Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  The baroness ran up to Calyste’s room. He was absent; she saw a letter, not sealed, but addressed to Madame de Rochefide, lying on the table. An invincible curiosity compelled the anxious mother to read it. This act of indiscretion was cruelly punished. The letter revealed to her the depths of the gulf into which his passion was hurling Calyste.

  Calyste to Madame la Marquise de Rochefide.

  What care I for the race of the du Guenics in these days, Beatrix?

  what is their name to me? My name is Beatrix; the happiness of

  Beatrix is my happiness; her life is my life, and all my fortune

  is in her heart. Our estates have been mortgaged these two hundred

  years, and so they may remain for two hundred more; our farmers

  have charge of them; no one can take them from us. To see you, to

  love you, — that is my property, my object, my religion!

  You talk to me of marrying! the very thought convulses my heart.

  Is there another Beatrix? I will marry no one but you; I will wait

  for you twenty years, if need be. I am young, and you will be ever

  beautiful. My mother is a saint. I do not blame her, but she has

  never loved. I know now what she has lost, and what sacrifices she

  has made. You have taught me, Beatrix, to love her better; she is

  in my heart with you, and no other can ever be there; she is your

  only rival, — is not this to say that you reign in that heart

  supreme? Therefore your arguments have no force upon my mind.

  As for Camille, you need only say the word, or give me a mere

  sign, and I will ask her to tell you herself that I do not love

  her. She is the mother of my intellect; nothing more, nothing

  less. From the moment that I first saw you she became to me a

  sister, a friend, a comrade, what you will of that kind; but we

  have no rights other than those of friendship upon each other. I

  took her for a woman until I saw you. You have proved to me that

  Camille is a man; she swims, hunts, smokes, drinks, rides on

  horseback, writes and analyzes hearts and books; she has no

  weaknesses; she marches on in all her strength; her motions even

  have no resemblance to your graceful movements, to your step, airy

  as the flight of a bird. Neither has she your voice of love, your

  tender eyes, your gracious manner; she is Camille Maupin; there is

  nothing of the woman about her, whereas in you are all the things

  of womanhood that I love. It has seemed to me, from the first

  moment when I saw you, that you were mine.

  You will laugh at that fancy, but it has grown and is growing. It

  seems to me unnatural, anomalous that we should be apart. You are

  my soul, my life; I cannot live where you are not!

  Let me love you! Let us fly! let us go into some country where you

  know no one, where only God and I can reach your heart! My mother,

  who loves you, might some day follow us. Ireland is full of

  castles; my mother’s family will lend us one. Ah, Beatrix, let us

  go! A boat, a few sailors, and we are there, before any one can

  know we have fled this world you fear so much.

  You have never been loved. I feel it as I re-read your letter, in

  which I fancy I can see that if the reasons you bring forward did

  not exist, you would let yourself be loved by me. Beatrix, a

  sacred love wipes out the past. Yes, I love you so truly that I

  could wish you doubly shamed if so my love might prove itself by

  holding you a saint!

  You call my love an insult. Oh, Beatrix, you do not think it so!

  The love of noble youth — and you have called me that — would honor

  a queen. Therefore, to-morrow let us walk as lovers, hand in hand,

  among the rocks and beside the sea; your step upon the sands of my

  old Brittany will bless them anew to me! Give me this day of

  happiness; and that passing alms, unremembered, alas! by you, will

  be eternal riches to your

  Calyste.

  The baroness let fall the letter, without reading all of it. She knelt upon a chair, and made a mental prayer to God to save her Calyste’s reason, to put his madness, his error far away from him; to lead him from the path in which she now beheld him.

  “What are you doing, mother?” said Calyste, entering the room.

  “I am praying to God for you,” she answered, simply, turning her tearful eyes upon him. “I have committed the sin of reading that letter. My Calyste is mad!”

  “A sweet madness!” said the young man, kissing her.

