Chapter 16

It was evident to me, my young friend, that neither of you expressed your genuine convictions and true opinions. You were sitting opposite, and yet neither looked at the other while speaking. You both were handsome and charming, but handsome and charming like two English cocks before a fight. What particularly struck me was that neither of you ever said: "What is the matter with you to-day, my friend? you seem to delight in contradicting me." Edgar did not ask you this question, nor did you ask it of him. You thought it useless to inquire into the cause of these half-angry contradictions; you both knew what you were about. You and Edgar both love the same woman. It is the woman who suddenly retreated from the piano. Perhaps she left the house after some disagreeable scene between you two in her presence.

I watched all your movements when we three were together in the parlor. The tone of your voices, naturally sonorous, sounded harsh and discordant; you held in your hand a branch of _hibiscus_ that you idly pulled to pieces. Edgar opened a magazine and read it upside downwards; it was quite evident that you were a restraint upon each other, and that I was a restraint upon you both.

At intervals Edgar would cast a furtive glance at the open piano, at the embroidery, and the vase of flowers; you unconsciously did the same; but your two glances never met at the same point; when Edgar looked at the flowers, you looked at the piano; if either of you had been alone, you would have never taken your eyes off these trifles that bore the perfumed impression of a beloved woman's hand, and which seemed to retain some of her personality and to console you in her absence.

You were the last comer in the house adorned by the presence of this woman; you are also the most reasonable, therefore your own sense and what is due to friendship must have already dictated your line of conduct--let me add my advice in case your conscience is not quite awake--fly! fly! before it is too late--linger, and your self-love, your interested vanity, will no longer permit you to give place to a friend who will have become a rival. Passion has not yet taken deep root in your heart; at present it is nothing more than a fancy, a transitory preference, a pleasant employment of your idle moments.

In the country, every young woman is more or less disposed to break the hearts of young men, like you, who gravitate like satellites. Women delight in this play--but like many other tragic plays, it commences with smiles but terminates in tears and blood! Moreover, my young friend, in withdrawing seasonably, you are not only wise, you are generous!

I know that Edgar has been for a long time deeply in love with this woman; you are merely indulging in a rural flirtation, a momentary caprice. In a little while, vain rivalry will make you blind, embitter your disposition, and deceive you as to the nature of your sentiments--believing yourself seriously in love you will be unable to withdraw. To-day your pride is not interested; wait not until to-morrow. Edgar is your friend, you must respect his prerogatives. A woman gave you a wise example to follow--she suddenly withdrew from the presence of you both when she saw a threatening danger.

A pretty woman is always dangerous when she comes to inaugurate the divinity of her charms in a lonely château, in the presence of two inflammable young men. I detect the cunning of the fair unknown: she lavishes innocent smiles upon both of you--she equally divides her coquetries between you; she approaches you to dazzle--she leaves you to make herself regretted; she entangles you in the illusion of her brilliant fascination; she moves to seduce your senses; she speaks to charm your soul; she sings to destroy your reason.

Forget yourself for one instant, my young friend, on this flowery slope, and woe betide you when you reach the bottom! Be intoxicated by this feast of sweet words, soft perfumes and radiant smiles, then send me a report of your soul's condition when you recover your senses! At present, in spite of your skirmishes of wit, you are still the friend of Edgar ... hostility will certainly come. Friendship is too feeble a sentiment to struggle against love. This passion is more violent than tropical storms--I have felt it--I am one of its victims now! There lives another woman--half siren, half Circe--who has crossed my path in life, as you well know. If I had collected in my house as many friends as Socrates desired to see in his, and all these friends were to become my rivals, I feel that my jealousy would fire the house, and I would gladly perish in the flames after seeing them all dead before my eyes.

Oh, fatal preoccupation! I only wished to speak of your affairs, and here I am talking of my own. The clouds that I heap upon your horizon roll back towards mine.

