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.
CHAPTER XXV
SUSPICION
Fatal, fatal night! Why do I attempt to recall thee? The remembrance is still so vivid. Such grief is never to be forgotten.
It was half-past nine when I reached the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, and I was cross and sullen.
"How late you are!" said Marguerite, with a smile, as she approached me in this friendly way; "but I am so eager to tell you my secret, my project for the month of May, that I don't mean to waste any time in scolding you. Sit down there near me, and be very quiet."
Pleased with this command which gave me an opportunity of hiding my ill-humour, I kissed Marguerite's hand, saying, in a very serious voice which she believed to be feigned:
"See how solemn I am, and how very attentively I am listening."
"What I am waiting for is to see how quickly your gravity and attentiveness will vanish when you hear the unexpected news I am about to tell you," said Madame de Pënâfiel, laughing. "No matter; don't interrupt me. I wanted to go this morning to see Mlle. Lenormand, not only about my birthday, but because I was curious to know if that wonderful mind-reader would be able to foretell the greatest happiness of my life, that I have ever dreamed of, was about to be realised. This is my dream: the first of May I quit Paris."
"You are going away!"
"Be silent," said Marguerite, putting her pretty finger on her lips; "see how excited you are already; what will it be by and by? I shall begin again: I am going away the first of May, taking no one with me but a confidential man servant, and my old femme de chambre, Mlle. de Vandeuil. The apparent object of my journey is a visit of some months to one of my country places in Lorraine that I have not seen for a long time."
"I understand."
"You do not understand at all. When I get six leagues away from Paris I halt; I leave my carriage with my maid's father, who is devotedly attached to me, and I return to Paris. Guess where?"
"Truly, that is more than I can tell."
"To a modest and pretty little villa in a far distant quarter, and there I am to install myself under the name of Madame Duval, a young widow, who has come from Brittany to Paris to attend to a lawsuit. Well, what did I tell you? You are even more astonished, more startled than I expected," said Marguerite.
It was neither astonishment nor stupefaction that I felt, but something very different. Whether it was the irritated state of mind that I was in, or my natural distrust, I know not, but no sooner did I hear of this plan of hers than I suddenly remembered one of the scandalous stories that I heard about Madame de Pënâfiel, and the mysterious doings that they said had taken place in some little villa that she possessed. Marguerite had denied it, like so many other absurd falsehoods, which, not being able to produce any evidence, were reduced to inventing a thousand wonderful incidents. Lulled by the ideal happiness that I had been tasting for the last two months, this brief season of felicity and forgetfulness, I had put away from my mind all thoughts of the past. While near this charming woman, I had blindly believed that which is so convenient, so pleasant, and so wise to believe, that I was her only love. I had blindly believed the noble explanations she had given me for her conduct. I had even forgotten the cowardly and miserable suspicions that had made me so cruelly unjust towards her. Why, then, did I suddenly fall, on hearing of this project, into my former abominable state of distrust? I know not why, alas! But doubt took possession of my mind.
"As soon as I am settled in my little home," continued Marguerite, "I will have a visit from my brother; this brother,—it is you, for you must remain ostensibly in Paris, from time to time you must show yourself at the Opéra, in society; then quickly leaving these brilliant but tiresome scenes, you will come quietly here, every day, and spend long hours with your well-beloved sister, all the time that you can spare from your mundane apparitions. Well, Arthur, what have you to say to this wild scheme, this folly? Will it not be charming? Oh, my friend, if you only knew the childish joy I have promised myself in such an existence, when so intimately shared by you, what happiness we will find in this obscurity, this mystery, in our long walks, in our evenings, spent far from an importunate and jealous world, in these long days which will belong to us alone, and which we will fill with such varied pleasures!
"For you must know, Arthur, that we are to have a salon, where we will be able to paint, and make music, where you will find the books you care for, and I, those that I like. The house is small but comfortable, the garden is large and shady. Our household—don't sneer too much at these minor details—our household will consist of my femme de chambre, and another woman that she is to engage, and a man servant for you. I am promising myself already the greatest satisfaction in being able to prove that one can be perfectly happy, though living in the simplest way, and to judge for myself how so many modest lives are spent in a manner that we rich never even suspect; indeed, dear friend, I mean to live there until you are weary of the solitude of such a life. And then, though it seems childish, I think it will be very amusing to live alone so near Paris. It will amuse me, if our happiness leaves me any time for amusement.