  “I wish I could see that woman,” she sighed.

  “Mamma,” said Calyste, “we shall take a boat to-morrow and cross to Croisic. If you are on the jetty you can see her.”

  So saying, he sealed his letter and departed for Les Touches.

  That which, above all, terrified the baroness was to see a sentiment attaining, by the force of its own instinct, to the clear-sightedness of practised experience. Calyste’s letter to Beatrix was such as the Chevalier du Halga, with his knowledge of the world, might have dictated.

  XIII. DUEL BETWEEN WOMEN

  Perhaps one of the greatest enjoyments that small minds or inferior minds can obtain is that of deceiving a great soul, and laying snares for it. Beatrix knew herself far beneath Camille Maupin. This inferiority lay not only in the collection of mental and moral qualities which we call talent, but in the things of the heart called passion.

  At the moment when Calyste was hurrying to Les Touches with the impetuosity of a first love borne on the wings of hope, the marquise was feeling a keen delight in knowing herself the object of the first love of so charming a young man. She did not go so far as to wish herself a sharer in the sentiment, but she thought it heroism on her part to repress the capriccio, as the Italians say. She thought she was equalling Camille’s devotion, and told herself, moreover, that she was sacrificing herself to her friend. The vanities peculiar to Frenchwomen, which constitute the celebrated coquetry of which she was so signal an instance, were flattered and deeply satisfied by Calyste’s love. Assailed by such powerful seduction, she was resisting it, and her virtues sang in her soul a concert of praise and self-approval.

  The two women were half-sitting, half lying, in apparent indolence on the divan of the little salon, so filled with harmony and the fragrance of flowers. The windows were open, for the north wind had ceased to blow. A soothing southerly breeze was ruffling the surface of the salt lake before them, and the sun was glittering on the sands of the shore. Their souls were as deeply agitated as the nature before them was tranquil, and the heat within was not less ardent.

  Bruised by the working of the machinery which she herself had set in motion, Camille was compelled to keep watch for her safety, fearing the amazing cleverness of the friendly enemy, or, rather, the inimical friend she had allowed within her borders. To guard her own secrets and maintain herself aloof, she had taken of late to contemplations of nature; she cheated the aching of her own heart by seeking a meaning in the world around her, finding God in that desert of heaven and earth. When an unbeliever once perceives the presence of God, he flings himself unreservedly into Catholicism, which, viewed as a system, is complete.

  That morning Camille’s brow had worn the halo of thoughts born of these researches during a night-time of painful struggle. Calyste was ever before her like a celestial image. The beautiful youth, to whom she had secretly devoted herself, had become to her a guardian angel. Was it not he who led her into those loftier regions, where suffering ceased beneath the weight of incommensurable infinity? and now a certain air of triumph about Beatrix disturbed her. No woman gains an advantage over another without allowing i
t to be felt, however much she may deny having taken it. Nothing was ever more strange in its course than the dumb, moral struggle which was going on between these two women, each hiding from the other a secret, — each believing herself generous through hidden sacrifices.

  Calyste arrived, holding the letter between his hand and his glove, ready to slip it at some convenient moment into the hand of Beatrix. Camille, whom the subtle change in the manner of her friend had not escaped, seemed not to watch her, but did watch her in a mirror at the moment when Calyste was just entering the room. That is always a crucial moment for women. The cleverest as well as the silliest of them, the frankest as the shrewdest, are seldom able to keep their secret; it bursts from them, at any rate, to the eyes of another woman. Too much reserve or too little; a free and luminous look; the mysterious lowering of eyelids, — all betray, at that sudden moment, the sentiment which is the most difficult of all to hide; for real indifference has something so radically cold about it that it can never be simulated. Women have a genius for shades, — shades of detail, shades of character; they know them all. There are times when their eyes take in a rival from head to foot; they can guess the slightest movement of a foot beneath a gown, the almost imperceptible motion of the waist; they know the significance of things which, to a man, seem insignificant. Two women observing each other play one of the choicest scenes of comedy that the world can show.

  “Calyste has committed some folly,” thought Camille, perceiving in each of her guests an indefinable air of persons who have a mutual understanding.

  There was no longer either stiffness or pretended indifference on the part of Beatrix; she now regarded Calyste as her own property. Calyste was even more transparent; he colored, as guilty people, or happy people color. He announced that he had come to make arrangements for the excursion on the following day.

  “Then you really intend to go, my dear?” said Camille, interrogatively.

  “Yes,” said Beatrix.

  “How did you know it, Calyste?” asked Mademoiselle des Touches.

  “I came here to find out,” replied Calyste, on a look flashed at him by Madame de Rochefide, who did not wish Camille to gain the slightest inkling of their correspondence.

  “They have an agreement together,” thought Camille, who caught the look in the powerful sweep of her eye.

  Under the pressure of that thought a horrible discomposure overspread her face and frightened Beatrix.

  “What is the matter, my dear?” she cried.

  “Nothing. Well, then, Calyste, send my horses and yours across to Croisic, so that we may drive home by way of Batz. We will breakfast at Croisic, and get home in time for dinner. You must take charge of the boat arrangements. Let us start by half-past eight. You will see some fine sights, Beatrix, and one very strange one; you will see Cambremer, a man who does penance on a rock for having wilfully killed his son. Oh! you are in a primitive land, among a primitive race of people, where men are moved by other sentiments than those of ordinary mortals. Calyste shall tell you the tale; it is a drama of the seashore.”

  She went into her bedroom, for she was stifling. Calyste gave his letter to Beatrix and followed Camille.

  “Calyste, you are loved, I think; but you are hiding something from me; you have done some foolish thing.”

  “Loved!” he exclaimed, dropping into a chair.

  Camille looked into the next room; Beatrix had disappeared. The fact was odd. Women do not usually leave a room which contains the man they admire, unless they have either the certainty of seeing him again, or something better still. Mademoiselle des Touches said to herself: —

  “Can he have given her a letter?”

  But she thought the innocent Breton incapable of such boldness.

  “If you have disobeyed me, all will be lost, through your own fault,” she said to him very gravely. “Go, now, and make your preparations for to-morrow.”

  She made a gesture which Calyste did not venture to resist.

  As he walked toward Croisic, to engage the boatmen, fears came into Calyste’s mind. Camille’s speech foreshadowed something fatal, and he believed in the second sight of her maternal affection. When he returned, four hours later, very tired, and expecting to dine at Les Touches, he found Camille’s maid keeping watch over the door, to tell him that neither her mistress nor the marquise could receive him that evening. Calyste, much surprised, wished to question her, but she bade him hastily good-night and closed the door.

  Six o’clock was striking on the steeple of Guerande as Calyste entered his own house, where Mariotte gave him his belated dinner; after which, he played mouche in gloomy meditation. These alternations of joy and gloom, happiness and unhappiness, the extinction of hopes succeeding the apparent certainty of being loved, bruised and wounded the young soul which had flown so high on outstretched wings that the fall was dreadful.

  “Does anything trouble you, my Calyste?” said his mother.

  “Nothing,” he replied, looking at her with eyes from which the light of the soul and the fire of love were withdrawn.

  It is not hope, but despair, which gives the measure of our ambitions. The finest poems of hope are sung in secret, but grief appears without a veil.

  “Calyste, you are not nice,” said Charlotte, after vainly attempting on him those little provincial witcheries which degenerate usually into teasing.

  “I am tired,” he said, rising, and bidding the company good-night.

  “Calyste is much changed,” remarked Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel.

  “We haven’t beautiful dresses trimmed with lace; we don’t shake our sleeves like this, or twist our bodies like that; we don’t know how to give sidelong glances, and turn our eyes,” said Charlotte, mimicking the air, and attitude, and glances of the marquise. “We haven’t that head voice, nor the interesting little cough, heu! heu! which sounds like the sigh of a spook; we have the misfortune of being healthy and robust, and of loving our friends without coquetry; and when we look at them, we don’t pretend to stick a dart into them, or to watch them slyly; we can’t bend our heads like a weeping willow, just to look the more interesting when we raise them — this way.”

  Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel could not help laughing at her niece’s gesture; but neither the chevalier nor the baron paid any heed to this truly provincial satire against Paris.

  “But the Marquise de Rochefide is a very handsome woman,” said the old maid.

  “My dear,” said the baroness to her husband, “I happen to know that she is going over to Croisic to-morrow. Let us walk on the jetty; I should like to see her.”

  While Calyste was racking his brains to imagine what could have closed the doors of Les Touches to him, a scene was passing between Camille and Beatrix which was to have its influence on the events of the morrow.

  Calyste’s last letter had stirred in Madame de Rochefide’s heart emotions hitherto unknown to it. Women are not often the subject of a love so young, guileless, sincere, and unconditional as that of this youth, this child. Beatrix had loved more than she had been loved. After being all her life a slave, she suddenly felt an inexplicable desire to be a tyrant. But, in the midst of her pleasure, as she read and re-read the letter, she was pierced through and through with a cruel idea.

  What were Calyste and Camille doing together ever since Claude Vignon’s departure? If, as Calyste said, he did not love Camille, and if Camille knew it, how did they employ their mornings, and why were they alone together? Memory suddenly flashed into her mind, in answer to these questions, certain speeches of Camille; a grinning devil seemed to show her, as in a magic mirror, the portrait of that heroic woman, with certain gestures, certain aspects, which suddenly enlightened her. What! instead of being her equal, was she crushed by Felicite? instead of over-reaching her, was she being over-reached herself? was she only a toy, a pleasure, which Camille was giving to her child, whom she loved with an extraordinary passion that was free from all vulgarity?

  To a woman like Beatrix this tho
ught came like a thunder-clap. She went over in her mind minutely the history of the past week. In a moment the part which Camille was playing, and her own, unrolled themselves to their fullest extent before her eyes; she felt horribly belittled. In her fury of jealous anger, she fancied she could see in Camille’s conduct an intention of vengeance against Conti. Was the hidden wrath of the past two years really acting upon the present moment?

  Once on the path of these doubts and superstitions, Beatrix did not pause. She walked up and down her room, driven to rapid motion by the impetuous movements of her soul, sitting down now and then, and trying to decide upon a course, but unable to do so. And thus she remained, a prey to indecision until the dinner hour, when she rose hastily, and went downstairs without dressing. No sooner did Camille see her, than she felt that a crisis had come. Beatrix, in her morning gown, with a chilling air and a taciturn manner, indicated to an observer as keen as Maupin the coming hostilities of an embittered heart.

  Camille instantly left the room and gave the order which so astonished Calyste; she feared that he might arrive in the midst of the quarrel, and she determined to be alone, without witnesses, in fighting this duel of deception on both sides. Beatrix, without an auxiliary, would infallibly succumb. Camille well knew the barrenness of that soul, the pettiness of that pride, to which she had justly applied the epithet of obstinate.

  The dinner was gloomy. Camille was gentle and kind; she felt herself the superior being. Beatrix was hard and cutting; she felt she was being managed like a child. During dinner the battle began with glances, gestures, half-spoken sentences, — not enough to enlighten the servants, but enough to prepare an observer for the coming storm. When the time to go upstairs came, Camille offered her arm maliciously to Beatrix, who pretended not to see it, and sprang up the stairway alone. When coffee had been served Mademoiselle des Touches said to the footman, “You may go,” — a brief sentence, which served as a signal for the combat.

  “The novels you make, my dear, are more dangerous than those you write,” said the marquise.