whom I
have not loved, I love him the most; and, if I were not
as kind-hearted as I am, I would not give him back his
liberty, but I would still keep him.--But that is what I
will not do; I am finishing with him at this moment.
THÉODORE.
How long will it last?
ROSETTE.
A fortnight, three weeks, but at all events not so long
as if you had not come.--I know that I shall never be
your mistress.--There is, you say, an unknown reason for
that, to which I would bow if it were possible for you to
disclose it to me. Thus I am forbidden to entertain any
hope in that direction, and yet I cannot make up my mind
to be another man's mistress when you are here; it seems
to me like a profanation, and as if I should not have the
right to love you.
THÉODORE.
Keep this lover for love of me.
ROSETTE.
If it will give you pleasure I will do it.--Ah! if you
could have been mine, how different my life might have
been from what it has been!--The world has a very false
idea of me, and I should have lived and died without
any one suspecting what I am--except you, Théodore,
the only one who has understood me and been cruel to
me.--I have never wanted any one but you for a lover,
and I have never had you. O Théodore, if you had loved
me, I should have been virtuous and chaste, I should
have been worthy of you; instead of that, I shall leave
behind me--if any one remembers me--the reputation of a
dissolute woman, a sort of courtesan, who differed from
her of the gutter only in rank and fortune.--I was born
with the highest aspirations; but nothing depraves one
so much as being unloved.--Many people despise me who
have no idea what I have had to suffer before reaching my
present position.--Being sure that I shall never belong to
the man I would prefer above all others, I have allowed
myself to float with the current, I have not taken the
trouble to defend a body that could not be yours.--As for
my heart, no one has had it and no one ever will. It is
yours, although you have broken it;--and I am different
from the majority of women who believe themselves virtuous
provided they have not passed from one bed to another,
in this respect--although I have prostituted my flesh, I
have been faithful in heart and soul to the thought of
you.--At all events I shall have made some few people
happy, I shall have caused white-robed illusions to dance
about some pillows. I have innocently deceived more than
one noble heart. I have been so miserable at being spurned
by you, that I have always been horrified at the thought
of compelling any one else to undergo such torture. That
is the sole worthy motive of adventures which are commonly
attributed to a spirit of libertinage pure and simple!--I,
a libertine! O society!--If you knew, Théodore, how
intensely painful it is to feel that your life is a
failure, that you have let slip your chance of happiness,
to see that everybody misunderstands you and that it is
impossible to make people change their opinion of you,
that your most estimable qualities are tortured into
defects, your purest essences into deadly poisons, that
nothing except the evil in you has transpired; to have
found doors always open to your vices and always closed
to your virtues, and to have been unable to bring to
perfection, amid such a wilderness of hemlock and aconite,
a single lily or a single rose! you know nothing of that,
Théodore.
THÉODORE.
Alas! alas! Rosette, what you have just said includes the
history of the whole world; the best part of us is that
which remains within us and which we cannot display.--It
is the same with poets.--Their noblest poem is the one
they have not written; they carry more poems to the grave
than they leave in their library.
ROSETTE.
I shall carry my poem to the grave with me.
THÉODORE.
And I mine.--Who has not written one at some time in his
life? who is so fortunate, or so unfortunate, as not to
have composed his in his head or in his heart?--Even
headsmen may have composed poems, all moist with tears of
the tenderest sensibility; poets perhaps have composed
some that would be suited to headsmen, so bloody and
monstrous they are.
ROSETTE.
Yes.--White roses can fitly be placed on my grave. I have
had ten lovers, but I am a virgin, and I shall die a
virgin. Many virgins, on whose graves there is a constant
snow of jasmine and orange blossoms, were veritable
Messalinas.
THÉODORE.
I know what a noble creature you are, Rosette.
ROSETTE.
You only in all the world have seen what I am; for you
have seen me under the influence of a love that is
perfectly genuine and very deep-rooted, as it is hopeless;
and no one who has not seen a woman in love can say what
she is; that is the one thing that consoles me in my
bitterness of spirit.
THÉODORE.
And what does this young man think of you, who is your
lover to-day in the eyes of the world?
ROSETTE.