Louis de Camors, from this moment and forever.
“Written and signed with the pure blood of my veins, March 5, 185-.
“CHARLOTTE DE LUC. D’ESTRELLES.”
All the blood of Camors surged to his brain—a cloud came over his eyes—he rested his hand on the marble table, then suddenly his face was covered with a mortal paleness. These symptoms did not arise from remorse or fear; his passion overshadowed all. He felt a boundless joy. He saw the world at his feet.
It was by this act of frankness and of extraordinary audacity, seasoned by the bloody mysticism so familiar to the sixteenth century, which she adored, that the Marquise de Campvallon surrendered herself to her lover and sealed their fatal union.
CHAPTER XIV. AN ANONYMOUS LETTER
Nearly six weeks had passed after this last episode. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and the Marquise awaited Camors, who was to come after the session of the Corps Legislatif. There was a sudden knock at one of the doors of her room, which communicated with her husband’s apartment. It was the General. She remarked with surprise, and even with fear, that his countenance was agitated.
“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she said. “Are you ill?”
“No,” replied the General, “not at all.”
He placed himself before her, and looked at her some moments before speaking, his eyes rolling wildly.
“Charlotte!” he said at last, with a painful smile, “I must own to you my folly. I am almost mad since morning—I have received such a singular letter. Would you like to see it?”
“If you wish,” she replied.
He took a letter from his pocket, and gave it to her. The writing was evidently carefully disguised, and it was not signed.
“An anonymous letter?” said the Marquise, whose eyebrows were slightly raised, with an expression of disdain; then she read the letter, which was as follows:
and your loyalty abused. You are deceived by those whom you love
most.
“A man who is covered with your favors and a woman who owes
everything to you are united by a secret intimacy which outrages
you. They are impatient for the hour when they can divide your
spoils.
“He who regards it as a pious duty to warn you does not desire to
calumniate any one. He is sure that your honor is respected by her
to whom you have confided it, and that she is still worthy of your
confidence and esteem. She wrongs you in allowing herself to count
upon the future, which your best friend dates from your death. He
seeks your widow and your estate.
“The poor woman submits against her will to the fascinations of a
man too celebrated for his successful affairs of the heart. But
this man, your friend—almost your son—how can he excuse his
conduct? Every honest person must be shocked by such behavior, and
particularly he whom a chance conversation informed of the fact, and
who obeys his conscience in giving you this information.”
The Marquise, after reading it, returned the letter coldly to the General.
“Sign it Eleanore-Jeanne de la Roche-Jugan!” she said.
“Do you think so?” asked the General.
“It is as clear as day,” replied the Marquise. “These expressions betray her—‘a pious duty to warn you—‘celebrated for his successful affairs of the heart’—‘every honest person.’ She can disguise her writing, but not her style. But what is still more conclusive is that which she attributes to Monsieur de Camors—for I suppose it alludes to him—and to his private prospects and calculations. This can not have failed to strike you, as it has me, I suppose?”
“If I thought this vile letter was her work,” cried the General, “I never would see her again during my life.”
“Why not? It is better to laugh at it!”
The General began one of his solemn promenades across the room. The Marquise looked uneasily at the clock. Her husband, intercepting one of these glances, suddenly stopped.
“Do you expect Camors to-day?” he inquired.
“Yes; I think he will call after the session.”
“I think he will,” responded the General, with a convulsive smile. “And do you know, my dear,” he added, “the absurd idea which has haunted me since I received this infamous letter?—for I believe that infamy is contagious.”
“You have conceived the idea of observing our interview?” said the Marquise, in a tone of indolent raillery.
“Yes,” said the General, “there—behind that curtain—as in a theatre; but, thank God! I have been able to resist this base intention. If ever I allow myself to play so mean a part, I should wish at least to do it with your knowledge and consent.”
“And do you ask me to consent to it?” asked the Marquise.
“My poor Charlotte!” said the General, in a sad and almost supplicating tone, “I am an old fool—an overgrown child—but I feel that this miserable letter will poison my life. I shall have no more an hour of peace and confidence. What can you expect? I was so cruelly deceived before. I am an honorable man, but I have been taught that all men are not like myself. There are some things which to me seem as impossible as walking on my head, yet I see others doing these things every day. What can I say to you? After reading this perfidious letter, I could not help recollecting that your intimacy with Camors has greatly increased of late!”
“Without doubt,” said the Marquise, “I am very fond of him!”
“I remembered also your tete-a-tete with him, the other night, in the boudoir, during the ball. When I awoke you had both an air of mystery. What mysteries could there be between you two?”
“Ah, what indeed!” said the Marquise, smiling.
“And will you not tell me?”
“You shall know it at the proper time.”
“Finally, I swear to you that I suspect neither of you—I neither suspect you of wronging me—of disgracing me—nor of soiling my name... God help me!
“But if you two should love each other, even while respecting my honor: if you love each other and confess it—if you two, even at my side, in my heart—if you, my two children, should be calculating with impatient eyes the progress of my old age—planning your projects for the future, and smiling at my approaching death—postponing your happiness only for my tomb you may think yourselves guiltless, but no, I tell you it would be shameful!”
Under the empire of the passion which controlled him, the voice of the General became louder. His common features assumed an air of sombre dignity and imposing grandeur. A slight shade of paleness passed over the lovely face of the young woman and a slight frown contracted her forehead.
By an effort, which in a better cause would have been sublime, she quickly mastered her weakness, and, coldly pointing out to her husband the draped door by which he had entered, said:
“Very well, conceal yourself there!”
“You will never forgive me?”
