CHAPTER XXIV

DAYS OF SUNSHINE

There are but few persons, I imagine, who have not created for themselves a sort of intimate language, which they use to separate and classify the different emotions and events of their lives. It was thus that I gave the name of "days of sunshine" to those few fortunate hours that brightened my existence, which were fixed in my memory in such vivid colours that even the remembrance of them sufficed to cheer the dullest days of my after life.

At such times, when, by a turn of her wheel, fortune seems to amuse herself by raising a man to the very height of his fondest desire, on such "days of sunshine" everything that happens to us is not only just as we would wish, but the environment is such that our senses are doubly gratified.

And who is there that has not had his day of sunshine once at least in his life? One of those days when everything is beautiful and splendid, when the soul is filled with an ineffable sense of satisfaction, and Nature herself seems to contribute to our felicity? When if a long-cherished friend said, in a trembling voice: "To-night!" the night was so beautiful, the heavens so clear, the woods beautiful in their fresh foliage, the flowers glistening, the air saturated with perfume, and everything that you gazed on was smiling and peaceful.

No shadow of sadness came to obscure your luminous aureole. Is it needful to say how such rare and divine harmony delighted you? New and happily turned expressions came spontaneously to your lips; your lively wit sparkled in a thousand graceful pleasantries; when that is silent your heart murmurs ineffable tenderness. You feel yourself to be so brave, so proud, so gifted, that to your dazzled eyes the future is boundless, the perspective illimitable and glorious, and you say to yourself, "No misfortune can come to me while I am under the guidance of the radiant genius who shelters me with his golden wings."

Since Marguerite had declared her love, a love so long and sadly struggled against by every souvenir of her past happiness, my incurable distrust had succumbed, at least for the time being, to the most intoxicating proofs of her affection.

There never were happier or more beautiful days than those that followed this avowal.

Almost every evening, on returning home, I had written in my journal a memento of these charming days.

Therefore it is with tender and respectful emotion that in writing this memoir I transcribe these fragments which were written during one of the most delightful periods of my life.

I

APRIL, 18--.

I have been fortunate enough to-day to spare Marguerite a moment's annoyance, but poor Candid is dead.

I have just seen him die. Brave, noble horse! I loved him well!

George does not weep for him, he is in a stupid despair; he said to me in English, with a horrified look as he pointed to the expiring beast: "Ah, monsieur, to die like that! and never to have run against any one, never to have run a race!"

Poor Candid! his end was peaceful, he went down on his knees, then he fell over, two or three times he raised his noble head and opened his great bright eyes,--then he half closed them, gave a sigh, and was dead.

I never loved a horse so well, nor will I ever care for another one as I did for him, he was so intelligent and beautiful, he had so much energy and adroitness, besides being perfectly intrepid! He never balked at anything; was there an obstacle at the sight of which another horse would have hesitated, he came up to it proud, calm, and brave, and leaped over it as though it were play.

And then he looked so free and joyous under the bridle, one would have said that the valiant animal was under no restraint, but wore the bit as an ornament.

Poor Candid! his courage was my pride! Confiding in his strength, I dared to face dangers that otherwise would have affrighted me.

Trusting in his speed and stubborn energy, I accepted every wager. Poor Candid! it was his speed and stubborn energy that were the causes of his death.

He was the only horse I owned that could have done what he did, what very few would have attempted; he accomplished his task valiantly and gained me a smile from Marguerite.

Poor Candid! I did not know to what risk I exposed him, and now--I do not know whether I should have the courage to do it again. This is the cause of Candid's death:

This morning we went with Don Luiz to see the Château of ----, that Marguerite wishes to purchase; this château is at a distance of three leagues and a half from Paris. In visiting the apartments I gave my arm to Marguerite, and we were followed by Don Luiz and the overseer of the château.

When we were in the library, we noticed a very fine portrait of a lady of the seventeenth century; the hands were adorable in their delicacy and beauty of form.

They were so adorable that they resembled Marguerite's.

She denied it; so I begged her to take off her glove and let us compare her hands with those of the portrait. They were strikingly alike. How could I see such beautiful hands without kissing them?

We heard Don Luiz's step, and we continued our examination of the library.

After seeing the château we returned to Paris. As Marguerite felt tired, she asked me to come and spend a quiet evening with her. I promised to do so.

When I arrived there I found her pale and sad; she was evidently quite overcome.

"What is the matter?" said I to her.

"You will laugh at me,"--she had tears in her eyes,--"but I have lost a bracelet that belonged to my mother; I had it on this morning. You know how I prize it, and will understand how grieved I am. I have sought for it everywhere. It is nowhere--nowhere!"

