Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  In the name of this passing fancy of yours, for the sake of your

  career and my own peace of mind, I bid you stay in your own

  country; you must not spoil a fair and honorable life for an

  illusion which, by its very nature, cannot last. At a later day,

  when you have accomplished your real destiny, in the fully

  developed manhood that awaits you, you will appreciate this answer

  of mine, though to-day it may be that you blame its hardness. You

  will turn with pleasure to an old woman whose friendship will

  certainly be sweet and precious to you then; a friendship untried

  by the extremes of passion and the disenchanting processes of

  life; a friendship which noble thoughts and thoughts of religion

  will keep pure and sacred. Farewell; do my bidding with the

  thought that your success will bring a gleam of pleasure into my

  solitude, and only think of me as we think of absent friends.”

  Gaston de Nueil read the letter, and wrote the following lines: —

  “MADAME, — If I could cease to love you, to take the chances of

  becoming an ordinary man which you hold out to me, you must admit

  that I should thoroughly deserve my fate. No, I shall not do as

  you bid me; the oath of fidelity which I swear to you shall only

  be absolved by death. Ah! take my life, unless indeed you do not

  fear to carry a remorse all through your own — — ”

  When the man returned from his errand, M. de Nueil asked him with whom he left the note?

  “I gave it to Mme. la Vicomtesse herself, sir; she was in her carriage and just about to start.”

  “For the town?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. Mme. la Vicomtesse had post-horses.”

  “Ah! then she is going away,” said the Baron.

  “Yes, sir,” the man answered.

  Gaston de Nueil at once prepared to follow Mme. de Beauseant. She led the way as far as Geneva, without a suspicion that he followed. And he? Amid the many thoughts that assailed him during that journey, one all-absorbing problem filled his mind — ”Why did she go away?” Theories grew thickly on such ground for supposition, and naturally he inclined to the one that flattered his hopes — ”If the Vicomtesse cares for me, a clever woman would, of course, choose Switzerland, where nobody knows either of us, in preference to France, where she would find censorious critics.”

  An impassioned lover of a certain stamp would not feel attracted to a woman clever enough to choose her own ground; such women are too clever. However, there is nothing to prove that there was any truth in Gaston’s supposition.

  The Vicomtesse took a small house by the side of the lake. As soon as she was installed in it, Gaston came one summer evening in the twilight. Jacques, that flunkey in grain, showed no sign of surprise, and announced M. le Baron de Nueil like a discreet domestic well acquainted with good society. At the sound of the name, at the sight of its owner, Mme. de Beauseant let her book fall from her hands; her surprise gave him time to come close to her, and to say in tones that sounded like music in her ears:

  “What a joy it was to me to take the horses that brought you on this journey!”

  To have the inmost desires of the heart so fulfilled! Where is the woman who could resist such happiness as this? An Italian woman, one of those divine creatures who, psychologically, are as far removed from the Parisian as if they lived at the Antipodes, a being who would be regarded as profoundly immoral on this side of the Alps, an Italian (to resume) made the following comment on some French novels which she had been reading. “I cannot see,” she remarked, “why these poor lovers take such a time over coming to an arrangement which ought to be the affair of a single morning.” Why should not the novelist take a hint from this worthy lady, and refrain from exhausting the theme and the reader? Some few passages of coquetry it would certainly be pleasant to give in outline; the story of Mme. de Beauseant’s demurs and sweet delayings, that, like the vestal virgins of antiquity, she might fall gracefully, and by lingering over the innocent raptures of first love draw from it its utmost strength and sweetness. M. de Nueil was at an age when a man is the dupe of these caprices, of the fence which women delight to prolong; either to dictate their own terms, or to enjoy the sense of their power yet longer, knowing instinctively as they do that it must soon grow less. But, after all, these little boudoir protocols, less numerous than those of the Congress of London, are too small to be worth mention in the history of this passion.

  For three years Mme. de Beauseant and M. de Nueil lived in the villa on the lake of Geneva. They lived quite alone, received no visitors, caused no talk, rose late, went out together upon the lake, knew, in short, the happiness of which we all of us dream. It was a simple little house, with green shutters, and broad balconies shaded with awnings, a house contrived of set purpose for lovers, with its white couches, soundless carpets, and fresh hangings, everything within it reflecting their joy. Every window looked out on some new view of the lake; in the far distance lay the mountains, fantastic visions of changing color and evanescent cloud; above them spread the sunny sky, before them stretched the broad sheet of water, never the same in its fitful changes. All their surroundings seemed to dream for them, all things smiled upon them.

  Then weighty matters recalled M. de Nueil to France. His father and brother died, and he was obliged to leave Geneva. The lovers bought the house; and if they could have had their way, they would have removed the hills piecemeal, drawn off the lake with a siphon, and taken everything away with them.

