There are some women who, like the heroic Cure Merino, need but one
hour’s sleep. A nervous, irritable, subtle organization gives them a
power for waking, without apparent fatigue, refused to most men. And
yet, when a strong emotion causes its corrosive waters to filtrate into
the veins of these impressionable beings, it trickles there drop by
drop, until it has hollowed out in the very depths of their hearts a
lake full of trouble and storms. Then, in the silence of night and the
calm of solitude, insomnia makes the rosy cheeks grow pale and dark
rings encircle the most sparkling eyes. It is in vain for the burning
forehead to seek the cool pillow; the pillow grows warm without the
forehead cooling. In vain the mind hunts for commonplace ideas, as a
sort of intellectual poppy-leaves that may lead to a quiet night’s rest;
a persistent thought still returns, chasing away all others, as an eagle
disperses a flock of timid birds in order to remain sole master of its
prey. If one tries to repeat the accustomed prayer, and invoke the aid
of the Virgin, or the good angel who watches at the foot of young girls’
beds, in order to keep away the charms of the tempter, the prayer is
only on the lips, the Virgin is deaf, the angel sleeps! The breath of
passion against which one struggles runs through every fibre of the
heart, like a storm over the chords of an Tolian harp, and extorts from
it those magic melodies to which a poor, troubled, and frightened woman
listens with remorse and despair; but to which she listens, and with
which at last she is intoxicated, for the allegory of Eve is an immortal
myth, that repeats itself, through every century and in every clime.
Since her entrance into society, Madame de Bergenheim had formed the
habit of keeping late hours. When the minute details of her toilette
for the night were over, and she had confided her beautiful body to the
snowy sheets of her couch, some new novel or fashionable magazine helped
her wile away the time until sleep came to her. Christian left his room,
like a good country gentleman, at sunrise; he left it either for the
chase--or to oversee workmen, who were continually being employed
upon some part of his domain. Ordinarily, he returned only in time for
dinner, and rarely saw Clemence except between that time and supper, at
the conclusion of which, fatigued by his day’s work, he hastened to seek
the repose of the just. Husband and wife, while living under the same
roof, were thus almost completely isolated from each other; night for
one was day for the other.
By the haste with which Clemence shortened her preparations for the
night, one would have said that she must have been blessed with an
unusually sleepy sensation. But when she lay in bed, with her head under
her arm, like a swan with his neck under his wing, and almost in the
attitude of Correggio’s Magdalen, her eyes, which sparkled with a
feverish light, betrayed the fact that she had sought the solitude of
her bed in order to indulge more freely in deep meditation.
With marvelous fidelity she went over the slightest events of the
day, to which by a constant effort of willpower, she had seemed so
indifferent. First, she saw Gerfaut with his face covered with blood,
and the thought of the terrible sensation which this sight caused her
made her heart throb violently. She then recalled him as she next saw
him, in the drawing-room by her husband’s side, seated in the very
chair that she had left but a moment before. This trifling circumstance
impressed her; she saw in this a proof of sympathetic understanding, a
sort of gift of second sight which Octave possessed, and which in her
eyes was so formidable a weapon. According to her ideas, he must have
suspected that this was her own favorite chair and have seized it for
that reason, just as he would have loved to take her in his arms.
For the first time, Clemence had seen together the man to whom she
belonged and the man whom she regarded somewhat as her property. For,
by one of those arrangements with their consciences of which women alone
possess the secret, she had managed to reason like this: “Since I am
certain always to belong to Monsieur de Bergenheim only, Octave can
certainly belong to me.” An heterodoxical syllogism, whose two premises
she reconciled with an inconceivable subtlety. A feeling of shame had
made her dread this meeting, which the most hardened coquette could
never witness without embarrassment. A woman, between her husband and
her lover, is like a plant one sprinkles with ice-cold water while a
ray of sunlight is trying to comfort it. The sombre and jealous, or even
tranquil and unsuspecting, face of a husband has a wonderful power of
repression. One is embarrassed to love under the glance of an eye
that darts flashes as bright as steel; and a calm, kindly look is more
terrible yet, for all jealousy seems tyrannical, and tyranny leads to
revolt; but a confiding husband is like a victim strangled in his sleep,
and inspires, by his very calmness, the most poignant remorse.
The meeting of these two men naturally led Clemence to a comparison
which could but be to Christian’s advantage. Gerfaut had nothing
remarkable about him save an intelligent, intensely clever air; there
was a thoughtful look in his eyes and an archness in his smile, but his
irregular features showed no mark of beauty; his face wore an habitually
tired expression, peculiar to those people who have lived a great deal
in a short time, and it made him look older than Christian, although he
was really several years younger. The latter, on the contrary, owed to
his strong constitution, fortified by country life, an appearance of
blooming youth that enhanced his noble regularity of features.