“You know little of women, my friend, if you do not know that jealousy is one of the crimes they not only pardon but love.”
“My God, I am not jealous!”
“Call it yourself what you will, but station yourself there!”
“And you are sincere in wishing me to do so?”
“I pray you to do so! Retire in the interval, leave the door open, and when you hear Monsieur de Camors enter the court of the hotel, return.”
“No!” said the General, after a moment’s hesitation; “since I have gone so far”—and he sighed deeply “I do not wish to leave myself the least pretext for distrust. If I leave you before he comes, I am capable of fancying—”
“That I might secretly warn him? Nothing more natural. Remain here, then. Only take a book; for our conversation, under such circumstances, can not be lively.”
He sat down.
“But,” he said, “what mystery can there be between you two?”
“You shall hear!” she said, with her sphinx-like smile.
The General mechanically took up a book. She stirred the fire, and reflected. As she liked terror, danger, and dramatic incidents to blend with her intrigues, she should have been content; for at that moment shame, ruin, and death were at her door. But, to tell the truth, it was too much for her; and when she looked, in the midst of the silence which surrounded her, at the true character and scope of the perils which surrounded her, she thought her brain would fail and her heart break.
She was not mistaken as to the origin of the letter. This shameful work had indeed been planned by Madame de la Roche-Jugan. To do her justice, she had not suspected the force of the blow she was dealing. She still believed in the virtue of the Marquise; but during the perpetual surveillance she had never relaxed, she could not fail to see the changed nature of the intercourse between Camors and the Marquise. It must not be forgotten that she dreamed of securing for her son Sigismund the succession to her old friend; and she foresaw a dangerous rivalry—the germ of which she sought to destroy. To awaken the distrust of the General toward Camors, so as to cause his doors to be closed against him, was all she meditated. But her anonymous letter, like most villainies of this kind, was a more fatal and murderous weapon than its base author imagined.
The young Marquise, then, mused while stirring the fire, casting, from time to time, a furtive glance at the clock.
M. de Camors would soon arrive—how could she warn him? In the present state of their relations it was not impossible that the very first words of. Camors might immediately divulge their secret: and once betrayed, there was not only for her personal dishonor, a scandalous fall, poverty, a convent—but for her husband or her lover—perhaps for both—death!
When the bell in the lower court sounded, announcing the Count’s approach, these thoughts crowded into the brain of the Marquise like a legion of phantoms. But she rallied her courage by a desperate effort and strained all her faculties to the execution of the plan she had hastily conceived, which was her last hope. And one word, one gesture, one mistake, or one carelessness of her lover, might overthrow it in a second. A moment later the door was opened by a servant, announcing M. de Camors. Without speaking, she signed to her husband to gain his hiding-place. The General, who had risen at the sound of the bell, seemed still to hesitate, but shrugging his shoulders, as if in disdain of himself, retired behind the curtain which faced the door.
M. de Camors entered the room carelessly, and advanced toward the fireplace where sat the Marquise; his smiling lips half opened to speak, when he was struck by the peculiar expression on the face of the Marquise, and the words were frozen on his lips. This look, fixed upon him from his entrance, had a strange, weird intensity, which, without expressing anything, made him fear everything. But he was accustomed to trying situations, and as wary and prudent as he was intrepid. He ceased to smile and did not speak, but waited.
She gave him her hand without ceasing to look at him with the same alarming intensity.
“Either she is mad,” he said to himself, “or there is some great peril!”
With the rapid perception of her genius and of her love, she felt he understood her; and not leaving him time to speak and compromise her, instantly said:
“It is very kind of you to keep your promise.”
“Not at all,” said Camors, seating himself.
“Yes! For you know you come here to be tormented.” There was a pause.
“Have you at last become a convert to my fixed idea?” she added after a second.
“What fixed idea? It seems to me you have a great many!”
“Yes! But I speak of a good one—my best one, at least—of your marriage!”
“What! again, cousin?” said Camors, who, now assured of his danger and its nature, marched with a firmer foot over the burning soil.
“Yes, again, cousin; and I will tell you another thing—I have found the person.”
“Ah! Then I shall run away!”
She met his smile with an imperious glance.
“Then you still adhere to that plan?” said Camors, laughing.
“Most firmly! I need not repeat to you my reasons—having preached about it all winter—in fact so much so as to disturb the General, who suspects some mystery between us.”
“The General? Indeed!”
“Oh, nothing serious, you must understand. Well, let us resume the subject. Miss Campbell will not do—she is too blonde—an odd objection for me to make by the way; not Mademoiselle de Silas—too thin; not Mademoiselle Rolet, in spite of her millions; not Mademoiselle d’Esgrigny—too much like the Bacquieres and Van-Cuyps. All this is a little discouraging, you will admit; but finally everything clears up. I tell you I have discovered the right one—a marvel!”
“Her name?” said Camors.
“Marie de Tecle!”
There was silence.
“Well, you say nothing,” resumed the Marquise, “because you can have nothing to say! Because she unites everything—personal beauty, family, fortune, everything—almost like a dream. Then, too, your properties join. You see how I have thought of everything, my friend! I can not imagine how we never came to think of this before!”
M. de Camors did not reply, and the Marquise began to be surprised at his silence.
“Oh!” she exclaimed; “you may look a long time—there can not be a single objection—you are caught this time. Come, my friend, say yes, I implore you!” And while her lips said “I implore you,” in a tone of gracious entreaty, her look said, with terrible emphasis, “You must!”
“Will you allow me to reflect upon it, Madame?” he said at last.
“No, my friend!”