  Mme. de Beauseant followed M. de Nueil. She realized her property, and bought a considerable estate near Manerville, adjoining Gaston’s lands, and here they lived together; Gaston very graciously giving up Manerville to his mother for the present in consideration of the bachelor freedom in which she left him.

  Mme. de Beauseant’s estate was close to a little town in one of the most picturesque spots in the valley of the Auge. Here the lovers raised barriers between themselves and social intercourse, barriers which no creature could overleap, and here the happy days of Switzerland were lived over again. For nine whole years they knew happiness which it serves no purpose to describe; happiness which may be divined from the outcome of the story by those whose souls can comprehend poetry and prayer in their infinite manifestations.

  All this time Mme. de Beauseant’s husband, the present Marquis (his father and elder brother having died), enjoyed the soundest health. There is no better aid to life than a certain knowledge that our demise would confer a benefit on some fellow-creature. M. de Beauseant was one of those ironical and wayward beings who, like holders of life-annuities, wake with an additional sense of relish every morning to a consciousness of good health. For the rest, he was a man of the world, somewhat methodical and ceremonious, and a calculator of consequences, who could make a declaration of love as quietly as a lackey announces that “Madame is served.”

  This brief biographical notice of his lordship the Marquis de Beauseant is given to explain the reasons why it was impossible for the Marquise to marry M. de Nueil.

  So, after a nine years’ lease of happiness, the sweetest agreement to which a woman ever put her hand, M. de Nueil and Mme. de Beauseant were still in a position quite as natural and quite as false as at the beginning of their adventure. And yet they had reached a fatal crisis, which may be stated as clearly as any problem in mathematics.

  Mme. la Comtesse de Nueil, Gaston’s mother, a strait-laced and virtuous person, who had made the late Baron happy in strictly legal fashion would never consent to meet Mme. de Beauseant. Mme. de Beauseant quite understood that the worthy dowager must of necessity be her enemy, and that she would try to draw Gaston from his unhallowed and immoral way of life. The Marquise de Beauseant would willingly have sold her property and gone back to Geneva, but she could not bring herself to do it; it would mean that sh
e distrusted M. de Nueil. Moreover, he had taken a great fancy to this very Valleroy estate, where he was making plantations and improvements. She would not deprive him of a piece of pleasurable routine-work, such as women always wish for their husbands, and even for their lovers.

  A Mlle. de la Rodiere, twenty-two years of age, an heiress with a rent-roll of forty thousand livres, had come to live in the neighborhood. Gaston always met her at Manerville whenever he was obliged to go thither. These various personages being to each other as the terms of a proportion sum, the following letter will throw light on the appalling problem which Mme. de Beauseant had been trying for the past month to solve: —

  “My beloved angel, it seems like nonsense, does it not, to write

  to you when there is nothing to keep us apart, when a caress so

  often takes the place of words, and words too are caresses? Ah,

  well, no, love. There are some things that a woman cannot say when

  she is face to face with the man she loves; at the bare thought of

  them her voice fails her, and the blood goes back to her heart;

  she has no strength, no intelligence left. It hurts me to feel

  like this when you are near me, and it happens often. I feel that

  my heart should be wholly sincere for you; that I should disguise

  no thought, however transient, in my heart; and I love the sweet

  carelessness, which suits me so well, too much to endure this

  embarrassment and constraint any longer. So I will tell you about

  my anguish — yes, it is anguish. Listen to me! do not begin with

  the little ‘Tut, tut, tut,’ that you use to silence me, an

  impertinence that I love, because anything from you pleases me.

  Dear soul from heaven, wedded to mine, let me first tell you that

  you have effaced all memory of the pain that once was crushing the

  life out of me. I did not know what love was before I knew you.