"Besides, such a project as this can succeed nowhere except in Paris, for if we were both to disappear at the same time, our secret would very soon be discovered; by remaining in town you will put every one on the wrong track. What will be best of all, will be to hear the comments on my absence, the stories of every sort that will be told, and the proofs of their veracity. Mon Dieu! When I think of all that you are going to hear I envy you. You see I have abused the right I claimed in not being interrupted; it is so hard to be silent when the subject is a long desired pleasure,—desired, yes, with all the strength of love and hope," added Marguerite, with enthusiasm, as she held out her hand to me.
I had scarcely heard what she said. Her projects, as I have said, had awakened those horrid suspicions that for two months of supreme delight were dormant in my breast. The profound and pious adoration of her former husband, which I had taken as an explanation of Marguerite's way of living, was nothing but a vulgar fable invented to deceive me. I believed more obstinately than ever in the truth of all the stories I had heard. I was enraged to think that, in a moment of sentimental confidence, I should have forgotten all my wise maxims, and lost my powers of penetration and sagacity. An overpowering resentment filled my heart. Taking for granted that what Marguerite had just proposed to me with so much affectionate graciousness had been proposed to others in the same manner, and with the same pretended simplicity, and revolting from such gratuitous falsehood, I saw that I would be playing a most detestable rôle should I pretend to believe in this sudden desire for love in a cottage, which I was supposed to have awakened in Marguerite's heart. Gathering all my hatred and scorn into one ironical frown, I replied:
"Your plan is certainly a very charming one, and your idea of a mysterious retreat in the heart of Paris would be very original if it were not a copy. For my part, there are certain circumstances that would make such a plan seem very flat and uninviting."
"Mon Dieu! How can you treat my proposal with such coldness?" said Marguerite, noticing my changed appearance. "I longed so to please you, I hoped you would share my pleasure, I was so happy, so intensely happy, in this future of mysterious love."
"That delightful joy shows the perpetual youth of your feelings. Were it not for this rejuvenating power of yours, you would, probably, be rather weary of mysterious love by this time!"
"What do you mean to say?"
"I mean to say that it would not be the first time your beautiful and secret retreat had witnessed such mysterious and passionate love scenes as those in which I am expected to enact the hero's part."
"Truly, I do not understand you, Arthur,—ah, for Heaven's sake, explain yourself! I know not why, but you seem to have turned me to ice."
"You wish for an explanation? So shall it be. To hear the answer to well-known riddles is another one of your whims, but it is no more than a fancy for trying each successive lover's devotion by a dose of solitude. It is the last experiment, and, if successful, each man can be classified according to his merit."
"Arthur, I told you I did not understand you, your cold, ironical look distresses me, it recalls that dreadful day when— Speak to me, tell me what is on your mind, explain yourself. Mon Dieu! What can I have done to offend you so? Does this plan displease you? I give it up, then, let us think no more about it; but in Heaven's name, tell me what is the matter? What has changed you so suddenly? Yesterday, this very morning even, you were so kind, so affectionate, your last letter was so full of tenderness!"
"Yesterday, and even this morning, I was a blind fool; I am as great a fool as ever, perhaps, but at least I have my eyes open."
"Your eyes open!" said Marguerite, stupidly.
"As to my last letter, you know as well as I, perhaps better, that though it may be difficult to act a lie in speech and look and gesture, nothing can be easier or commoner than to lie in studied phrases, and with plenty of time at our disposal. Thus, when I wrote you that last letter, so full of tender things, you say, I had just obtained the promise of a rendezvous with Madame de V——."
"Arthur, Arthur! this is very cruel pleasantry. It may be amusing to you, but you surely can not know how cruel it is to me."
"It does not amuse me at all, madame; and it is no pleasantry. I swear it is not. On the contrary, I am speaking very seriously, as a friend, so that you may no longer be deceived by my falseness, or I be your dupe."
"Dupe? dupe of my falseness?"
"Yes."
"My falseness! my dupe! What strange language from you! And why should you be my dupe? What does it mean? It is inexplicable. And why should you say such things to me? Mon Dieu!"
"You know why I say such things better than I do. It is because I am not the first one of your lovers to whom you have proposed this entertaining suburban pastorale."
Marguerite clasped her hands and let them fall on her knees. She stared at me with wide-open eyes, that were full of sorrow and amazement. But I was quite determined to go on, though my heart was beating wildly, and the souvenir of my last meeting with Hélène flashed through my mind like a scorching tongue of flame.