As she told me this, I remembered confusedly having seen, when Marguerite took off her glove, something that shone brilliantly, and which fell to the floor just as I was kissing her hand in the library, but, being so enchanted by the kiss, I paid no attention to anything else.

"I am so foolishly superstitious about the possession of that bracelet," said Marguerite, "that I will be dreadfully unhappy if it is really lost, but what hope can I have? Have I any? Ah, pardon, my friend, for my showing such sorrow for anything which does not concern you, but if you only knew how much that bracelet meant to me-- Ah, what a sad night I shall spend, how unhappy I shall be!"

There flashed through my mind one of those ideas that come to us when we are desperately in love. I had a very fast race-horse,--it was Candid; it was three leagues and a half from Paris to the Château of ----; the night was fine, the moon shone clear, the road was a splendid one. I wished to spare Marguerite not only a night, but an hour, even a few moments of grief, by finding out in the least time possible if the bracelet had been left in the library of ----, even at the risk of killing my horse.

"Pardon for my selfishness," said I to Marguerite, "but your distress and the loss you have sustained have reminded me that I foolishly left the key in the lock of a little chest which contains important papers. I have every confidence in my _valet de chambre_, but others besides he might enter my room. Permit me, then, to write a note, that I will send back by the carriage, to tell him to get the key, and bring it to me."

I wrote the following words:

"George is to saddle Candid instantly, he must go to the Château de ---- and ask the overseer if he has not found a bracelet in the library. When George gets this note it will be ten o'clock, by eleven o'clock you must either bring the bracelet or the answer to the Hôtel de Pënâfiel."

The letter was sent.

It was rather more than three leagues and a half to the Château de ---- from Paris. He would have to travel seven leagues in an hour. Such a thing was possible with a horse like Candid, but it was a hundred to one that it would ruin him. Until ten o'clock I had sufficient control over myself to amuse Marguerite and take her mind off her loss.

Eleven o'clock struck, George had not returned. At five minutes past eleven a _valet de chambre_ came in, bringing on a waiter a small package, which he presented to me.

It was Marguerite's bracelet.

I cannot express the transports of joy with which I received it.

"You will pardon me," I said to Marguerite, "the tardiness of my servants. Not knowing the value you set on that bracelet, I stole it from you, but seeing your extreme annoyance, I pretended that I had forgotten my key, and wrote to my _valet de chambre_ to send me a little package that he would find in my coffer."

"Oh, I have found it, I have found it! I forgive you!" cried Marguerite, in a transport of joy; then, holding out her hand, she added: "Ah, how kind you are to have taken pity on my weakness, and how I thank you for having sent to your house for the bracelet, in order to save me a few moments' distress."

I admit that, in spite of Marguerite's joy and gratitude, I was horribly anxious when, at half-past eleven, I quitted the Hôtel de Pënâfiel. At midnight, my anxiety was all over. Poor Candid! He had just expired, I told George, by way of explanation, that I had laid a wager for three hundred louis that Candid could go to ---- and back by night in an hour.

II

APRIL, 18--.

I met Marguerite in the Champs Élysées. She spoke of horses, and said to me: "Why do you not make Candid run oftener? They say he is so fast, so handsome, and that you are so fond of him,--oh, so fond, that I am almost jealous," she added, laughing.

At this moment M. de Cernay, who, like myself, was on horseback, rode up to the side of Madame de Pënâfiel's carriage. He bowed to her, and said to me:

"Is this true that I hear? Is Candid dead?"

Marguerite looked at me with amazement.

"He is dead," said I to M. de Cernay.

"That is what I was told, but it does not surprise me,--to travel more than seven leagues at night, in an hour and four minutes! No matter how full-blooded a horse was, it would be hard for him to stand such a trial as that, and when he was not in condition! And your wager was for three hundred louis, I believe?"

"Yes, three hundred louis."

"Well, between us, you have done a foolish thing, for I have seen you refuse more than that for him, and very properly, too, for you would never get such a horse for five hundred louis. I tell you this because he is dead now," he added, with great simplicity.

"A horse's reputation, then, seems to be like that of a great man," I said, laughing, "jealousy prevents him from being appreciated while he is alive."

Marguerite's expressive look almost repaid me for the loss of Candid.

III

APRIL, 18--.

What a bewildering day! It has been so filled with happy hours that I fondly listen to their distant echoes in my heart.

It has been a radiantly beautiful day. As we had agreed upon yesterday, I met Marguerite in the Bois; her face, which is still rather pale, seemed to bloom afresh in the sunlight. She was on foot, and before joining her I followed her at some distance in the Alley of the Acacias. Nothing could be more elegant than her walk, or than her figure, whose suppleness and grace was only half hidden by the shawl that was wrapped around her. I also watched for some time her little feet, as, at each step, they raised the flowing edge of her dress.

