If I had married when I was quite young, before I had wallowed in the
mire of Paris, from which one can never afterwards free oneself, for
heart and body both retain indelible marks of it, if I had not been the
plaything of a score of mistresses, who disgusted me with belief in any
woman, if I had not been weaned from supreme illusions, and surfeited
with everything to the marrow, should I have these abominable ideas?
I waited almost until I was beginning to decline in life, before I took
the right path and sought refuge in port; before going to what is pure
and virtuous, and before listening to the continual advice of those who
love me, I passed too suddenly from those lies, from those ephemeral
enjoyments, from that satiety which depraves us, from vice in which one
tries to acquire renewed strength and vigor, and to discover some new
and unknown sensation, to the pure sentimentalities of an engagement, to
the unspeakable delights of a life that was common to two, to that kind
of amorous first communion which ought to constitute married life.
If, instead of getting involved in an engagement and forming any
resolution so quickly, as I had been afraid that somebody else would be
beforehand with me and to rob me of Elaine's heart, or of relapsing into
my former habits, if instead of lacking moral strength and character
enough, in case I might have had to wait, if I had backed out without
entering into any engagement and without having bound my life to that of
the adorable girl whom chance had thrown in my way, it would surely have
been far better if I had waited, prepared myself, questioned myself, and
accustomed myself to that metamorphosis; if I had purified myself and
forgotten the past, like in those retreats which precede the solemn
ceremony, when pious souls pronounce their indissoluble vows?
The reaction had been too sudden and violent for such a convalescent as
I was. I worked myself up, and pictured to myself something so white, so
virginal, so paradisical, such complete ignorance, such unconquerable
modesty and such delicious awkwardness, that Elaine's gayety, her
unconstraint, her fearlessness, and her passionate kisses bewildered me,
roused my suspicions and filled me with anguish.
And yet I know how all, or nearly all, girls are educated in these days,
and that the ignorant, simple ones only exist on the stage, and I know
also that they hear and learn too many things both at home and in
society, not to have the intuition of the results of love.
Elaine loves me with all her heart, for she has told me so time after
time, and she repeats it to me more ardently than ever when I take her
into my arms and appear happy. She must have seen that her beauty had,
in a manner, converted me; that in order to possess her I had renounced
many seductions and a long life of enjoyment; and, perhaps, she would no
longer please me if she was _too much of the little girl_, and that she
would appear ridiculous to me if she showed her fears by any entreaty,
and gesture, or any sigh.
As the people in the South say, she would have acted the brave woman,
and boasted, so that no complaint might betray her, and have imparted
the wild tenderness of a jealous heart to her kisses, and have attempted
a struggle, which would certainly have been useless, against those
recollections of mine, with which she thought I must be filled, in spite
of myself.
I accused myself, so that I might no longer accuse her. I studied my
malady; I knew quite well that I was wrong, and I wished to be wrong, I
measured the stupidity and the disgrace of such suspicions, and,
nevertheless, in spite of everything, they assailed me again, watched me
traitorously and I was carried away and devoured by them.
Ah! Was there in the whole world, even among the most wretched beggars
that were dying of starvation, whom nature squeezes in a vice, as it
were, or among the victims of love, anybody who could say that he was
more wretched than I?