"You see, my dear friend, amid the distractions of society, one can find time to play the lover, and have the good sense to ignore all former occupants in the beloved one's affections; for why should we worry about the past? Does it belong to us? We have the future, and the devil knows what it has in reserve for us.
"As for filling in any reputable way the part of the 'lover without ancestry,' in that mystery play of yours, with you and your femme de chambre as spectators, performing as others have done this rôle of lover in your play, 'Love in a Cottage,' one must be a better comedian than I am. Really, my dear Marguerite, I fear I should not act as well as my predecessors, and I wish to retain the good opinion you have always had of me."
"Ah, good God, am I dreaming? It is a frightful dream, and it has made me ill," said she, placing her trembling hands on her head.
My heart was beating as though it would break. I was partly conscious of the terrible distress I was causing this sweet woman, as with crushing irony and coarse insolence I destroyed the beautiful picture her love had painted. I shuddered to think of how she must suffer, if this really was her first affection since her husband's death. But my furious distrust worked itself to a higher and higher pitch, at the remembrance of all the odious stories I had heard told of Marguerite, and by my fear of being cheated, being taken for a dupe; so I stifled these gleams of reason, and found no words too strong to express my scorn of what I called the outrageous duplicity of this woman.
She soon was completely overcome, and fell to weeping bitterly.
She showed no signs of indignation at my words! She could tolerate such insults! Truth would not have been so patient; only falsehood is cowardly. She had given herself to me; why not to others? These were the only thoughts that her silent and tearful grief awoke in me.
She wept in silence for a long time.
I said no word of consolation. I stood there staring at her with my frowning look of anger towards her and irritation towards myself.
Suddenly Marguerite raised up her pale face, looked around as if dazed, rose up, and took two or three steps forward, saying:
"No, no, 'tis not a dream; 'tis reality. It must be." Then, as though her strength had all gone from her limbs, she sank on an armchair.
Wiping her eyes, she said to me, in a steady voice: "Pardon me this weakness. It is the first time since I told you all that you have ever treated me in such a manner. I believe, though, that you are not so cruel as you seem. It is impossible that you should cause me such suffering, unless you have a very good reason to believe in my treachery. No, that were impossible! So I shall not be angry with you. You have been deceived. You have heard some slanderous story, and you have believed it. Ah, well, dear friend, neither you nor I will throw away our future chances of happiness on some such miserable falsehood. You will therefore confide in me, and tell me what has caused this distrust, of what I am suspected, and what proofs you believe you have of my falseness. You will tell me what is this accusation, and with a single word I will destroy it. Do you hear me? With a single word, for the language of truth is irresistible. Again I tell you, Arthur, I am not angry with you. To treat a woman as you have treated me, when radiant with hope and love she came to offer you— No, no, we will say no more of that. But to treat a woman with such scorn and severity, you should have some serious proof of her treachery. Say then, tell me, tell me, I beg of you, what have I done?"
This calm and noble language only irritated me the more, as it made me ashamed of my conduct. Could I dare to tell her that it was only my miserable, incurable spirit of doubt, only the vague recollection of a slanderous story, only the spite I felt at not succeeding as soon as I hoped with Madame de V——, that had provoked my brutal and insolent words? Thus I was too proud to admit that I had acted like a crazy man, and continued to be cruel and unjust,—or, rather, fiendishly spiteful.
"Madame," said I, in a lofty way, "I am not called on to explain my convictions; they are quite sufficient for me, and I shall stick to them."
"But they are not sufficient for me! Some one has told you lies about me, and I wish to justify myself!"
"No one has told any lies. I believe what I have to believe."
"He believes! Great God, he believes! You are not ashamed to believe that I have ever spoken to another as I have to you? And you dare to believe that I am so vile, so cowardly, so base, as to spend my whole life in a continual series of falsehoods, that infamy has become a matter of habit?"
"There is neither infamy nor cowardice, neither baseness nor falsehood; you have made a great many men happy, none can know how happy better than I. You have related to me a lovely story of conjugal fidelity, which even survived the dear departed one, exactly like the widows in Malabar.
"This souvenir of the dear absent one, who was adored, fêted, caressed, as though he were still living, was a rather free translation of your life which was so amorously spent. It was a very clever plan you laid to entrap me into the belief that I was the only one. I replied to your wiles by a trick of my own, which was simply to pretend that I was your fool, and did not see through your schemes; besides, I was supposed to be the first to triumph over the poor dear marquis,—not a very flattering contest,—with a dead man—"
"How dare you!" cried out Marguerite, interrupting me, and standing erect, majestic, almost menacing, her eyes flashing, and her cheeks blazing with indignation. Then leaning suddenly on a console, she said, in a low voice, as though crushed by remorse: "I have deserved this, I have deserved it all. Suffer, miserable woman; who will ever pity you now?"