In exchange for my advice, render me a service. You know Madame de Braimes, the friend of Mlle. de Chateaudun. Madame de Braimes is acquainted with everything that I am ignorant of, and that my happiness in life depends upon discovering. It is time for the inexplicable to be explained. A human enigma cannot for ever conceal its answer. Every trial must end before the despair of him who is tried. Madame de Braimes is an accomplice in this enigma; her secret now is a burden on her lips, she must let it fall into your ear, and I will cherish a life-long gratitude to you both.

Any friend but you would smile at this apparently strange language--I write you a long chapter of psychological and moral inductions to show my knowledge about the management of love affairs and affairs otherwise--I divine all your enigmas; I illuminate the darkness of all your mysteries, and when it comes to working on my own account, to be perspicacious for my own benefit, to make discoveries about my own love affair, I suddenly abdicate, I lose my luminous faculties, I put a band over my eyes, and humbly beg a friend to lend me the thread of the labyrinth and guide my steps in the bewildering darkness. All this must appear singular to you, to me it is quite natural. Through the thousand dark accidents that love scatters in the path of life, light can only reach us by means of a friend. We ourselves are helpless; looking at others we are lynx-eyed, looking at ourselves we are almost blind. It is the optical nerve of the passions. It is mortifying to thus sacrifice the highest prerogatives of man at the feet of a woman, to feel compelled to yield to her caprices and submit to the inexorable exigencies of love. The artificial life I am leading is odious to me. Patience is a virtue that died with Job, and I cannot perform the miracle of resuscitating it.

Take my advice--be prudent--be wise--be generous--leave Richeport and come to me; we can assist and console each other; you can render me a great service, I will explain how when we meet--I will remain here for a few days; do not hesitate to come at once--Between a friend who fears you and a friend who loves you and claims you--can you hesitate?

ROGER DE MONBERT.

XXIII.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN to Mme. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Grenoble (Isère).

Pont de L'Arche, July 15th 18--.

Come to my help, my dear Valentine--I am miserable. Each joyless morning finds me more wretched than I was the previous night. Oh! what a burden is life to those who are fated to live only for life itself! No sunshine gilds my horizon with the promises of hope--I expect nothing but sorrow. Who can I trust now that my own heart has misled me? When error arose from the duplicity of others I could support the disenchantment--the deceptive love of Roger was not a bitter surprise, my instinct had already divined it; I comprehended a want of congeniality between us, and felt that a rapture would anticipate an alliance: and while thinking I loved him, I yet said to myself: This is not love.

But now I am my own deceiver--and I awaken to lament the self-confidence and assurance that were the source of my strength and courage. With flattering ecstasy I cried: It is he!... Alas! he replied not: It is she! And now he is gone--he has left me! Dreadful awakening from so beautiful a dream!

Valentine, burn quickly the letter telling you of my ingenuous hopes, my confident happiness--yes, burn the foolish letter, so there will remain no witness of my unrequited love! What! that deep emotion agitating my whole being, whose language was the tears of joy that dimmed my eyes, and the counted beatings of my throbbing heart--that master-passion, at whose behest I trembled while blushes mantled and fled from my cheek, betraying me to him and him to me; the love whose fire I could not hide--the beautiful future I foresaw--that world of bliss in which I began to live--this pure love that gave an impetus to life--this devotion that I felt was reciprocated.... All, all was but a creation of my fancy.... and all has vanished ... here I am alone with nothing to strengthen me but a memory ... the memory of a lost illusion.... Have I a right to complain? It is the irrevocable law--after fiction, reality--after a meteor, darkness--after the mirage, a desert!