“But really,” said Camors, who was very pale, “it seems to me you dispose of the hand of Mademoiselle de Tecle very readily. Mademoiselle de Tecle is rich and courted on all sides—also, her great-uncle has ideas of the province, and her mother, ideas of religion, which might well—”
“I charge myself with all that,” interrupted the Marquise.
“What a mania you have for marrying people!”
“Women who do not make love, cousin, always have a mania for matchmaking.”
“But seriously, you will give me a few days for reflection?”
“To reflect about what? Have you not always told me you intended marrying and have been only waiting the chance? Well, you never can find a better one than this; and if you let it slip, you will repent the rest of your life.”
“But give me time to consult my family!”
“Your family—what a joke! It seems to me you have reached full age; and then—what family? Your aunt, Madame de la Roche-Jugan?”
“Doubtless! I do not wish to offend her:”
“Ah, my dear cousin, don’t be uneasy; suppress this uneasiness; I assure you she will be delighted!”
“Why should she?”
“I have my reasons for thinking so;” and the young woman in uttering these words was seized with a fit of sardonic laughter which came near convulsion, so shaken were her nerves by the terrible tension.
Camors, to whom little by little the light fell stronger on the more obscure points of the terrible enigma proposed to him, saw the necessity of shortening a scene which had overtasked her faculties to an almost insupportable degree. He rose:
“I am compelled to leave you,” he said; “for I am not dining at home. But I will come to-morrow, if you will permit me.”
“Certainly. You authorize me to speak to the General?”
“Well, yes, for I really can see no reasonable objection.”
“Very good. I adore you!” said the Marquise. She gave him her hand, which he kissed and immediately departed.
It would have required a much keener vision than that of M. de Campvallon to detect any break, or any discordance, in the audacious comedy which had just been played before him by these two great artists.
The mute play of their eyes alone could have betrayed them; and that he could not see.
As to their tranquil, easy, natural dialogue there was not in it a word which he could seize upon, and which did not remove all his disquietude, and confound all his suspicions. From this moment, and ever afterward, every shadow was effaced from his mind; for the ability to imagine such a plot as that in which his wife in her despair had sought refuge, or to comprehend such depth of perversity, was not in the General’s pure and simple spirit.
When he reappeared before his wife, on leaving his concealment, he was constrained and awkward. With a gesture of confusion and humility he took her hand, and smiled upon her with all the goodness and tenderness of his soul beaming from his face.
At this moment the Marquise, by a new reaction of her nervous system, broke into weeping and sobbing; and this completed the General’s despair.
Out of respect to this worthy man, we shall pass over a scene the interest of which otherwise is not sufficient to warrant the unpleasant effect it would produce on all honest people. We shall equally pass over without record the conversation which took place the next day between the Marquise and M. de Camors.
Camors had experienced, as we have observed, a sentiment of repulsion at hearing the name of Mademoiselle de Tecle appear in the midst of this intrigue. It amounted almost to horror, and he could not control the manifestation of it. How could he conquer this supreme revolt of his conscience to the point of submitting to the expedient which would make his intrigue safe? By what detestable sophistries he dared persuade himself that he owed everything to his accomplice—even this, we shall not attempt to explain. To explain would be to extenuate, and that we wish not to do. We shall only say that he resigned himself to this marriage. On the path which he had entered a man can check himself as little as he can check a flash of lightning.
As to the Marquise, one must have formed no conception of this depraved though haughty spirit, if astonished at her persistence, in cold blood, and after reflection, in the perfidious plot which the imminence of her danger had suggested to her. She saw that the suspicions of the General might be reawakened another day in a more dangerous manner, if this marriage proved only a farce. She loved Camors passionately; and she loved scarcely less the dramatic mystery of their liaison. She had also felt a frantic terror at the thought of losing the great fortune which she regarded as her own; for the disinterestedness of her early youth had long vanished, and the idea of sinking miserably in the Parisian world, where she had long reigned by her luxury as well as her beauty, was insupportable to her.
Love, mystery, fortune-she wished to preserve them all at any price; and the more she reflected, the more the marriage of Camors appeared to her the surest safeguard.
It was true, it would give her a sort of rival. But she had too high an opinion of herself to fear anything; and she preferred Mademoiselle de Tecle to any other, because she knew her, and regarded her as an inferior in everything.
About fifteen days after, the General called on Madame de Tecle one morning, and demanded for M. de Camors her daughter’s hand. It would be painful to dwell on the joy which Madame de Tecle felt; and her only surprise was that Camors had not come in person to press his suit. But Camors had not the heart to do so. He had been at Reuilly since that morning, and called on Madame de Tecle, where he learned his overture was accepted. Once having resolved on this monstrous action, he was determined to carry it through in the most correct manner, and we know he was master of all social arts.
In the evening Madame de Tecle and her daughter, left alone, walked together a long time on their dear terrace, by the soft light of the stars—the daughter blessing her mother, and the mother thanking God—both mingling their hearts, their dreams, their kisses, and their tears—happier, poor women, than is permitted long to human beings. The marriage took place the ensuing month.
BOOK 3.
CHAPTER XV. THE COUNTESS DE CAMORS
After passing the few weeks of the honeymoon at Reuilly, the Comte and Comtesse de Camors returned to Paris and established themselves at their hotel in the Rue de l’Imperatrice. From this moment, and during the months that followed, the young wife kept up an active correspondence with her mother; and we here transcribe some of the letters, which will make us more intimately acquainted with the character of the young woman.
“October.
“Am I happy? No, my dearest mother! No—not happy! I have only
wings and soar to heaven like a bird! I feel the sunshine in my
head, in my eyes, in my heart.
“It blinds me, it enchants me, it causes me to shed delicious tears!