In the midst of the tumultuous waves of hate and anger that were surging in my breast, I was seized with the deepest sense of pity and terror; perhaps I should then have returned to my senses and listened to the voice of reason, when Marguerite, having wiped away her tears, said, in a solemn voice: "For the last time, monsieur, do you believe in a single one of the scandalous stories you have heard about me? Take time to answer, for your answer will decide my destiny and your own!"
This threatening tone drove me perfectly wild. I became almost crazy,—the puppet of an insane fury.
Going close up to Marguerite, I said, as I held her by the waist:
"Positively, dearest, indignation is as becoming to you as one of Madame Baudrand's bonnets; you never looked so beautiful. Come, my angel, my feminine Don Juan, let us deceive yesterday's lovers and those of to-morrow, let us commit one more infidelity in honour of the poor dear marquis—"
At first she looked at me with amazement, then, with a heartrending cry, she repulsed me violently, and disappeared in her bedroom, locking the door after her.
I came home like a drunken man.
I had only a confused recollection of what had taken place.
That night I was taken ill with a violent attack of fever. I was delirious all night long. The next day my valet handed me a sealed package.
It contained the letters I had written to Marguerite.
"Who brought this?" I said to him.
"Mlle. Vandeuil, monsieur, at two o'clock this morning."
"And Madame de Pënâfiel?"
"Madame la marquise started off last night in her carriage. Her people do not know her destination."
CHAPTER XXVI
AN ENCOUNTER
It would be useless to tell of all my remorse and regret after the departure of Madame de Pënâfiel. I went over again (only on another theme) all the tortures which followed my rupture with Hélène. Only, before I finally renounced for ever that noble girl, there remained to me the hope of at some time obtaining her hand; while now I knew I should never see Marguerite again. As it always happens, the affection she had shown me appeared in all its intoxicating sweetness when I had lost it for ever, and by a fatal contradiction I knew that I loved her more passionately than ever.
I dwelt with a sort of cruel enjoyment on all I had so unworthily sacrificed, not to distrust, but to a species of monomania as wicked as it was stupid; to be sure, it had brought terrible suffering on me, but what of that? A crazy man suffers, too; but is the harm he does any the less harmful?
What more can I say? The vision of that seductive woman appeared more beautiful, more voluptuous, than ever before. The saddening vulgarity of the saying that we only know the worth of happiness when we have lost it, was the dolorous theme upon which my despair played every sort of variation.
Overcome by such crushing regrets, what could I do?
Alas! when a man is of such an unfortunate disposition that neither love, ambition, study, nor social obligations suffice to occupy his mind and his heart, above all, when he despises or misunderstands that beneficent spiritual nourishment which religion offers him as a salutary and never failing aliment, his soul, thus deprived of all life-giving principles, reacts upon itself. Then nameless chagrins, mournful and pale ennui, gnawing doubts, phantoms of despair, are almost always born of these gloomy, solitary, and sickly nocturnal meditations.
If, on the contrary, man applies that self-destroying energy to the rigorous observance of the laws imposed on him by God and humanity, if he succeeds in thus limiting his career to the fulfilling of his duties, in tracing out for himself a definite and straight road which ends in a hope of immortality, his life becomes logical, and is the natural consequence of the principles which govern him and the goal towards which he aspires. Then all becomes an admirable sequence, each deed has its cause and its effects. Instead of wandering miserably, with neither interest, hope, nor restraint, he advances towards a definite object. False or true, at least he is travelling along a road, and if the magnificent perspectives in which it ends, and on which he gazes so eagerly, are only a dazzling mirage, what does it matter, since this divine and consoling mirage has led him on to the end of his existence, his heart filled with joy, with hope, and with love?
Alas! these noble thoughts vainly filled my mind; I felt neither the desire nor the energy to follow them.
So that I fell again with all the weight of my dejection into the void. I understood my disease, but had not the courage to try to cure it. I acted with the weakness of those sick people who, stubborn in their sufferings, obstinately prefer a constant pain to the heroic but beneficent action of the knife or the fire.
I led a miserable life; in the daytime I closed my door to the few visitors that my reserve and selfish happiness had not alienated. Sometimes I would give myself up to violent exercise, I would ride on horseback, I would have a furious bout at fencing, so as to tire myself out, thinking thus to dull the mind by fatiguing the body.