In a word, Christian was handsomer than his rival, and Clemence
exaggerated her husband’s superiority over her lover. Not being able to
find the latter awkward or insignificant, she tried to persuade herself
that he was ugly. She then reviewed in her mind all M. de Bergenheim’s
good qualities, his attachment and kindness to her, his loyal, generous
ways; she recalled the striking instance that Marillac had related of
his bravery, a quality without which there is no hope of success for a
man in the eyes of any woman. She did all in her power to inflame her
imagination and to see in her husband a hero worthy of inspiring the
most fervent love. When she had exhausted her efforts toward such
enthusiasm and admiration, she turned round, in despair, and, burying
her head in her pillow, she sobbed:
“I cannot, I cannot love him!”
She wept bitterly for a long while. As she recalled her own severity in
the past regarding women whose conduct had caused scandal, she employed
in her turn the harshness of her judgment in examining her own actions.
She felt herself more guilty than all the others, for her weakness
appeared less excusable to her. She felt that she was unworthy and
contemptible, and wished to die that she might escape the shame that
made her blush scarlet, and the remorse that tortured her soul.
How many such unhappy tears bathe the eyes of those who should shed only
tears of joy! How many such sighs break the silence of the night! There
are noble, celestial beings among women whom remorse stretches out upon
its relentless brasier, but in the midst of the flames that torture them
the heart palpitates, imperishable as a salamander. Is it not human fate
to suffer? After Madame de Bergenheim had given vent, by convulsive sobs
and stifled sighs, to her grief for this love which she could not tear
from her breast, she formed a desperate resolution. From the manner in
which M. de Gerfaut had taken possession of the chateau the very first
day, she recognized that he was master of the situation. The sort of
infatuation which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil seemed to have for him,
and Christian’s courteous and hospitable habits, would give him an
opportunity to prolong his stay as long as he desired. She thus compared
herself to a besieged general, who sees the enemy within his ramparts.
“Very well! I will shut myself up in the fortress!” said she, smiling
in spite of herself in the midst of her tears. “Since this insupportable
man has taken possession of my drawing-room, I will remain in my own
room; we will see whether he dares to approach that!”
She shook her pretty head with a defiant air, but she could not help
glancing into the room which was barely lighted with a night lamp. She
sat up and listened for a moment rather anxiously, as if Octave’s dark
eyes might suddenly glisten in the obscurity. When she had assured
herself that all was tranquil, and that the throbbing of her heart was
all that disturbed the silence, she continued preparing her plan of
defense.
She decided that she would be ill the next day and keep to her bed,
if necessary, until her persecutor should make up his mind to beat
a retreat. She solemnly pledged herself to be firm, courageous, and
inflexible; then she tried to pray. It was now two o’clock in the
morning. For some time Clemence remained motionless, and one might
have thought that at least she was asleep. Suddenly she arose. Without
stopping to put on her dressing-gown, she lighted a candle by the
night-lamp, pushed the bolt of her door and then went to the windows,
the space between them forming a rather deep projection on account of
the thickness of the walls. A portrait of the Duke of Bordeaux hung
there; she raised it and pressed a button concealed in the woodwork.
A panel opened, showing a small empty space. The shelf in this sort of
closet contained only a rosewood casket. She opened this mysterious box
and took from it a package of letters, then returned to her bed with the
eagerness of a miser who is about to gaze upon his treasures.
Had she not struggled and prayed? Had she not offered upon the
tyrannical altar of duty as an expiation, tears, pale cheeks and a
tortured soul? Had she not just taken a solemn vow, in the presence of
God and herself, which should protect her against her weakness? Was she
not a virtuous wife, and had she not paid dearly enough for a moment of
sad happiness? Was it a crime to breathe for an instant the balmy air
of love through the gratings of this prison-cell, the doors of which she
had just locked with her own hand? Admirable logic for loving hearts,
which, not being able to control their feelings, suffer in order to
prove themselves less guilty, and clothe themselves in haircloth so that
each shudder may cause a pain that condones the sin!
Being at peace with herself, she read as women read who are in love;
leaning her head upon her hand, she drew out the letters, one by one,
from her bosom where she had placed them. She drank with her heart and
eyes the poison these passionate words contained; she allowed herself
to be swayed at will by these melodies which lulled but did not benumb.
When one of those invincible appeals of imploring passion awoke all the
echoes of her love, and ran through her veins with a thrill, striking
the innermost depths of her heart, she threw herself back and imprinted
her burning lips upon the cold paper. With one letter pressed to her
heart, and another pressed to her lips, she gave herself up completely,
exclaiming in an inaudible voice: “I love thee! I am thine!”
