Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 744
“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. Gould 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.
“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. Gould 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.