I joined her, and she blushed deeply when she saw me. I am more than ever convinced of the value of this symptom. As soon as it ceases, as soon as the sight of the beloved one no longer causes the blood to rush from the heart to the face, real love, ardent and young, has disappeared; a weak and chilly affection has come in its place; indifference and forgetfulness are not far off.

I gave her my arm. As she scarcely touched it, I begged her to lean on it more.

The air was pure and mild, the turf was beginning to look green, the violets to blossom. We spoke very little at first. From time to time she turned her face up to mine, and looked smilingly at me, while her large eyes seemed to swim in clear crystal; then her nostrils would dilate, as she said, eagerly, "Oh, how good it is to breathe thus the springtime and happiness!"

When we saw the Heights of Calvary we talked about the country, the great forests, the fields, and the beautiful and vast treasures of nature. Our conversation was often interrupted by long pauses. After one of these, she said to me: "I wish you could come to Brittany; we would take long, long walks together, and I would plant you in our woods, so that later, when I was all alone, I should gather in a rich harvest of tender recollections."

I replied that I had nothing to tell her in return for such charming flattery, and I was really glad it was so, for nothing is more tiresome than those persons who repay you instantly, by returning a pretty compliment or delicate attention, as though they wished to rid themselves at any price of an intolerable debt. We met several men and women of our acquaintance on foot as we were. After they had passed us and we had exchanged bows, we laughingly declared that we would like to know what they were saying about us.

While telling of our walk, I wish to say that Marguerite told me that Paris was becoming odious to her; that she had formed a fine project, but would not disclose it to me until the first of May. Impossible to make her tell any more.

At four o'clock the old Chevalier Don Luiz rejoined us, and we all three continued our walk for awhile. Madame de Pënâfiel and I each had some visits to make and so I left her. That night she was to go to a ball, and we agreed that I should go to see her at ten o'clock to have the first glimpse of her toilet, of which she made a great mystery.

On leaving Marguerite I called on Madame de ----. Our happiness is already very well known. Formerly, people would speak very freely about Madame de Pënâfiel in my presence; now no one ever pronounces her name before me, or, if they do so, it is always accompanied with the most exaggerated praise. I noticed this for the first time at Madame de ----'s.

One of her friends who has just arrived from Italy, and is ignorant of the latest liaisons in society, said to her, after having received information about several ladies of his acquaintance: "And what about Madame de Pënâfiel? I hope you have got some good story to tell me about her. Come, tell us who is the fortunate or unfortunate man of the hour? Tell me all about it. You owe that much to a man who arrives from the antipodes and knows nothing of what is going on; besides, unless I have some information I shall make some terrible blunders."

"But you are crazy," replied Madame de ----, blushing deeply, and glancing towards me; "you know how I perfectly detest such gossip, especially when it is about one of my best friends; for my affection for Marguerite dates from our childhood." She said this very meaningly.

"One of your best friends! Ah, that is charming, ah, yes," replied this stupid man, who understood nothing. "One of your best friends, 'tis very good! But then, you know they say, 'Who loves well chastises well,' and you used to tell me hundreds of entertaining tales about her, each one more spiteful than the other."

Madame de ----'s embarrassment was so great that I took pity on her.

"Then I am not the only one that you have attempted to draw into that trap," I said to her, laughing.

"A trap?" said the newcomer.

"A trap, monsieur," I answered, "a trap baited with malice, into which even I, who am one of Madame de Pënâfiel's sincerest and most devoted friends, had almost fallen."

"Ah, do you believe me capable of such treachery?" replied Madame de ----, smiling, but not understanding my meaning.

"Certainly, madame, I think you are, for it is an excellent way of discovering our friends' partisans; you pretend to have heard some dreadful scandal concerning an intimate friend, and, according to the way your acquaintances defend or attack the truth of your statement, you can judge of their kindly or inimical feelings; so that afterwards, when your friend hears their protestations of affection, she will be able to accept them at their true value."

"Ah, you are terribly indiscreet," said Madame de ----, with the pretence of a smile. The newcomer from Italy was quite astounded. Another visitor entering, I went out.

At ten o'clock I went to Marguerite's. I hoped I should have to wait for her, for I find it delightful to be for awhile alone, and dreamily enjoy the quiet of a salon in which the beloved one passes so much of her life, and then to see it suddenly illumined by her presence. But I had not this pleasure, for she was already there and waiting for me. This victory that I had won over the important and pleasing duties of the toilet, this delicate and unusual attention of being ready to receive me, gave me the greatest delight.