The next morning, when Aline entered her sister-in law’s room,
according to her usual custom, the latter was not obliged to feign the
indisposition she had planned; the sensations of this sleepless night
had paled her cheeks and altered her features; it would have been
difficult to imagine a more complete contrast than that between these
two young women at this moment. Clemence, lying upon her bed motionless
and white as the sheet which covered her, resembled Juliet sleeping in
her tomb; Aline, rosy, vivacious, and more petulant than usual, looked
very much the madcap Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had reproached her with
being. Her face was full of that still childish grace, more lovely than
calm, more pleasing than impressive, which makes young girls so charming
to the eye but less eloquent to the heart; for are they not fresh
flowers more rich in coloring than in perfume?
Clemence could hardly stifle a sigh as she gazed at those rosy checks,
those sparkling eyes, that life so full of the rich future. She recalled
a time when she was thus, when grief glided over her cheeks without
paling them, when tears dried as they left her eyes; she also had had
her happy, careless days, her dreams of unalloyed bliss.
Aline, after presenting her face like a child who asks for a
kiss, wished to tease her as usual, but, with a tired gesture, her
sister-in-law begged for mercy.
“Are you ill?” asked the young girl anxiously, as she seated herself
upon the edge of the bed.
Madame de Bergenheim smiled, a forced smile.
“Thank me for my poor health,” said she, “for it obliges you to do the
honors; I shall doubtless not be able to go down to dinner, and you must
take my place. You know that it tires my aunt to have to trouble herself
about others.”
Aline made a little grimace as she replied:
“If I thought you were speaking seriously, I would go and get into my
own bed at once!”
“Child! will you not in your turn be mistress of a home? Is it not
necessary for you to become accustomed to it? It is an excellent
opportunity, and, with my aunt as a guide, you are sure to acquit
yourself well.”
These last words were spoken rather maliciously, for the young woman
knew that of all the possible mentors, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was
the one whom Aline dreaded most.
“I beg of you, my kind sister,” replied the girl, clasping her hands,
“do not be ill to-day. Is it the neuralgia of the day before yesterday
you are suffering from? Do be a good sister, and get up and come and
take a walk in the park; the fresh air will cure you, I am sure of it.”
“And I shall not be obliged to preside at the dinner-table, you would
add; is it not so? You selfish girl!”
“I am afraid of Monsieur de Gerfaut,” said the child, lowering her
voice.
When she heard pronounced this name, so deeply agitating her, Madame de
Bergenheim was silent for a moment; at last she said:
“What has Monsieur de Gerfaut done to you? Is it not downright
ungrateful to be afraid of him so soon after the service he has rendered
you?”
“No, I am not ungrateful,” replied the young girl quickly. “I never
shall forget that I owe my life to him, for certainly, but for him, I
should have been dragged into the river. But he has such black, piercing
eyes that they seem to look into your very soul; and then, he is such a
brilliant man! I am all the time afraid of saying something that he may
laugh at. You know, some people think I talk too much; but I shall never
dare open my mouth in his presence. Why do some persons’ eyes make such
an impression upon one?”
Clemence lowered her own beautiful eyes and made no reply.
“His friend, Monsieur Marillac, does not frighten me one bit, in
spite of his big moustache. Tell me, does not this Monsieur de Gerfaut
frighten you a little too?”
“Not at all, I assure you,” replied Madame de Bergenheim, trying to
smile. “But,” she continued, in order to change the conversation, “how
fine you look! You have certainly some plan of conquest. What! a city
gown at nine o’clock in the morning, and hair dressed as if for a ball?”
“Would you like to know the compliment your aunt just paid me?”
“Some little jest of hers, I suppose?”
“You might say some spiteful remark, for she is the hatefulest thing!
She told me that blue ribbons suited red hair very badly and advised me
to change one or the other. Is it true that my hair is red?”
Mademoiselle de Bergenheim asked this question with so much anxiety that
her sister-in-law could not repress a smile.
“You know that my aunt delights in annoying you,” said she. “Your hair
is very pretty, a bright blond, very pleasant to the eye; only Justine
waves it a little too tight; it curls naturally. She dresses your hair
too high; it would be more becoming to you if she pushed it back from
your temples a little than to wave it as much as she does. Come a little
nearer to me.”
Aline knelt before Madame de Bergenheim’s bed, and the latter, adding
a practical lesson to verbal advice, began to modify the maid’s work to
suit her own taste.
“It curls like a little mane,” said the young girl, as she saw the
trouble her sister-in-law had in succeeding; “it was my great trouble
at the Sacred Heart. The sisters wished us to wear our hair plain, and
I always had a terrible time to keep it in place. However, blond hair
looks ugly when too plainly dressed, and Monsieur de Gerfaut said
yesterday that it was the shade he liked best.”