Happy? No, my tender mother; that is not possible, when I think
that I am his wife! The wife—understand me—of him who has reigned
in my poor thoughts since I was able to think—of him whom I should
have chosen out of the whole universe! When I remember that I am
his wife, that we are united forever, how I love life! how I love
you! how I love God!
“The Bois and the lake are within a few steps of us, as you know.
We ride thither nearly every morning, my husband and I!—I repeat,
I and my husband! We go there, my husband and I—I and my husband!
“I know not how it is, but it is always delicious weather to me,
even when it rains—as it does furiously to-day; for we have just
come in, driven home by the storm.
“During our ride to-day, I took occasion to question him quietly as
to some points of our history which puzzled me. First, why had he
married me?
“‘Because you pleased me apparently, Miss Mary.’ He likes to give me
this name, which recalls to him I know not what episode of my
untamed youth—untamed still to him.
“‘If I pleased you, why did I see you so seldom?’
“‘Because I did not wish to court you until I had decided on
marrying.’
“‘How could I have pleased you, not being at all beautiful?’
“‘You are not beautiful, it is true,’ replies this cruel young man,
‘but you are very pretty; and above all you are grace itself, like
your mother.’
“All these obscure points being cleared up to the complete
satisfaction of Miss Mary, Miss Mary took to fast galloping; not
because it was raining, but because she became suddenly—we do not
know the reason why—as red as a poppy.
“Oh, beloved mother! how sweet it is to be loved by him we adore,
and to be loved precisely as we wish—as we have dreamed—according
to the exact programme of our young, romantic hearts!
“Did you ever believe I had ideas on such a delicate subject? Yes,
dear mother, I had them. Thus, it seemed to me there were many
different styles of loving—some vulgar, some pretentious, some
foolish, and others, again, excessively comic. None of these seemed
suited to the Prince, our neighbor. I ever felt he should love,
like the Prince he is, with grace and dignity; with serious
tenderness, a little stern perhaps; with amiability, but almost with
condescension—as a lover, but as a master, too—in fine, like my
husband!
“Dear angel, who art my mother! be happy in my happiness, which was
your sole work. I kiss your hands—I kiss your wings!
“I thank you! I bless you! I adore you!
“If you were near me, it would be too much happiness! I should die,
I think. Nevertheless, come to us very soon. Your chamber awaits
you. It is as blue as the heavens in which I float. I have already
told you this, but I repeat it.
“Good-by, mother of the happiest woman in the world!
“MISS MARY,
“Comtesse de Camors.”
...............................
“November.
“MY MOTHER:
“You made me weep—I who await you every morning. I will say
nothing to you, however; I will not beg you. If the health of my
grandfather seems to you so feeble as to demand your presence, I
know no prayer would take you away from your duty. Nor would I make
the prayer, my angel mother!
“But exaggerate nothing, I pray you, and think your little Marie can
not pass by the blue chamber without feeling a swelling of the
heart. Apart from this grief which you cause her, she continues to
be as happy as even you could wish.
“Her charming Prince is ever charming and ever her Prince! He takes
her to see the monuments, the museums, the theatres, like the poor
little provincial that she is. Is it not touching on the part of so
great a personage?
“He is amused at my ecstasies—for I have ecstasies. Do not breathe
it to my Uncle Des Rameures, but Paris is superb! The days here
count double our own for thought and life.
“My husband took me to Versailles yesterday. I suspect that this,
in the eyes of the people here, is rather a ridiculous episode; for
I notice the Count did not boast of it. Versailles corresponds
entirely with the impressions you had given me of it; for there is
not the slightest change since you visited it with my grandfather.
“It is grand, solemn, and cold. There is, though, a new and very
curious museum in the upper story of the palace, consisting chiefly
of original portraits of the famous men of history. Nothing pleases
me more than to see these heroes of my memory passing before me in
grand procession—from Charles the Bold to George Washington. Those
faces my imagination has so often tried to evoke, that it seems to
me we are in the Elysian Fields, and hold converse with the dead:
“You must know, my mother, I was familiar with many things that
surprised M. de Camors very much. He was greatly struck by my
knowledge of science and my genius. I did no more, as you may
imagine, than respond to his questions; but it seemed to astonish
him that I could respond at all.
“Why should he ask me these things? If he did not know how to
distinguish the different Princesses of Conti, the answer is simple.
“But I knew, because my mother taught me. That is simple enough
too.
“We dined afterward, at my suggestion, at a restaurant. Oh, my
mother! this was the happiest moment of my life! To dine at a
restaurant with my husband was the most delightful of all
dissipations!
“I have said he seemed astonished at my learning. I ought to add in
general, he seemed astonished whenever I opened my lips. Did he
imagine me a mute? I speak little, I acknowledge, however, for he
inspires me with a ceaseless fear: I am afraid of displeasing him,
of appearing silly before him, or pretentious, or pedantic. The day
when I shall be at ease with him, and when I can show him my good
sense and gratitude—if that day ever comes—I shall be relieved of
a great weight on my mind, for truly I sometimes fear he looks on me
as a child.
“The other day I stopped before a toy-shop on the Boulevard. What a
blunder! And as he saw my eye fixed on a magnificent squadron of
dolls—
“‘Do you wish one, Miss Mary?’ he said.
“Was not this horrible, my mother—from him who knows everything
except the Princesses of Conti? He explained everything to me; but
briefly in a word, as if to a person he despaired of ever making
understand him. And I understand so well all the time, my poor
little mother!
“But so much the better, say I; for if he loves me while thinking me
silly, what will it be later!
“With fond love, your
“MARIE.”