Marguerite was adorable. She wore a dress of pale green moire, trimmed with lace and bows of rose-coloured ribbon, from the centre of which blossomed great pink roses. One of these flowers was in the corsage, and another one in her hair. She brought me one of her bracelets to fasten for her, which I did, but not without imprinting a kiss on that beautiful arm so white and round.

I wished her to tell me her great secret of the first of May, but she said that this springtime of hope must still remain a mystery.

I told her about my morning visit to Madame ----, and we both laughed at it; but Marguerite said she was too happy now to care for the falsehoods that were said of her. Then we spoke of a very beautiful foreigner, who had made a great sensation in society, and she thanked me gaily for having shown so much attention to that charming person.

"And why should you thank me for that?" I asked.

"Because when a man flirts with other women, it is a sure sign that he is absolutely certain of the heart of the one woman he loves. Thus, you see, I am very proud to have inspired such confidence, and such security."

At eleven o'clock she ordered her carriage.

As I was expressing my gratitude at this opportunity of being entirely alone, Marguerite answered: "This is nothing; wait until my first of May."

I went for a short visit to the Opéra. It was very brilliant. I found M. de Cernay in our box. What he calls my good fortune continues to annoy him; for he never forgets to tell me how pleased he is to see her so seriously attached to me; it was sure to happen one day or another. Besides, she must be tired of leading such a life of excitement. Her craze for Ismaël was but a piece of folly; her inclination for M. de Merteuil was only a caprice; her other mysterious but well-known adventures were simply to satisfy a wild imagination, while the affection she had for me was quite another thing.

According to my custom, I obstinately denied my good fortune, whereupon M. de Cernay accused me of dissimulation, of trying to hide what all Paris was aware of. He finished by predicting that, if I persisted in remaining so secretive, I would never have a friend in the world. This prediction really caused me serious annoyance.

I went to Madame de ----'s ball to join Marguerite. On entering the salons I had not to go far to find her. Who can explain that instinct, that strange faculty, thanks to which an instant and a single look suffice for a man to discover in a crowded room, among hundreds of other men and women, the person of all others he desires to meet?

Marguerite was conversing with Madame de ----, when I discovered her. She received me with a perfect graciousness and a marked preference, although she was surrounded by several others. I speak of this peculiarity, because most women who have special interest in some particular man think they show a great deal of tact in receiving the one they care for most with affected indifference or even positive rudeness.

Madame de ---- is very lively, intelligent, and gay, of a frank and sensible disposition, indulgent, but not commonplace, and very fierce and disagreeable, when any of her absent friends are attacked. Marguerite and I are fortunate enough to be favourites of hers. They sat down on a small sofa, and I taking a chair behind them, we made a thousand amusing remarks about every one and everything. Finally we spoke of pictures, and Madame de ---- said to me:

"I know that you have a charming collection of paintings. Why do you not give us a supper some evening and invite some of our friends, so that we can all admire your marvels?"

"With the greatest pleasure," I replied. "But it must be understood that I will not invite any of the husbands; they spoil everything, like a man in a ballet."

"Quite the contrary," she said to me, "it will be very entertaining, for in many liaisons there is as much tiresome stupidity and jealousy as in conjugal life. Many husbands are very amiable, and the only thing against them is that they are husbands." After having discussed the question for some time, we agreed to invite a reasonable proportion of both husbands and lovers.

It was getting late. Marguerite begged her cousin, Don Luiz, to call the carriage. While she was waiting for it, I threw her cloak over her beautiful shoulders, and said, in a low voice, "At eleven o'clock, to-morrow?"

She blushed deeply, and softly pressed my hand when I gave her the fan.

I understood what it meant.

Don Luiz offered his arm, and they went away.

Returning home, I have just written the details of this day, which was apparently so devoid of interest and yet has been filled with charming episodes. Yes, a series of charming little episodes. Nothing in themselves, but the making of a memorable day when linked together. It is, then, a bouquet composed of a thousand happy souvenirs as intoxicating as the perfume of a thousand sweet-smelling flowers.

IV

APRIL, 18--.

I went to her house at three o'clock.

I found her as tender and affectionate as ever, but serious, pensive, and almost sad.

There was no regret or reproachfulness in this sadness; it was a calm, melancholy mood, a sweet reverie. All her thoughts were elevated and serious.

I was amazed at this change in her.

In the souls of certain women there are inexhaustible treasures of delicacy.

With them everything is purified by sacrifice and idealised by the religious ardour of their love, by a sentiment of sacred duty that they find in loving, and a melancholy contemplation in which all thought of the future overwhelms them.