I loved as a young heart full of faith and tenderness never loved before--and this love was a mistake; he was a stranger to me--he did not love me, and I had no excuse for loving him; he is gone, he had a right to go, and I had no right to detain him--I have not even the right to mourn his absence. Who is he? A friend of Madame de Meilhan, and a stranger to me!... He a stranger!... to me!... No, no, he loves me, I know he does ... but why did he not tell me so! Has some one come between us? Perhaps a suspicion separates us.... Oh! he may think I am in love with Edgar! horrible idea! the thought kills me.... I will write to him; would you not advise it? What shall I tell him? If he were to know who I am, doubtless his prejudices against me would be removed. Oh! I will return to Paris--then he will see that I do not love Edgar, since I leave him never to return where he is. Yet he could not have been mistaken concerning the feelings existing between his friend and myself; he must have seen that I was perfectly free: independence cannot be assumed. If he thought me in love with another, why did he come to bid me good-bye? why did he come alone to see me? and why did he not allude to my approaching return to Paris?--why did he not say he would be glad to meet me again? How pale and sad he was! and yet he uttered not one word of regret--of distant hope! The servant said: "Monsieur de Villiers wishes to see madame, shall I send him away as I did Monsieur de Meilhan?" I was in the garden and advanced to meet him. He said: "I return to Paris to-morrow, madame, and have come to see if you have any commands, and to bid you good-bye."

Two long days had passed since I last saw him, and this unexpected visit startled me so that I was afraid to trust my voice to speak. "They will miss you very much at Richeport," he added, "and Madame de Meilhan hopes daily to see you return." I hastily said: "I cannot return to her house, I am going away from here very soon." He did not ask where, but gazed at me in a strange, almost suspicious way, and to change the conversation, said: "We had at Richeport, after you left, a charming man, who is celebrated for his wit and for being a great traveller--the Prince de Monbert." ... He spoke as if on an indifferent subject, and Heaven knows he was right, for Roger at this moment interested me very, very little. I waited for a word of the future, a ray of hope to brighten my life, another of those tender glances that thrilled my soul with joy ... but he avoided all allusion to our past intercourse; he shunned my looks as carefully as he had formerly sought them.... I was alarmed.... I no longer understood him.... I looked around to see if we were not watched, so changed was his manner, so cold and formal was his speech.... Strange! I was alone with him, but he was not alone with me; there was a third person between us, invisible to me, but to him visible, dictating his words and inspiring his conduct.

"Shall you remain long in Paris?" I asked, trembling and dismayed. "I am not decided at present, madame," he replied. Irritated by this mystery, I was tempted for a moment to say: "I hope, if you remain in Paris for any length of time, I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at my cousin's, the Duchess de Langeac," and then I thought of telling him my story. I was tired of playing the rôle of adventuress before him ... but he seemed so preoccupied, and inattentive to what I said, he so coldly received my affectionate overtures, that I had not the courage to confide in him. Would not my confidence be met with indifference? One thing consoled me--his sadness; and then he had come, not on my account, but on his own; nothing obliged him to make this visit; it could only have been inspired by a wish to see me. While he remained near me, in spite of his strange indifference, I had hope; I believed that in his farewell there would be one kind word upon which I could live till we should meet again ... I was mistaken ... he bowed and left me ... left me without a word ...! Then I felt that all was lost, and bursting into tears sobbed like a child. Suddenly the servant opened the door and said: "The gentleman forgot Madame de Meilhan's letters." At that moment he entered the room and took from the table a packet of letters that the servant had given him when he first came, but which he had forgotten when leaving. At the sight of my tears he stood still with an agitated, alarmed look upon his face; he then gazed at me with a singular expression of cruel joy sparkling in his eyes. I thought he had come back to say something to me, but he abruptly left the room. I heard the door shut, and knew it had shut off my hopes of happiness.