.............................
“December.
“All Paris has returned once more, my dear mother, and for fifteen
days I have been occupied with visits. The men here do not usually
visit; but my husband is obliged to present me for the first time to
the persons I ought to know. He accompanies me there, which is much
more agreeable to me than to him, I believe.
“He is more serious than usual. Is not this the only form in which
amiable men show their bad humor? The people we visit look on me
with a certain interest. The woman whom this great lord has honored
with his choice is evidently an object of great curiosity. This
flatters and intimidates me; I blush and feel constrained; I appear
awkward. When they find me awkward and insignificant, they stare.
They believe he married me for my fortune: then I wish to cry. We
reenter the carriage, he smiles upon me, and I am in heaven! Such
are our visits.
“You must know, my mother, that to me Madame Campvallon is divine.
She often takes me to her box at the Italiens, as mine will not be
vacant until January. Yesterday she gave a little fete for me in
her beautiful salon: the General opened the ball with me.
“Oh! my mother, what a wonderfully clever man the General is! And I
admire him because he admires you!
“The Marquise presented to me all the best dancers. They were young
gentlemen, with their necks so uncovered it almost gave me a chill.
I never before had seen men bare-necked and the fashion is not
becoming. It was very evident, however, that they considered
themselves indispensable and charming. Their deportment was
insolent and self-sufficient; their eyes were disdainful and
all-conquering.
“Their mouths ever open to breathe freer, their coat-tails flapping
like wings, they take one by the waist—as one takes his own
property. Informing you by a look that they are about to do you the
honor of removing you, they whirl you away; then, panting for
breath, inform you by another look that they will do themselves the
pleasure of stopping—and they stop. Then they rest a moment,
panting, laughing, showing their teeth; another look—and they
repeat the same performance. They are wonderful!
“Louis waltzed with me and seemed satisfied. I saw him for the
first time waltz with the Marquise. Oh, my mother, it was the dance
of the stars!
“One thing which struck me this evening, as always, was the manifest
idolatry with which the women regard my husband. This, my tender
mother, terrifies me. Why—I ask myself—why did he choose me?
How can I please him? How can I succeed?
“Behold the result of all my meditations! A folly perhaps, but of
which the effect is to reassure me:
“Portrait of the Comtesse de Camors, drawn by herself.
“The Comtesse de Camors, formerly Marie de Tecle, is a personage
who, having reached her twentieth year, looks older. She is not
beautiful, as her husband is the first person to confess. He says
she is pretty; but she doubts even this. Let us see. She has very
long limbs, a fault which she shares with Diana, the Huntress, and
which probably gives to the gait of the Countess a lightness it
might not otherwise possess. Her body is naturally short, and on
horseback appears to best advantage. She is plump without being
gross.
“Her features are irregular; the mouth being too large and the lips
too thick, with—alas! the shade of a moustache; white teeth, a
little too small; a commonplace nose, a slightly pug; and her
mother’s eyes—her best feature. She has the eyebrows of her Uncle
Des Rameures, which gives an air of severity to the face and
neutralizes the good-natured expression-a reflex from the softness
of her heart.
“She has the dark complexion of her mother, which is more becoming
to her mother than to her. Add to all this, blue-black hair in
great silky masses. On the whole, one knows not what to pronounce
her.
“There, my mother, is my portrait! Intended to reassure me, it has
hardly done so; for it seems to me to be that of an ugly little
woman!
“I wish to be the most lively of women; I wish to be one of the most
distinguished. I wish to be one of the most captivating! But, oh,
my mother! if I please him I am still more enchanted! On the
whole, thank God! he finds me perhaps much better than I am: for
men have not the same taste in these matters that we have.
“But what I really can not comprehend, is why he has so little
admiration for the Marquise de Campvallon. His manner is very cold
to her. Were I a man, I should be wildly in love with that superb
woman! Good-night, most beloved of mothers!”
..........................
“January.
“You complain of me, my cherished one! The tone of my letters
wounds you! You can not comprehend how this matter of my personal
appearance haunts me. I scrutinize it; I compare it with that of
others. There is something of levity in that which hurts you? You
ask how can I think a man attaches himself to these things, while
the merits of mind and soul go for nothing?
“But, my dearest mother, how will these merits of mind and of soul
—supposing your daughter to possess them—serve her, unless she
possesses the courage or has the opportunity to display them? And
when I summon up the courage, it seems to me the occasion never
comes.
“For I must confess to you that this delicious Paris is not perfect;
and I discover, little by little, the spots upon the sun.
“Paris is the most charming place! The only pity is that it has
inhabitants! Not but that they are agreeable, for they are only too
much so; only they are also very careless, and appear to my view to
live and die without reflecting much on what they are doing. It is
not their fault; they have no time.
“Without leaving Paris, they are incessant travellers, eternally
distracted by motion and novelty. Other travellers, when they have
visited some distant corner—forgetting for a while their families,
their duties, and their homes—return and settle down again. But
these Parisians never do. Their life is an endless voyage; they
have no home. That which elsewhere is the great aim of life is
secondary here. One has here, as elsewhere, an establishment—a
house, a private chamber. One must have. Here one is wife or
mother, husband or father, just as elsewhere; but, my poor mother,
they are these things just as little as possible. The whole
interest centres not in the homes; but in the streets, the museums,
the salons, the theatres, and the clubs. It radiates to the immense
outside life, which in all its forms night and day agitates Paris,
attracts, excites, and enervates you; steals your time, your mind,
your soul—and devours them all!
“Paris is the most delicious of places to visit—the worst of places
to live in.