With us the horizon is much more restricted. When once our passion and our vanity are satisfied by possession, nothing can be more positive, more decided, than our sensations. The best of us are sometimes tender and grateful, but most of us are sated and sulky. With some women, however, it is just the opposite; they are happy and sad by turns, generally more sad than happy, for melancholy predominates in their nature, and what they feel is inexpressible. It is both joy and despair, regret and hope, burning shame and purest love, terrible remorse, and the intense desire to surrender herself once more.

I remained a long time with Marguerite. Our conversation was delightfully intimate. She asked me about my family, about my father. For awhile I was very much saddened by such unaccustomed thoughts. I confessed everything to her, my ingratitude and indifference to his memory.

Then Marguerite could not restrain her tears, and said to me: "You believe, though, in the eternal duration of other affections, since you dare to ask for my love."

I was so intensely happy that I succeeded in reassuring her as to the future, and when her melancholy mood had passed she spoke with ineffable and almost maternal tenderness of my projects, of her annoyance at seeing me lead such a barren and idle life, whose uselessness she believed to be the source of all my unhappiness. I replied that at the present hour her reproaches were without foundation, and that she should no longer think of me as idle or unhappy, for, as I was to spend my time in worshipping her, I would be the happiest and best occupied of men.

And as to all this I added a thousand lively speeches, Marguerite took my hand, and said, with an inexpressible look of goodness, love, and kind reproach in her lovely eyes, which were filled with tears: "You are very gay, Arthur!"

"That is because I am so happy, so supremely happy."

"It is strange," said she. "I, too, am happy, completely happy. And yet you see I am weeping. I have to weep."

Then we talked of signs and omens, and, finally, of divination and fortune-tellers. As we were wont to do, we discussed the worn out theme, Is there such a thing as foretelling the future? We ended by coming to the decision that to-morrow we would meet at Mlle. Lenormand's in the Rue de Tournon, and have our fortunes told.

I left Marguerite's at half-past six. She forbade me to come again in the evening, as she said she wished to spend it in writing letters.

When I was alone, and only influenced by my own thoughts, I was more than ever surprised at the great difference between the impressions of men and those of women.

After such a morning of sensual intoxication, Marguerite needed silence, reverie, and solitude, while I felt a positive want of noise, excitement, and animation. Though intense, my happiness was exuberant. I felt gay, talkative, amiable, perfectly contented with everything. In such a mood the gay world, with all its joy and splendour, was the only place to display my felicity.

Before going to one or two soirées, I went to the theatre to hear the second act of "Othello." I saw Madame de V---- alone in her box. She looked, as she always does, charming and exquisitely dressed.

There is nothing prettier ever seen than a beautiful, smiling woman's face, standing out in brilliant light, against the dark background of an opera box.

In the entr'acte I went to pay Madame de V---- a visit. She received me very graciously, I would almost say in a coquettish and provocative manner, if it were not her usual way, she being born coquettish and provoking as some women are born blonde or brunette. She is so original, and bright, and wild, and says everything in such a graceful, lively way, and with such innocent maliciousness, that people are willing to forgive her for anything she does.

She began by a lively attack on my devotion to a certain marquise, saying that the belle marquise was fortunate in being one of her enemies, as otherwise she would have taken great satisfaction in disturbing the serenity of our love scenes.

"How is that? You refrain from revenge because she is an enemy?"

"Certainly, we save those nice little treacheries for our best friends," said she, "and it is a great pity, for in twenty-four hours, if I chose, I could make you so much in love with me that you would have to be tied hand and foot."

"But you did that long ago, and without taking the least trouble," said I. Then, through one gallant speech to another, I rang the praises of those ephemeral amours of former days, of those heart to heart communions which were so ravishing, but which in our days were unfortunately so rare. Charming meetings, with no yesterday nor to-morrow, and which leave only a delicious souvenir,--a single pearl.

"I don't agree with you," said she, very gaily; "when it comes to pearls, I prefer a necklace to a ring."

"Yes, madame; but all the pearls of a necklace are exactly alike, of equal size, and very monotonous, whereas some pearls are inestimable, merely on account of their singularity, and are worth more than a whole necklace."

"That is the reason, no doubt, monsieur, why you have always seemed to me so precious and peculiar."

Thanks to our chatter, "Othello" was hardly listened to. I say this to my shame. People were beginning to leave the boxes. "Come, let us be going," said Madame de V----, "my husband is not here, and I am all alone again."

"Your husband,--I can understand that, for you know they say, 'It is only the rich that undervalue their wealth,' but what does surprise me is that--"

And as I hesitated, she said, very deliberately: "What surprises you is that M. de ---- is not here to give me his arm and call the carriage for me; is not that what you wished to say?"

"That is just what, through ferocious envy and a tigerish jealousy, I did not wish to say at all."