  Only the candor of your beautiful young life, only the purity of

  that great soul of yours, could satisfy the requirements of an

  exacting woman’s heart. Dear love, how very often I have thrilled

  with joy to think that in these nine long, swift years, my

  jealousy has not been once awakened. All the flowers of your soul

  have been mine, all your thoughts. There has not been the faintest

  cloud in our heaven; we have not known what sacrifice is; we have

  always acted on the impulses of our hearts. I have known

  happiness, infinite for a woman. Will the tears that drench this

  sheet tell you all my gratitude? I could wish that I had knelt to

  write the words! — Well, out of this felicity has arisen torture

  more terrible than the pain of desertion. Dear, there are very

  deep recesses in a woman’s heart; how deep in my own heart, I did

  not know myself until to-day, as I did not know the whole extent

  of love. The greatest misery which could overwhelm us is a light

  burden compared with the mere thought of harm for him whom we

  love. And how if we cause the harm, is it not enough to make one

  die?... This is the thought that is weighing upon me. But

  it brings in its train another thought that is heavier far, a

  thought that tarnishes the glory of love, and slays it, and turns

  it into a humiliation which sullies life as long as it lasts. You

  are thirty years old; I am forty. What dread this difference in

  age calls up in a woman who loves! It is possible that, first of

  all unconsciously, afterwards in earnest, you have felt the

  sacrifices that you have made by renouncing all in the world for

  me. Perhaps you have thought of your future from the social point

  of view, of the marriage which would, of course, increase your

  fortune, and give you avowed happiness and children who would

  inherit your wealth; perhaps you have thought of reappearing in

  the world, and filling your place there honorably. And then, if

  so, you must have repressed those thoughts, and felt glad to

  sacrifice heiress and fortune and a fair future to me without my

  knowledge. In your young man’s generosity, you must have resolved

  to be faithful to the vows which bind us each to each in the sight

  of God. My past pain has risen up before your mind, and the misery

  from which you rescued me has been my protection. To owe your love

  to your pity! The thought is even more painful to me than the fear

  of spoiling your life for you. The man who can bring himself to

  stab his mistress is very charitable if he gives her her deathblow

  while she is happy and ignorant of evil, while illusions are in

  full blossom.... Yes, death is preferable to the two thoughts

  which have secretly saddened the hours for several days. To-day,

  when you asked ‘What ails you?’ so tenderly, the sound of your

  voice made me shiver. I thought that, after your wont, you were

  reading my very soul, and I waited for your confidence to come,

  thinking that my presentiments had come true, and that I had

  guessed all that was going on in your mind. Then I began to think

  over certain little things that you always do for me, and I

  thought I could see in you the sort of affection by which a man

  betrays a consciousness that his loyalty is becoming a burden. And

  in that moment I paid very dear for my happiness. I felt that

  Nature always demands the price for the treasure called love.

  Briefly, has not fate separated us? Can you have said, ‘Sooner or

  later I must leave poor Claire; why not separate in time?’ I read

  that thought in the depths of your eyes, and went away to cry by

  myself. Hiding my tears from you! the first tears that I have shed

  for sorrow for these ten years; I am too proud to let you see

  them, but I did not reproach you in the least.

  “Yes, you are right. I ought not to be so selfish as to bind your

  long and brilliant career to my so-soon out-worn life.... And

  yet — how if I have been mistaken? How if I have taken your love

  melancholy for a deliberation? Oh, my love, do not leave me in

  suspense; punish this jealous wife of yours, but give her back the

  sense of her love and yours; the whole woman lies in that — that

  consciousness sanctifies everything.

  “Since your mother came, since you paid a visit to Mlle. de

  Rodiere, I have been gnawed by doubts dishonoring to us both. Make

  me suffer for this, but do not deceive me; I want to know

  everything that your mother said and that you think! If you have

  hesitated between some alternative and me, I give you back your

  liberty.... I will not let you know what happens to me; I will

  not shed tears for you to see; only — I will not see you again....

  Ah! I cannot go on, my heart is breaking..................

  I have been sitting benumbed and stupid for some moments. Dear love,

  I do not find that any feeling of pride rises against you; you are so

  kind-hearted, so open; you would find it impossible to hurt me or

  to deceive me; and you will tell me the truth, however cruel it may

  be. Do you wish me to encourage your confession? Well, then, heart

  of mine, I shall find comfort in a woman’s thought. Has not the

  youth of your being been mine, your sensitive, wholly gracious,

  beautiful, and delicate youth? No woman shall find henceforth the

  Gas
ton whom I have known, nor the delicious happiness that he has

  given me.... No; you will never love again as you have loved,

  as you love me now; no, I shall never have a rival, it is

  impossible. There will be no bitterness in my memories of our

  love, and I shall think of nothing else. It is out of your power

  to enchant any woman henceforth by the childish provocations, the

  charming ways of a young heart, the soul’s winning charm, the

  body’s grace, the swift communion of rapture, the whole divine

  cortege of young love, in fine.

  “Oh, you are a man now, you will obey your destiny, weighing and

  considering all things. You will have cares, and anxieties, and

  ambitions, and concerns that will rob her of the unchanging

  smile that made your lips fair for me. The tones that were always

  so sweet for me will be troubled at times; and your eyes that

  lighted up with radiance from heaven at the sight of me, will

  often be lustreless for her. And besides, as it is impossible to

  love you as I love you, you will never care for that woman as you

  have cared for me. She will never keep a constant watch over

  herself as I have done; she will never study your happiness at

  every moment with an intuition which has never failed me. Ah, yes,

  the man, the heart and soul, which I shall have known will exist

  no longer. I shall bury him deep in my memory, that I may have the

  joy of him still; I shall live happy in that fair past life of

  ours, a life hidden from all but our inmost selves.

  “Dear treasure of mine, if all the while no least thought of

  liberty has risen in your mind, if my love is no burden on you, if

  my fears are chimerical, if I am still your Eve — the one woman in

  the world for you — come to me as soon as you have read this

  letter, come quickly! Ah, in one moment I will love you more than

  I have ever loved you, I think, in these nine years. After

  enduring the needless torture of these doubts of which I am

  accusing myself, every added day of love, yes, every single day,