“Monsieur de Gerfaut told you he liked blond hair best!”
“Take care; you are pulling my hair! Yes, blond hair and blue eyes. He
said that when speaking of Carlo Dolci’s Virgin, and he said she was of
the most beautiful Jewish type; if he intended it as a compliment to me,
I am very much obliged to him. Do you think that my eyes are as blue as
that of the painted Virgin’s. Monsieur de Gerfaut pretends that there is
a strong resemblance.”
Madame de Bergenheim withdrew her hand so quickly that she pulled out
half a dozen or more hairs from her sister-in-law’s head, and buried
herself up to the chin in the bedclothes.
“Oh! Monsieur de Gerfaut knows how to pay very pretty compliments!” she
said. “And you doubtless are very well pleased to resemble Carlo Dolci’s
Madonna?”
“She is very pretty!--and then it is the Holy Virgin, you know--Ah! I
hear Monsieur de Gerfaut’s voice in the garden.”
The young girl arose quickly and ran to the window, where, concealed
behind the curtains, she could see what was going on outside without
being seen herself.
“He is with Christian,” she continued. “There, they are going to the
library. They must have just taken a long walk, for they are bespattered
with mud. If you could only see what a pretty little cap Monsieur de
Gerfaut has on!”
“Truly, he will turn her head,” thought Madame de Bergenheim, with a
decided feeling of anger; then she closed her eyes as if she wished to
sleep.
Gerfaut had, in fact, just returned from paying his respects to the
estate. He had followed his host, who, under the pretext of showing him
several picturesque sights, promenaded him, in the morning dew, through
the lettuce in the kitchen garden and the underbrush in the park. But
he knew through experience that all was not roses in a lover’s path;
watching in the snow, climbing walls, hiding in obscure closets,
imprisonment in wardrobes, were more disagreeable incidents than a quiet
tete-a-tete with a husband.
He listened, therefore, complacently enough to Bergenheim’s prolix
explanations, interested himself in the planting of trees, thought
the fields very green, the forests admirable, the granite rocks more
beautiful than those of the Alps, went into ecstasies over the smallest
vista, advised the establishment of a new mill on the river, which,
being navigable for rafts, might convey lumber to all the cities on the
Moselle, and thus greatly increase the value of the owner’s woods. They
fraternized like Glaucus and Diomede; Gerfaut hoping, of course, to play
the part of the Greek, who, according to Homer, received in return for a
common iron armor a gold one of inestimable value. There is always such
a secret mental reservation in the lover’s mind when associating with
the husband of his inamorata.
When he entered the room of his wife, whose indisposition had been
reported to him, Christian’s first words were:
“This Monsieur de Gerfaut appears to be a very excellent fellow, and I
shall be delighted if he will stay with us a while. It is too bad that
you are ill. He is a good musician, as well as Marillac; you might have
sung together. Try to get better quickly and come down to dinner.”
“I can not really tell him that Monsieur de Gerfaut has loved me for
more than a year,” said Madame de Bergenheim to herself.
A moment later, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil appeared, and with a prim air
seated herself beside the bed.
“Perhaps you think that I am fooled by this indisposition. I see plainly
that you wish to be impolite to Monsieur de Gerfaut, for you can not
endure him. It seems to me, however, that a relative of your family
ought to be treated with more respect by you, above all, when you know
how much I esteem him. This is unheard-of absurdity, and I shall end by
speaking to your husband about it; we shall see if his intervention will
not have more effect than mine.”
“You shall not do that, aunt,” Clemence interrupted, sitting up in bed
and trying to take her aunt’s hand.
“If you wish that your discourteous conduct should rest a secret between
us, I advise you to get rid of your neuralgia this very day. Now, you
had better decide immediately--”
“This is genuine persecution,” exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, falling
back upon her bed when the old lady had departed. “He has bewitched
everybody! Aline, my aunt, and my husband; to say nothing of myself, for
I shall end by going mad. I must end this, at any price.” She rang the
bell violently.
“Justine,” said she to her maid, “do not let any one enter this room
under any pretext whatsoever, and do not come in yourself until I ring;
I will try to sleep.”
Justine obeyed, after closing the blinds. She had hardly gone out
when her mistress arose, put on her dressing-gown and slippers with a
vivacity which betokened anger; she then seated herself at her desk and
began to write rapidly, dashing her pen over the satiny paper without
troubling herself as to blots. The last word was ended with a dash as
energetically drawn as the Napoleonic flourish.
When a young man who, according to custom, begins to read the end of his
letters first finds an arabesque of this style at the bottom of a lady’s
letter, he ought to arm himself with patience and resignation before he
reads its contents.