"I have sent him hunting for a week, so as to take him into my good graces once more," replied Madame de V----, negligently, "for his absences are delightful."

"Delightful for every one, for I shall be indebted to him for a charming privilege, if you will accept my arm to go to the door."

"Certainly I will; I was waiting for you to offer it."

"And will my privileges stop at such a small favour as that? Alas!"

"You are very curious and very indiscreet."

"Perhaps so, I should like to be curiously eager, and then indiscreetly happy."

"But," said she, without answering me, and pointing out a woman whose appearance was perfectly ludicrous, "look at that poor Madame B----. They all say she has such stupid eyes. Ridiculous! I think they are the brightest eyes in the world, for they look as though they wished to run away from her ugly head."

I forget all the other malicious observations she made, laughing aloud, as we descended the staircase, she on one step, and I on another.

At last, just as she was leaving, she reminded me that it was a long time since I had been to see her sketches; that she was very proud of the progress she had made, and would like to have my opinion on the subject.

"Madame, I shall be delighted either to criticise or admire so many marvels, only as I am very severe, and like to give my opinion frankly, I should be seriously annoyed by the presence of a third party; so I hope you will close your doors to visitors while I am there."

"But, monsieur, that would seem like a tête-à-tête, a rendezvous."

"Exactly so, madame."

"And my servants?"

"Tell them you do not wish to see any one but your notary."

"And you would pass yourself off--"

"For the notary, for an attorney, for anything you please; if necessary I will get a package of papers and green spectacles, and then we can talk as long as we please, without raising any suspicions,--we can talk business."

"About a will, for instance."

"Certainly, the will of poor ----, whose inheritor I would so like to be."

"Heavens! how well you act your rôle!" cried Madame de V----.

Just then her carriage was called.

"Very well," said I, as I accompanied her, "then you will expect to see your notary at three o'clock to-morrow?"

"He can come, and perhaps I will be able to see him."

"Are you going to Madame T----'s concert to-night?"

"No, I am on my way home."

"What, so early?"

"Yes, I have to put my papers in order, for to-morrow I shall have an interview with the most terrible and tiresome of lawyers."

Saying these words, and still laughing, she got into her carriage.

I went under the portico to wait for mine; there I was accosted by fat old Pommerive, who in passing me said: "Faithless, already! It is very soon, or very late."

I shrugged my shoulders, and smiled.

I went to the concert, the crowd was too great. For my part I cannot enjoy music unless I am comfortably seated. I have just returned and found a long and tender letter from Marguerite awaiting me.

In our conversation of this morning I chanced to say how fond I was of Parma violets. I find two enormous baskets of them in my salon.

Such a souvenir, such a delicate attention, touches and charms me, but it does not make me feel really ashamed of my assiduity towards Madame de V----, who is so pretty and so charmingly vivacious.

However, I read Marguerite's letter with the greatest fondness; it is tender and sweet, and full of melancholy; she has spent a long, quiet evening thinking only of me. In the postscript she reminds me that to-morrow at three o'clock we are to meet at Mlle. Lenormand's to have our fortunes told.

Now it is at three o'clock that I have promised Madame de V---- to go and see her drawings. What is to be done? Certainly, I do not mean to compare the profound and real affection I have for Marguerite with the intense but ephemeral fancy I have taken to Madame de V----, who is as great a flirt as she is seductive and pretty.

I am perfectly sure of Marguerite's love, it is a sincere and lasting affection; the passing fancy that I feel for, Madame de V---- could in no way interfere with such a tender and serious intimacy. When a woman is known to be as changeable and inconstant as Madame de V----, a lost opportunity is lost for ever. Hazard is her god. I certainly will go to see her to-morrow. I can easily find an excuse for putting off our visit to Mlle. Lenormand until day after to-morrow. What excuse shall I give? Business with a notary? No, that would be too childish a pretext. What am I to say? I have decided at last, but by way of compensation I shall write Marguerite a most passionate love-letter.

I have just read over the letter I mean to send Madame de Pënâfiel. It is very well written, full of feeling, of tenderness and passion, and it is unfeigned and entirely truthful. I feel every word in it is true. How strange it is that at this moment, when I have fully made up my mind to deceive her, my love is greater and more sincere than it ever was before! There is no reason why I should deceive myself about this. I can almost hear my own thoughts. This is the real truth, I love Marguerite more than I have ever loved her. Formerly I might have hesitated at some sacrifice she imposed on me, now I would gladly give up anything she might ask of me, and yet, I repeat, I am planning how to be false to her!

Does such an idea cause me any shame, remorse, or regret? No.

Would I hesitate an instant if I thought that Marguerite would discover my infidelity, and be distressed by it? No.

In my infatuation for Madame de V----, is there any noble feeling and real affection? No; it is an ardent desire which I know will be as quickly extinguished as it was kindled.

And yet, see what a strange thing it is, I say it again, I love Marguerite better than ever. Why should this love be stronger than before? Is it an illusion, a deceitful phantom called up by the consciousness of my deceit? Is it not an excuse that I am trying to find for myself! Am I only pretending that I care for her so much? No, no, I search my thoughts, and it seems that I assuredly love her more than ever.

What a singular contradiction in my soul! What a perverse nature! Can it be that my love for Marguerite will become greater and greater, according to the grief I feel I shall cause her?

V

APRIL, 18--.

Days of sunshine? Alas! no; these radiant days of happiness that had lasted more than two months were about to be obscured by dark clouds.

What a strange day this has been!

This morning, on awakening, I received a note from Marguerite. She is quite irritated at having this fortune-telling postponed. As to-day was the anniversary of her birth she believed it to be the most suitable, because the most lucky or unlucky.

As she wished to make some purchases in Saxony and Sèvres porcelains, she begged me to meet her at half-past two at ----'s, which was then the most fashionable china store, to give her my opinion in the selection.

I went there.

In going with her to look at some marquetry furniture in the back part of the store, we were left alone for a few moments. Marguerite then asked me to come to her in the evening, when she promised she would tell me about her secret plan for the first of May.

I thanked her tenderly. She appeared prettier than ever before; she wore a straw hat trimmed with lace and _bleuets_ that was exceedingly becoming.

I left her at three o'clock, and went to see Madame V----.

In spite of our foolish bargain of the day previous, according to which I was to assume the character of a notary, if I wished to enjoy a tête-à-tête, I gave my own name to the servant, and I found her alone.

She showed me her water-colours, which were really clever, for Madame V---- is a very gifted woman. However, I pretended to think them very ordinary, the drawing incorrect, the colour bad and too glaring, and the handling weak and undecided.

"You know nothing about it," said she, laughing. "I have a great deal of talent; but as you paint also, it is because you are jealous."

"We can never agree on this subject, madame; you consider your water-colours good, I think they are very bad. Don't let us speak of them again. Let us find some other subject on which we can agree."

"And what subject can we agree on, monsieur?"

"Your intelligence and your beauty."

"You are very much mistaken, monsieur; for now that you have so unjustly criticised my drawings, it is my turn, and I frankly tell you, that, though you may think me charming, I am sure that I am detestable, for I have a thousand bad qualities. So as I am perfectly sure we will never agree on this subject, let us talk of something else."

"Alas! you are too hard on yourself, madame; unfortunately for me, you have not all the charming imperfections I could wish,--one imperfection at least."

"You are certainly crazy; do you wish to know how wicked I can be?"

"It is the thing of all others I most desire."

"Listen, then, to me, and don't interrupt me. One of my intimate friends, who was as bad as I am, wished to be revenged on a lady of her acquaintance,--the reason doesn't matter to you. My friend was beautiful, or rather pretty, gay, giddy; you may call these good qualities or faults just as you please, and you can add that she was very entertaining and charming, and with plenty of 'go,'--excuse the vulgarity of the word,--and there you have her portrait.

"The woman on whom my friend wished to be revenged was also beautiful, but pretentious, haughty, false to the last degree; she was, however, seriously interested in a man who was--why should I not say it?--was agreeable, but rather eccentric, in fact, not just like every one else; to-day he would be gay, amusing, and amiable; to-morrow sulky, peculiar, and tiresome. In one of his reasonable days, a day of good humour, and good sense, he showed himself to be very fond of my friend, who found him, she tells me, a very nice fellow, perhaps too nice. These being the circumstances, she came to ask my advice--"

"And you told her, I hope, what I should have advised her myself, to revenge herself on this haughty woman by making the eccentric man happy in secret. A schoolgirl would have known that much. The easiest way is always the best."

"Do not interrupt me, please. As my friend wished for my advice, I tried to sound the character of the eccentric man, to see if he were true and sincere, or indiscreet and a trifler."

"Well, madame?"

"Well, monsieur, I found him to be one of the few men that a woman can trust, who understand and appreciate everything, admit everything, and say just what they think, but who are quite incapable of betraying any confidence that may have been placed in them. 'If he is all this,' said I to my friend, 'you have only one thing to do,--be rash, inconsequent, bold, be what we women never are, outspoken and true to yourself; say to your eccentric friend, you wish to please me, but I know you are interested elsewhere. Now I have no desire to share your affections, but if I accept them I mean to make it impossible that you should ever have a reconciliation with the person you are to sacrifice to me. I demand that you send me all of her letters with a very compromising letter of your own; do this for me, and "live and be happy ever afterwards."'

"That was my advice to my friend," said Madame de V----. "Do you think it was terribly immoral?"

"I could answer you, madame, by continuing your allegory, and instantly inventing a friend of my own who might be that very same eccentric man your friend told you about, but it is not worth while. Come, let us not confuse ourselves, let us speak plainly. You know me well enough to know me safe. Do you ask me to commit such treachery? Is it only on such a condition that you will consent to all I mean to ask?"

"Monsieur, you must be crazy!"

"Not at all."

"Why should you suppose that what I said about my friend was only a pretext to speak of my own feelings? Why should you dare to think that I have any intention of accepting your attentions?"

"Very well, just as you please. You can fancy that the eccentric man was speaking and not I."

"Ah, that is sensible; now at least we can understand each other. Would you have told my friend that she was asking you to be a traitor, and if she said yes, what would you answer?"

"That, for her sake, I would gladly commit every sort of infidelity,--but not treason."

"And if my friend would only bestow her favours at such a price?"

"That could never be."

"Why not?"

"Because I would only consider such a proposition as a joke, and would obstinately refuse to be a party to such pleasantry."

"Why would it be a pleasantry?"

"Because there is not a woman living who would be capable of such a base thought."

"That is putting it very strong."

"That is what I think."

"No living woman?"

"Not one."

"But I just told you that I gave such advice to my friend."

"Permit me to think that you are mistaken."

"You are unbearable! The thought was mine, and that was the advice I gave her, I tell you."

"It is impossible for me to believe you; I know how high-minded you are. You should not expect me to believe you when you so slander yourself."

"Suppose I should say such a thing to you?"

"To me?"

"Yes, to you."

"I cannot suppose what would be impossible."

"But I do say it to you now."

"Seriously? You say such a thing seriously? You offer me such conditions?"

"Yes; seriously."

"Well, then, you are trying to make a fool of me."

"You are very humble, certainly."

"On the contrary, I am very proud to prove to you that I am incapable of such a piece of cowardice. But come, let us quit speaking of others; let us talk of ourselves. Accept my attentions; take me unconditionally, or rather on condition of making me the most faithless of men."

"And those letters?"

"Again? Don't you suppose I can see that all this is a very clever trick to prove me; to find out if I am perfectly trustworthy; that you can safely confide in my discretion and my love? Between you and me, I think it augurs well for our future happiness,--all these precautions on your part."

"You are not wanting in confidence, at least."

"Do you consider it vanity to hope and desire?"

"Those letters? Those letters?"

"Now you are joking again. As to this trial you have seen fit to submit me to, I forgive you for it, for what woman could ever have a particle of confidence, esteem, or affection for a man who was capable of such a treacherous act? Would she not be certain that at some future day her own letters--?"

"Certainly; she might fear the same fate for her letters if she were ever fool enough to write any," said Madame de V----, with a self-possession that astounded me.

Before the end of our interview I discovered that I could not hope to win any favour from Madame de V---- except on these treasonable conditions.

This calculation on her part was doubly odious to me, because it wounded my vanity. It proved that Madame de V----'s desire to be revenged on Madame de Pënâfiel (for which she had never given any reason) was stronger than any passing affection she ever had for me.

I left Madame de V---- a very much disappointed man. I had counted on an interview which, if not more decisive, would have at least been more tender. Madame de V----'s reputation for levity was such that I had expected an unconditional surrender, whereas the conditions she exacted were as exorbitant as they were inadmissible.

It is strange, though, that, as yesterday when contemplating this infidelity to Marguerite, my love for her was stronger than ever, so now, after being checked in my miserable attempt to betray her, my affection seems to be on the wane. It is only ephemeral, this change in me. I exaggerate, perhaps, but it is the truth. As I think of the evening I am about to spend with her, I feel that I would be much more amiable, much more affectionate, if I had something to reproach myself with and to hide from her. I feel that I acted honourably in refusing what Madame de V---- hoped for, but my conscience is not satisfied with that much, for I really love Marguerite much better than her enemy, and so I have sacrificed nothing. Still, I can not help feeling violently angry with Marguerite for having caused Madame de V---- to hate her so, for if this hatred had not existed, I should have been able to enjoy this short-lived passion, which I feel sure would have been charmingly piquant.

Nothing could be more unjust, more selfish, or more ridiculous than the irritation I feel towards Marguerite for having deprived me of a pleasure which might have been a serious menace to her happiness.

I admit these are base sentiments, but this is how I feel, and it is in such a state of mind that I am about to go to Marguerite. How will it end? I know not, but I am filled with sad forebodings.