The next day, at the risk of meeting Edgar with him, I remained all day on the road that runs along the Seine. I hoped he would go that way. I also hoped he would come once more to see me ... to bring him back I relied upon my tears--upon those tears shed for him, and which he must have understood ... he came not! Three days have passed since he left, and I spend all my time in recalling this last interview, what he said to me, his tone of voice, his look.... One minute I find an explanation for everything, my faith revives ... he loves me! he is waiting for something to happen, he wishes to take some step, he fears some obstacle, he waits to clear up some doubts ... a generous scruple restrains him.... The next minute the dreadful truth stares me in the face. I say to myself: "He is a young man full of imagination, of romantic ideas ... we met, I pleased him, he would have loved me had I belonged to his station in life; but everything separates us; he will forget me." ... Then, revolting against a fate that I can successfully resist, I exclaim: "I _will_ see him again ... I am young, free, and beautiful--I must be beautiful, for he told me so--I have an income of a hundred thousand pounds.... With all these blessings it would be absurd for me not to be happy. Besides, I love him deeply, and this ardent love inspires me with great confidence ... it is impossible that so much love should be born in my heart for no purpose." ... Sometimes this confidence deserts me, and I despairingly say: "M. de Villiers is a loyal man, who would have frankly said to me: 'I love you, love me and let us be happy.'" ... Since he did not say that, there must exist between us an insurmountable obstacle, a barrier of invincible delicacy; because he is engaged he cannot devote his life to me, and he must renounce me for ever. M. de Meilhan comes here every day; I send word I am too sick to see him; which is the truth, for I would be in Paris now if I were well enough to travel. I shall not return by the cars, I dread meeting Roger. I forgot to tell you about his arrival at Richeport; it is an amusing story; I laughed very much at the time; _then_ I could laugh, now I never expect to smile again.

Four days ago, I was at Richeport, all the time wishing to leave, and always detained by Mad. de Meilhan; it was about noon, and we were all sitting in the parlor--Edgar, M. de Villiers, Mad. de Meilhan and myself. Ah! how happy I was that day ... How could I foresee any trouble?... They were listening to an air I was playing from Bellini ... A servant entered and asked this simple question: "Does madame expect the Prince de Monbert by the twelve o'clock train?"..... At this name I quickly fled, without stopping to pick up the piano stool that I overturned in my hurried retreat. I ran to my room, took my hat and an umbrella to hide my face should I meet any one, and walked to Pont de l'Arche. Soon after I heard the Prince had arrived, and dinner was ordered for five o'clock, so he could leave in the 7.30 train. Politeness required me to send word to Mad. de Meilhan that I would be detained at Pont de l'Arche. To avoid the entreaties of Edgar I took refuge at the house of an old fishwoman, near the gate of the town. She is devoted to me, and I often take her children toys and clothes. At half-past six, the time for Roger to be taken to the depôt, I was at the window of this house, which was on the road that led to the cars--presently I heard several familiar voices.... I heard my name distinctly pronounced.... "Mlle de Chateaudun." ... I concealed myself behind the half-closed blinds, and attentively listened: "She is at Rouen," said the Prince.

... "What a strange woman," said M. de Villiers: "Ah! this conduct is easily explained," said Edgar, "she is angry with him." "Doubtless she believes me culpable," replied the Prince, "and I wish at all costs to see her and justify myself." In speaking thus, they all three passed under the window where I was. I trembled--I dared not look at them.... When they had gone by, I peeped through the shutter and saw them all standing still and admiring the beautiful bridge with its flower-covered pillars, and the superb landscape spread before them. Seeing these three handsome men standing there, all three so elegant, so distinguished! A wicked sentiment of female vanity crossed my mind; and I said to myself with miserable pride and triumph: "All three love me ... All three are thinking of me!" ... Oh! I have been cruelly punished for this contemptible vanity. Alas! one of the three did not love me--and he was the one I loved--one of them did not think of me, and he was the one that filled my every thought. Another sentiment more noble than the first, saddened my heart. I said: "Here are three devoted friends ... perhaps they will soon be bitter enemies ... and I the cause." O Valentine! you cannot imagine how sad and despondent I am. Do not desert me now that I most need your comforting sympathy! Burn my last letter, I entreat you.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.

XXIV.

EDGAR DE MEILHAN _to_ MADAME GUERIN, Pont de l'Arche (Eure).

RICHEPORT, July 10th 18--.