Then when night came, I felt a strange and melancholy pleasure in enveloping myself in a cloak, and thus wandering alone about Paris, especially when the weather was cloudy or stormy.
I gave myself up on these occasions to a sort of scornful rage, as ridiculous as it was puerile, whenever I would pass before a splendid residence, or a brightly lit up theatre, where the carriages were rapidly driving up from every direction. I, too, if I desire it, can have my place in these gay salons, amid this splendid and envied throng; if I so willed it my restive horses would now be bearing me to these very fêtes! The existence I scorn would be the joy and pride of most men, and yet, from I know not what caprice, which thus insults the ready-made happiness that fate has bestowed upon me, I prefer to wander thus on foot, dragging my incurable sadness through these muddy streets.
A woman who was both beautiful and young, noble and clever, who united in herself all that could flatter a man's vanity, has deigned to ravish me with the most perfect love, and, after two months of ideal bliss, without reason or shame, I have insanely and brutally trampled this love under my feet with anger and scorn! And now I have no longer the courage to be angry and spiteful; I weep; I am the most miserable of men; I go about, hiding myself like a criminal; and these indecent creatures, who shamelessly wander about here and there in the mud, they dare to speak to me,—to me. To me, who at this very hour might be at the feet of a woman who is admired by all for her elegance, wit, and beauty! A woman who offered me the realisation of my fondest dream of happiness, and who, perhaps, might even now be holding my hand in hers, saying in her enchanting voice, while her eyes became humid with love, "My life is thine,—my life and my soul!"
Truly it was frightful, and yet, through the strange perversity of my unfortunate nature, I took a sort of gloomy and inexplicable delight in contrasting this dismal and abject present with such a dazzling and bewildering past.
One night, five or six days after Marguerite's departure, I was at the height of one of these painful paroxysms of grief. The night was dark, a drizzly, cold rain was falling; I enveloped myself in my cloak, and went out.
I had never been aware of the dismal aspect of the streets of Paris at this hour; nothing could be more forlorn and lugubrious than the pale reflection of the street-lamps on the pavements, as they shone on the fetid mud that covered the sidewalks, and in the stagnant water of the gutters. Wandering thus, I often thought of the miserable state of a homeless man, without bread, without resources, wandering thus as I wandered. I will admit that, when such thoughts assailed me, if I met on my road, in such stormy weather, some poor woman carrying a child already bearing the impress of misery, or some lean, old, trembling beggar, I would bestow on them liberal alms; and, although vice was probably the cause of their miserable condition, I always felt a moment of the greatest satisfaction in seeing with what a stupefied look they would touch a piece of gold. And then the whole terrible picture of misery would expose itself to my view! Not the misery of the man who, building a hut of leaves, or hiding himself in the cleft of a rock, can, at least, breathe pure and invigorating air, and have the consolation of the sunshine and solitude; but the sordid and swarming misery of great cities, which herds together in infected shelters in order to keep warm.
Then an insurmountable terror would come over me as I would imagine myself by some unforeseen calamity forced to live the same life pell-mell with these unfortunate creatures who are depraved as much through poverty as crime.
I would become pale with affright at such a thought, for the most laborious condition, with a life in the open air, and solitude, had no terrors for me, but when I thought of this herding together, the hideous and perpetual contact of prisoners and galériens, for example, I was sometimes so wild and so terrified that it was an overwhelming relief to me to return to my home, which I found all lighted up, and where attentive servants, my books, my pictures, my portraits, all the peace and comforts of seclusion, awaited me, and where I could fly as to a haven of refuge.
Oh, then it was that on my knees I gratefully thanked my father for all he had done for me in leaving me rich. It was but a poor sort of gratitude, which had need of being thus terrified before it could awaken in my heart and revive for an instant those souvenirs which were already so far distant and so forgotten!
But to return to my nocturnal promenades. One night, as I almost aimlessly wandered along the streets, I arrived at the Boulevard de la Bastille. The moon threw an uncertain light through the flying clouds that obscured her disc, for it was very windy, and a drizzling rain was falling steadily. It might have been about nine o'clock.
Among some of the detached houses, situated near the old garden of Beaumarchais, I noticed one because it seemed newer than the others, and singularly clean and neat. It was very small, and a railing breast-high protected a little square garden like those we see before houses in England. Opening on to the garden, and at one of the corners of the house, was a green door with a brass knocker; the house was only one story high above the ground floor; three windows down-stairs, and three on the upper floor. In the closed shutters I noticed three small holes, destined, no doubt, to allow the light to enter; a bright light shone out from these openings, which were just on a level with my eye. I gave way to momentary idle curiosity, and peeped in.