“Understand well, my mother, that in seeking by what qualifies I can
best attract my husband—who is the best of men, doubtless, but of
Parisian men nevertheless—I have continually reflected on merits
which may be seen at once, which do not require time to be
appreciated.
“Finally, I do not deny that all this is miserable cynicism,
unworthy of you and of myself; for you know I am not at heart a bad
little woman. Certainly, if I could keep Monsieur de Camors for a
year or two at an old chateau in the midst of a solitary wood, I
should like it much. I could then see him more frequently, I could
then become familiar with his august person, and could develop my
little talents under his charmed eyes. But then this might weary
him and would be too easy. Life and happiness, I know, are not so
easily managed. All is difficulty, peril, and conflict.
“What joy, then, to conquer! And I swear to you, my mother, that I
will conquer! I will force him to know me as you know me; to love
me, not as he now does, but as you do, for many good reasons of
which he does not yet dream.
“Not that he believes me absolutely a fool; I think he has abandoned
that idea for at least two days past.
“How he came thus to think, my next letter shall explain.
“Your own
“MARIE.”
CHAPTER XVI. THE REPTILE STRIVES TO CLIMB
“You will remember, my mother, that the Count has as secretary a man
named Vautrot. The name is a bad one; but the man himself is a good
enough creature, except that I somewhat dislike his catlike style of
looking at one.
“Well, Monsieur de Vautrot lives in the house with us. He comes
early in the morning, breakfasts at some neighboring cafe, passes
the day in the Count’s study, and often remains to dine with us, if
he has work to finish in the evening.
“He is an educated man, and knows a little of everything; and he has
undertaken many occupations before he accepted the subordinate
though lucrative post he now occupies with my husband. He loves
literature; but not that of his time and of his country, perhaps
because he himself has failed in this. He prefers foreign writers
and poets, whom he quotes with some taste, though with too much
declamation.
“Most probably his early education was defective; for on all
occasions, when speaking with us, he says, ‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte!’
or ‘Certainly, Madame la Comtesse!’ as if he were a servant. Yet
withal, he has a peculiar pride, or perhaps I should say
insufferable vanity. But his great fault, in my eyes, is the
scoffing tone he adopts, when the subject is religion or morals.
“Two days ago, while we were dining, Vautrot allowed himself to
indulge in a rather violent tirade of this description. It was
certainly contrary to all good taste.
“‘My dear Vautrot,’ my husband said quietly to him, ‘to me these
pleasantries of yours are indifferent; but pray remember, that while
you are a strong-minded man, my wife is a weak-minded woman; and
strength, you know, should respect weakness.’
“Monsieur Vautrot first grew white, then red, and finally green. He
rose, bowed awkwardly, and immediately afterward left the table.
Since that time I have remarked his manner has been more reserved.
The moment I was alone with Louis, I said:
“‘You may think me indiscreet, but pray let me ask you a question.
How can you confide all your affairs and all your secrets to a man
who professes to have no principles?’
“Monsieur de Camors laughed.
“‘Oh, he talks thus out of bravado,’ he answered. ‘He thinks to
make himself more interesting in your eyes by these Mephistophelian
airs. At bottom he is a good fellow.’
“‘But,’ I answered, ‘he has faith in nothing.’
“‘Not in much, I believe. Yet he has never deceived me. He is an
honorable man.’
“I opened my eyes wide at this.
“‘Well,’ he said, with an amused look, ‘what is the matter, Miss
Mary?’
“‘What is this honor you speak of?’
“‘Let me ask your definition of it, Miss Mary,’ he replied.
“‘Mon Dieu!’ I cried, blushing deeply, ‘I know but little of it, but
it seems to me that honor separated from morality is no great thing;
and morality without religion is nothing. They all constitute a
chain. Honor hangs to the last link, like a flower; but if the
chain be broken, honor falls with the rest.’ He looked at me with
strange eyes, as if he were not only confounded but disquieted by my
philosophy. Then he gave a deep sigh, and rising said:
“‘Very neat, that definition-very neat.’
“That night, at the opera, he plied me with bonbons and orange ices.
Madame de Campvallon accompanied us; and at parting, I begged her to
call for me next day on her way to the Bois, for she is my idol.
She is so lovely and so distinguished—and she I knows it well. I
love to be with her. On our return home, Louis remained silent,
contrary to his custom. Suddenly he said, brusquely:
“‘Marie, do you go with the Marquise to the Bois to-morrow?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘But you see her often, it seems to me-morning and evening. You
are always with her.’
“‘Heavens! I do it to be agreeable to you. Is not Madame de
Campvallon a good associate?’
“‘Excellent; only in general I do not admire female friendships.
But I did wrong to speak to you on this subject. You have wit and
discretion enough to preserve the proper limits.’
“This, my mother, was what he said to me. I embrace you.
“Ever your
“MARIE.”
............................
“March.
“I hope, my own mother, not to bore you this year with a catalogue
of fetes and festivals, lamps and girandoles; for Lent is coming.
To-day is Ash-Wednesday. Well, we dance to-morrow evening at Madame
d’Oilly’s. I had hoped not to go, but I saw Louis was disappointed,
and I feared to offend Madame d’Oilly, who has acted a mother’s part
to my husband. Lent here is only an empty name. I sigh to myself:
‘Will they never stop! Great heavens! will they never cease
amusing themselves?’
“I must confess to you, my darling mother, I amuse myself too much
to be happy. I depended on Lent for some time to myself, and see
how they efface the calendar!
“This dear Lent! What a sweet, honest, pious invention it is,
notwithstanding. How sensible is our religion! How well it
understands human weakness and folly! How far-seeing in its
regulations! How indulgent also! for to limit pleasure is to
pardon it.