Three times have I been to the post-office since you left the château in such an abrupt and inexplicable manner. I am lost in conjecture about your sudden departure, which was both unnecessary and unprepared. It is doubtless because you do not wish to tell me the reason that you refuse to see me. I know that you are still at Pont de l'Arche, and that you have never left Madame Taverneau's house. So that when she tells me in a measured and mysterious tone that you have been absent for some time; looking at the closed door of your room, behind which I divine your presence, I am seized with an insane desire to kick down the narrow plank which separates me from you. Fits of gloomy passion possess me which illogical obstacles and unjust resistance always excite.

What have I done? What can you have against me? Let me at least know the crime for which I am punished. On the scaffold they always read the victim his sentence, equitable or otherwise. Will you be more cruel than a hangman? Read me my sentence. Nothing is more frightful than to be executed in a dungeon without knowing for what offence.

For three days--three eternities--I have taxed my memory to an alarming extent. I have recalled everything that I have said for the last two weeks, word by word, syllable for syllable, endeavoring to give to each expression its intonation, its inflection, its sharps and flats. Every different signification that the music of the voice could give to a thought, I have analyzed, debated, commented upon twenty times a day. Not a word, accent nor gesture has enlightened me. I defy the most embittered and envious spirit to find anything that could offend the most susceptible pride, the haughtiest majesty. Nothing has occurred in my familiar intercourse with you that would alarm a sensitive plant or a mimosa. Therefore, such cannot be the motive for your panic-stricken flight. I am young, ardent, impetuous; I attach no importance to certain social conventionalities, but I feel confident that I have never failed in a religious respect for the holiness of love and modesty. I love you--I could never, wilfully, have offended you. How could my eyes and lips have expressed what was neither in my head nor in my heart? If there is no fire without smoke, as a natural consequence there can be no smoke without fire!

It is not that--Is it caprice or coquetry? Your mind is too serious and your soul too honest for such an act; and besides, what would be your object? Such feline cruelties may suit blasé women of the world who are roused by the sight of moral torture; who give, in the invisible sphere of the passions, feasts of the Roman empresses, where beating hearts are torn by the claws of the wild beasts of the soul, unbridled desires, insatiate hate and maddened jealousy, all the hideous pack of bad passions. Louise, you have not wished to play such a game with me. It would be unavailing and dangerous.

Although I have been brought up in what is called the world, I am still a savage at heart. I can talk as others do of politics, railroads, social economy, literature. I can imitate civilized gesture tolerably well; but under this white-glove polish I have preserved the vehemence and simplicity of barbarism. Unless you have some serious, paramount reason, not one of those trivial excuses with which ordinary women revenge themselves upon the lukewarmness of their lovers--do not prolong my punishment a day, an hour, a minute--speak not to me of reputation, virtue or duty. You have given me the right to love you--by the light of the stars, under the sweet-scented acacias, in the sunlight at the window of Richard's donjon which opens over an abyss. You have conferred upon me that august priesthood. Your hand has trembled in mine. A celestial light, kindled by my glance, has shone in your eyes. If only for a moment, your soul was mine--the electric spark united us.

It may be that this signifies nothing to you. I refuse to acknowledge any such subtle distinctions--that moment united us for ever. For one instant you wished to love me; I cannot divide my mind, soul and body into three distinct parts; all my being worships you and longs to obtain you. I cannot graduate my love according to its object. I do not know who you are. You might be a queen of earth or the queen of heaven; I could not love you otherwise.

Receive me. You need explain nothing if you do not wish; but receive me; I cannot live without you. What difference does it make to you if I see you?

Ah! how I suffered, even when you were at the château! What evil influence stood between us? I had a vague feeling that something important and fatal had happened. It was a sort of presentiment of the fulfilment of a destiny. Was your fate or mine decided in that hour, or both? What decisive sentence had the recording angel written upon the ineffaceable register of the future? Who was condemned and who absolved in that solemn hour?