The curtains had been drawn aside, and I could see through the window-panes the interior of the apartment.
But what was my astonishment, good God, when I recognised Hélène!
I was stupefied, for I believed her to be still in England with her mother.
For an instant I turned away my eyes, for I was breathless with emotion.
My heart beat so violently that its pulsations were painful; but, prompted by burning curiosity, I looked again.
Oh, how beautiful Hélène had become! She was no longer frail and stooping, as formerly; her shoulders were broader, her form more developed and rounder, but her waist as small and as supple as ever. Then her fresh and rosy cheeks, her calm, fair forehead, her whole person, revealed an appearance of quietude and serenity which, I admit, gave me a terrible shock; for I knew that she had altogether forgotten me,—since she seemed no longer to suffer.
She wore a black silk dress; her beautiful blonde hair fell in thick curls on her forehead and neck, and, as always, she wore the daintiest slippers.
As my eye became gradually used to looking through such a small space, the horizon which I could take in became larger, and how can I tell what I felt, when through an open door I saw a child's cradle!
Hélène, seated in an armchair, her pretty feet crossed one over the other, was reading by the light of a lamp, whose green silk shade reminded me of our salon at Serval. From time to time she placed her book on her knees, and, with a movement that thrilled me with sweet and bitter souvenirs, she rested her round white chin on the back of her left hand, whose little finger was raised along the side of her cheek, where the polished finger-nail shone like a pink shell.
From time to time Hélène gave an uneasy glance towards the clock, and then again towards the fire, which burned cheerfully on the hearth; sometimes, too, she listened attentively to any sound that might come from the cradle, then she would go on with her reading; while reading she would mechanically pull at one of the elastic, silky rings of her long, fair hair and bring it up to her lips; which was another one of her childish tricks, for which her mother had often taken her to task, and which, alas! was another sad souvenir of my happy days at Serval. The interior of this little parlour was of the greatest simplicity; beside Hélène, on a table which was covered with a pretty cloth, I recognised a Saxony vase, which had belonged to her mother. It contained one of her favourite flowers. The walls of the room were papered with red, and covered with a quantity of water-colours and sketches in simple oak frames. Besides these there were many plaster casts from well-selected antique models, and two or three beautiful proofs of Rembrandt's etchings. These were all the ornaments of the apartment.
While I was examining all this with the most painful interest, I heard the noise of an approaching carriage, and hastily fled.
I had scarcely got back to the boulevard when a cab stopped before the house, and a very tall man, whose face I could not see, descended from it, passed very close to me, and opened the little green door, which quickly closed after him.
Then, more curious than ever, I went back to the window blinds, but the light had entirely disappeared.
After taking a note of the number of the house, I returned home.
It would be useless to attempt to tell what a state this new complication of sadness put me in.
So Hélène was married; but to whom? Where was her mother? How was it that I, her nearest relative, had never been informed of this union? Hélène's aversion to me must be very obstinate, since she had never taken the trouble to treat me with mere formal politeness. But who was this husband of hers? Judging from what I had seen, he must be a man of very limited means. Could Hélène live happily in this way? Alas! her charming face, so placid and contented, told me how happy she was. For I knew from experience what grievous and deep traces sorrow had imprinted on her features.
She was living happily, then! Happy without me! Happy, though apparently poor! Could that be possible? Did wealth count for so little in making up the sum of our life's pleasure? No wonder I had inspired her with such odious scorn, when I had so meanly accused her of being mercenary.
I passed a wretched night. Fortunately for me, my impatient curiosity to know more about Hélène's circumstances diverted my grief by turning it into another channel, if I may say so.
Wishing to know as fully as possible every detail regarding my cousin, I thought over every way in which I could discover something about her.
I had in my service a man who had served in the capacity of courier when I had travelled; he was a young fellow of great activity, adroitness, and intelligence. For a moment I had an idea of calling on him to secretly find out all I wished to know; but fearing that in some way he might annoy Hélène, I decided to do everything myself.
Success seemed hardly possible, for the house was isolated. There were neither any neighbours nor any janitor to question, and for nothing in the world would I have gone to call on Hélène. I decided, though, to carry out my plan.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE EXHIBITION
The means I employed in finding out who was Hélène's husband were very simple, and a lucky chance helped me to the discovery. The next morning I went in a cab, whose blinds I carefully closed, to a point just opposite the little house of the Beaumarchais garden, to see if some unforeseen circumstance would not help me in my projects. I did not have to wait long; about nine o'clock a man, carrying a package of newspapers, knocked at the green door and handed a paper to an elderly woman, whom I recognised as having been in my aunt's service.
I ordered my driver to follow the news-carrier; and when, after having distributed three or four other papers to several houses on the boulevard, he went off into a side street, I got out of the cab and accosted him:
"Tell me the names of the five people to whom you have just left your papers. You will earn two louis."
The man looked at me stupefied.
"I am asking you this because it is a bet I have made," said I. "Besides, this information, which you can give me if you choose, can't make any possible difference to you," and I put the two louis in his hand.
"My faith, monsieur, I'll give it to you willingly; as the bands of my papers are all printed, it will not be any great harm in showing them to you."
I took a pencil, and wrote down the names as he read them off to me. He named three or four which were perfectly uninteresting to me, and, finally, giving the number of Hélène's house, said, "M. Frank, artist." I asked him, in order to put him on a false track, if, in the list of his subscribers who lived on the boulevard, there was not a M. de Verneuil.
He examined his list, replied that there was no such person, thanked me, and I returned home almost happy.
The name Frank was evidently that of a foreigner; Hélène must then have married during her voyage to Germany, and married an artist who, to all appearances, was as yet very little known, for I had never heard his name before.
I went, however, that very day to the exhibition of paintings, hoping to find in the catalogue some notice of Hélène's husband.
What inexplicable interest made me do all this? Almost certain that Hélène was happy, my discoveries could only result in misery to myself; but, whether I saw in all this interest in Hélène only a means of distracting my thoughts from the remembrance of Marguerite, or whether I was only following the influence of a sentiment which was still smouldering in my heart, I awoke from the apathy which had been dulling my senses for so many days, and began my investigations with an energy that astonished me.
The exposition was drawing to its close; I entered the gallery, where there were very few people. I opened the catalogue, and there I found the name of M. Frank, Boulevard Beaumarchais, No. —. One painting and two water-colours were inscribed with his name.
One was a fragment from a scene in Goethe's "Egmont."
The painter had chosen the end of the charming interview between Claire and Egmont, who, at the request of his naïve mistress, has come to the humble abode where she dwells with her mother, clothed in all the splendid vesture which he wore to the court. "What splendour," cries Claire, as she admires, with childish joy, the dazzling costume of the man she loves with such profound and candid passion. "And this velvet," continues she, "and these embroideries! I know not where to begin. And the collar of the Golden Fleece! You told me once that it was a distinction of great merit. I can compare it, then, to your love for me, for I wear it here, next my heart."
This is the notice of the picture as it was printed in the catalogue.
No. —. M. Frank, Painter.
Claire and Egmont.
Claire.—Ah, let me be silent! Let me embrace thee! Let me fix my eyes on thine, and there find all things,—consolation, hope, joy, and sorrow. (She clasps him in her arms and gazes on him.) Tell me, tell me,—it seems so strange,—art thou, then, Egmont? Count Egmont? The great Egmont, who makes such a stir in the world, who figures in the Gazette, who is the hope of the country?
Egmont.—No, Claire, I am not he.
Claire.—How?
Egmont.—Listen, Claire! Let me sit down! (He seats himself, and she kneels before him on a footstool, rests her arms on his knees, and gazes in his eyes.) That Egmont is a morose, solemn, cold Egmont, obliged to be for ever on his guard, to appear now this and now that; harassed, misunderstood, and worried, when people think him gay and light-hearted; beloved by the people who know not their own minds, surrounded by friends in whom he does not confide, observed by men who desire to supplant him, toiling and tiring himself for no object nor any reward. Oh, let me hide him, let me not speak of his feelings. But this Egmont, Claire, is calm, sincere, happy; he is loved and known by the best of hearts, which he knows and loves in return, and which he presses to his own with boundless confidence and love. (He takes her in his arms.) This is thy Egmont.
Claire.—Thus let me die; the world has no further joy.
The choice of subject for a picture has always appeared to me to show the real limit of an artist's intelligence; there is his thought, his poesy. Now I admit that the scene as described by the catalogue was admirably depicted.
I looked for the painting, nevertheless, with a secret hope that I should find it mediocre and unworthy the high inspiration the artist had demanded from one of the chef-d'œuvres of Goethe.
Hélène had seemed to me too happy. If I had found her sad, this wicked and envious thought would never have entered my mind.
I sought this picture for a long time. At last I discovered it placed in a most unfavourable light, and half hidden by the gigantic and massive frame of a large portrait.
Frank's canvas was what is called an easel picture; it was about three feet high by two feet and a half wide.
I have said that, to my shame, I arrived before the picture with a determination to find fault with it; but what immediately caused my malevolent feelings to disappear in an instant was, first, my surprise, and then my involuntary admiration, as I recognised the sweet face of Hélène, who had, doubtless, posed for the personage of Claire.
It was Hélène, whose charm and unspeakable grace were still more idealised by the divine power of art, for art alone can give to the features it reproduces, and reproduces with fidelity, that inexplicable character, grandiose and almost superhuman, which is to the living features that which historic perspective is to events.
The more I examined the picture, the more I admired, in spite of the pangs of my hateful jealousy, a talent full of freshness, melancholy, and elevation, joined to an intimate knowledge of nature and the passions.
As to Egmont, no one could find a physiognomy more masculine and more expressive. If the slight frown on the forehead showed the indelible trace of political cares, though his pallor betrayed the absorbing and concentrated reaction of that ambition which Egmont concealed under frivolity, one saw that at least, when he was at the side of Claire, free from all annoyances, forgetful of his hazardous schemes, he came to cool his burning brow by the soothing touch of this angel of devotion and candour, who, as Goethe tells us, had so often lulled this great child to sleep.
The count's smile was full of calmness and serenity, his eyes were bright with confidence and love; his pose, so joyfully casting aside court etiquette, was one of graceful negligence, while with his two beautiful hands he pressed those of Claire, who, kneeling before her Egmont, with her elbows on his knees, was gazing upon him with idolatry. In this profound and admiring look of Claire, you could imagine her saying, "I, poor, obscure girl, I am beloved of Egmont,—of the great Egmont." Simple and enchanting modesty, which makes that young girl's love so chaste, so humble, and so passionate!
As to the accessories of the picture, their extreme simplicity had been carefully and skilfully thought out, so as to show to all the more advantage Egmont's splendid costume. It was the interior of a poor Flemish house, there was Claire's spinning-wheel, some pieces of furniture with well-polished twisted columns; on the left a little window with leaded panes, which was shaded by the hop-vine that, climbing on the outside of it, half hid the bird cage that hung there. It was from this window, no doubt, that Claire had seen Egmont for the first time, when, passing by mounted on his beautiful battle-steed at the head of his army, the count, with his unparalleled grace, had saluted her with his golden sword, and a bow of his waving plumes. And finally, above the high chimney piece, with its serge curtain, one could see a rude and naïve popular print representing the great Egmont. Wretched picture as it was, Claire had often dreamily gazed on it, little thinking that one day the great captain would be at her knees! Or rather that she would be kneeling before Egmont; for it was with admirable sagacity that the painter had thus chosen Claire's attitude, as symbolising the love of that admirable child, who, so timidly kneeling, shows her gratitude for the love she bestows.
A soft exquisite light illumined the picture, which was almost all painted in a beautiful clair-obscure, for the colouring, though bold, strong, and vigorous, was of a marvellous harmony and mellowness; in the accessories there was nothing bright or staring to attract the eye. Claire wore the simple black dress of a young Flemish girl, and Egmont's costume was of brown velvet, embroidered with silver; thus all the interest of the picture was absolutely concentrated on those two admirable faces.
I must admit that, in spite of the ill-feeling I had entertained for Frank, with the exception of M. Delacroix's "Charles the Fifth," the "Marguerite and Faust" of Ary Scheffer, and "The Children of Edward" by M. Delaroche, I had scarcely ever been more profoundly touched by the irresistible power of genius.
Giving myself up to its charming influence, thinking only of enjoying its beauty, I lost myself in the thousand impressions this picture awakened in me; but when this first effervescence of involuntary admiration was somewhat calmed, my envious feelings returned with a sharper sting than ever, for I appreciated all there was great and elevated in the talent of Hélène's husband.
I looked in the catalogue; this beautiful picture had not yet been sold. A mean frame, whose cheapness was noticeable and displeasing to me, surrounded this chef-d'œuvre, which was barely visible, consigned as it was to the very end of the gallery among all the miserable daubs which are thrust to one side. I judged from this fact that Frank was but little known. He had probably just arrived from Germany, without friends and without protection, and had simply abandoned his picture to all the hazards of the exposition.