“I also love pleasure—the beautiful toilets that make us resemble
flowers, the lighted salons, the music, the gay voices and the
dance. Yes, I love all these things; I experience their charming
confusion; I palpitate, I inhale their intoxication. But always—
always! at Paris in the winter—at the springs in summer—ever this
crowd, ever this whirl, this intoxication of pleasure! All become
like savages, like negroes, and—dare I say so?—bestial! Alas for
Lent!
“HE foresaw it. HE told us, as the priest told me this morning:
‘Remember you have a soul: Remember you have duties!—a husband
—a child—a mother—a God!’
“Then, my mother, we should retire within ourselves; should pass the
time in grave thought between the church and our homes; should
converse on solemn and serious subjects; and should dwell in the
moral world to gain a foothold in heaven! This season is intended
as a wholesome interval to prevent our running frivolity into
dissipation, and pleasure into convulsion; to prevent our winter’s
mask from becoming our permanent visage. This is entirely the
opinion of Madame Jaubert.
“Who is this Madame Jaubert? you will ask. She is a little
Parisian angel whom my mother would dearly love! I met her almost
everywhere—but chiefly at St. Phillipe de Roule—for several months
without being aware that she is our neighbor, that her hotel adjoins
ours. Such is Paris!
“She is a graceful person, with a soft and tender, but decided air.
We sat near each other at church; we gave each other side-glances;
we pushed our chairs to let each other pass; and in our softest
voices would say, ‘Excuse me, Madame!’ ‘Oh, Madame!’ My glove would
fall, she would pick it up; I would offer her the holy water, and
receive a sweet smile, with ‘Dear Madame!’ Once at a concert at the
Tuileries we observed each other at a distance, and smiled
recognition; when any part of the music pleased us particularly we
glanced smilingly at each other. Judge of my surprise next morning
when I saw my affinity enter the little Italian house next ours—and
enter it, too, as if it were her home. On inquiry I found she was
Madame Jaubert, the wife of a tall, fair young man who is a civil
engineer.
“I was seized with a desire to call upon my neighbor. I spoke of it
to Louis, blushing slightly, for I remembered he did not approve of
intimacies between women. But above all, he loves me!
“Notwithstanding he slightly shrugged his shoulders—‘Permit me at
least, Miss Mary, to make some inquiries about these people.’
“A few days afterward he had made them, for he said: ‘Miss Mary, you
may visit Madame Jaubert; she is a perfectly proper person.’
“I first flew to my husband’s neck, and thence went to call upon
Madame Jaubert.
“‘It is I, Madame!’
“‘Oh, Madame, permit me!’
“And we embraced each other and were good friends immediately.
“Her husband is a civil engineer, as I have said. He was once
occupied with great inventions and with great industrial works; but
that was only for a short time. Having inherited a large estate, he
abandoned his studies and did nothing—at least nothing but
mischief. When he married to increase his fortune, his pretty
little wife had a sad surprise. He was never seen at home; always
at the club—always behind the scenes at the opera—always going to
the devil! He gambled, he had mistresses and shameful affairs. But
worse than all, he drank—he came to his wife drunk. One incident,
which my pen almost refuses to write, will give you an idea. Think
of it! He conceived the idea of sleeping in his boots! There, my
mother, is the pretty fellow my sweet little friend transformed,
little by little, into a decent man, a man of merit, and an
excellent husband!
“And she did it all by gentleness, firmness, and sagacity. Now is
not this encouraging?—for, God knows, my task is less difficult.
“Their household charms me; for it proves that one may build for
one’s self, even in the midst of this Paris, a little nest such as
one dreams of. These dear neighbors are inhabitants of Paris—not
its prey. They have their fireside; they own it, and it belongs to
them. Paris is at their door—so much the better. They have ever a
relish for refined amusement; ‘they drink at the fountain,’ but do
not drown themselves in it. Their habits are the same, passing
their evenings in conversation, reading, or music; stirring the fire
and listening to the wind and rain without, as if they were in a
forest.
“Life slips gently through their fingers, thread by thread, as in
our dear old country evenings.
“My mother, they are happy!
“Here, then, is my dream—here is my plan.
“My husband has no vices, as Monsieur Jaubert had. He has only the
habits of all the brilliant men of his Paris-world. It is
necessary, my own mother, gradually to reform him; to suggest
insensibly to him the new idea that one may pass one evening at home
in company with a beloved and loving wife, without dying suddenly of
consumption.
“The rest will follow.
“What is this rest? It is the taste for a quiet life, for the
serious sweetness of the domestic hearth—the family taste—the idea
of seclusion—the recovered soul!
“Is it not so, my good angel? Then trust me. I am more than ever
full of ardor, courage, and confidence. For he loves me with all
his heart, with more levity, perhaps, than I deserve; but still—he
loves me!
“He loves me; he spoils me; he heaps presents upon me. There is no
pleasure he does not offer me, except, be it understood, the
pleasure of passing one evening at home together.
“But he loves me! That is the great point—he loves me!
“Now, dearest mother, let me whisper one final word-a word that
makes me laugh and cry at the same time. It seems to me that for
some time past I have had two hearts—a large one of my own, and—
another—smaller!
“Oh, my mother! I see you in tears. But it is a great mystery
this. It is a dream of heaven; but perhaps only a dream, which I
have not yet told even to my husband—only to my adorable mother!
Do not weep, for it is not yet quite certain.
“Your naughty
Miss MARY.”
In reply to this letter Madame de Camors received one three mornings after, announcing to her the death of her grandfather. The Comte de Tecle had died of apoplexy, of which his state of health had long given warning. Madame de Tecle foresaw that the first impulse of her daughter would be to join her to share her sad bereavement. She advised her strongly against undertaking the fatigue of the journey, and promised to visit her in Paris, as soon as she conveniently could. The mourning in the family heightened in the heart of the Countess the uneasy feeling and vague sadness her last letters had indicated.
She was much less happy than she told her mother; for the first enthusiasm and first illusions of marriage could not long deceive a spirit so quick and acute as hers.
A young girl who marries is easily deceived by the show of an affection of which she is the object. It is rare that she does not adore her husband and believe she is adored by him, simply because he has married her.
The young heart opens spontaneously and diffuses its delicate perfume of love and its songs of tenderness; and enveloped in this heavenly cloud all seems love around it. But, little by little, it frees itself; and, too often, recognizes that this delicious harmony and intoxicating atmosphere which charmed it came only from itself.
Thus was it with the Countess; so far as the pen can render the shadows of a feminine soul. Such were the impressions which, day by day, penetrated the very soul of our poor “Miss Mary.”
It was nothing more than this; but this was everything to her!
The idea of being betrayed by her husband—and that, too, with cruel premeditation—never had arisen to torture her soul. But, beyond those delicate attentions to her which she never exaggerated in her letters to her mother, she felt herself disdained and slighted. Marriage had not changed Camors’s habits: he dined at home, instead of at his club, that was all. She believed herself loved, however, but with a lightness that was almost offensive. Yet, though she was sometimes sad and nearly in tears, she did not despair; this valiant little heart attached itself with intrepid confidence to all the happy chances the future might have in store for it.
M. de Camors continued very indifferent—as one may readily comprehend—to the agitation which tormented this young heart, but which never occurred to him for a moment. For himself, strange as it may appear, he was happy enough. This marriage had been a painful step to take; but, once confirmed in his sin, he became reconciled to it. But his conscience, seared as it was, had some living fibres in it; and he would not have failed in the duty he thought he owed to his wife. These sentiments were composed of a sort of indifference, blended with pity. He was vaguely sorry for this child, whose existence was absorbed and destroyed between those of two beings of nature superior to her own; and he hoped she would always remain ignorant of the fate to which she was condemned. He resolved never to neglect anything that might extenuate its rigor; but he belonged, nevertheless, more than ever solely to the passion which was the supreme crime of his life. For his intrigue with Madame de Campvallon, continually excited by mystery and danger—and conducted with profound address by a woman whose cunning was equal to her beauty—continued as strong, after years of enjoyment, as at first.
The gracious courtesy of M. de Camors, on which he piqued himself, as regarded his wife, had its limits; as the young Countess perceived whenever she attempted to abuse it. Thus, on several occasions she declined receiving guests on the ground of indisposition, hoping her husband would not abandon her to her solitude. She was in error.
The Count gave her in reality, under these circumstances, a tete-a-tete of a few minutes after dinner; but near nine o’clock he would leave her with perfect tranquillity. Perhaps an hour later she would receive a little packet of bonbons, or a pretty basket of choice fruit, that would permit her to pass the evening as she might. These little gifts she sometimes divided with her neighbor, Madame Jaubert; sometimes with M. de Vautrot, secretary to her husband.
This M. de Vautrot, for whom she had at first conceived an aversion, was gradually getting into her good graces. In the absence of her husband she always found him at hand; and referred to him for many little details, such as addresses, invitations, the selection of books and the purchase of furniture. From this came a certain familiarity; she began to call him Vautrot, or “My good Vautrot,” while he zealously performed all her little commissions. He manifested for her a great deal of respectful attention, and even refrained from indulging in the sceptical sneers which he knew displeased her. Happy to witness this reform and to testify her gratitude, she invited him to remain on two or three evenings when he came to take his leave, and talked with him of books and the theatres.
When her mourning kept her at home, M. de Camors passed the two first evenings with her until ten o’clock. But this effort fatigued him, and the poor young woman, who had already erected an edifice for the future on this frail basis, had the mortification of observing that on the third evening he had resumed his bachelor habits.
This was a great blow to her, and her sadness became greater than it had been up to that time; so much so in fact, that solitude was almost unbearable. She had hardly been long enough in Paris to form intimacies. Madame Jaubert came to her friend as often as she could; but in the intervals the Countess adopted the habit of retaining Vautrot, or even of sending for him. Camors himself, three fourths of the time, would bring him in before going out in the evening.
“I bring you Vautrot, my dear,” he would say, “and Shakespeare. You can read him together.”
Vautrot read well; and though his heavy declamatory style frequently annoyed the Countess, she thus managed to kill many a long evening, while waiting the expected visit of Madame de Tecle. But Vautrot, whenever he looked at her, wore such a sympathetic air and seemed so mortified when she did not invite him to stay, that, even when wearied of him, she frequently did so.
About the end of the month of April, M. Vautrot was alone with the Countess de Camors about ten o’clock in the evening. They were reading Goethe’s Faust, which she had never before heard. This reading seemed to interest the young woman more than usual, and with her eyes fixed on the reader, she listened to it with rapt attention. She was not alone fascinated by the work, but—as is frequently the case-she traced her own thoughts and her own history in the fiction of the poet.
We all know with what strange clairvoyance a mind possessed with a fixed idea discovers resemblances and allusions in accidental description. Madame de Camors perceived without doubt some remote connection between her husband and Faust—between herself and Marguerite; for she could not help showing that she was strangely agitated. She could not restrain the violence of her emotion, when Marguerite in prison cries out, in her agony and madness: