Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  Madame de Mortsauf to the Vicomte Felix de Vandenesse:

  Felix, friend, loved too well, I must now lay bare my heart to

  you, — not so much to prove my love as to show you the weight of

  obligation you have incurred by the depth and gravity of the

  wounds you have inflicted on it. At this moment, when I sink

  exhausted by the toils of life, worn out by the shocks of its

  battle, the woman within me is, mercifully, dead; the mother alone

  survives. Dear, you are now to see how it was that you were the

  original cause of all my sufferings. Later, I willingly received

  your blows; to-day I am dying of the final wound your hand has

  given, — but there is joy, excessive joy in feeling myself

  destroyed by him I love.

  My physical sufferings will soon put an end to my mental strength;

  I therefore use the last clear gleams of intelligence to implore

  you to befriend my children and replace the heart of which you

  have deprived them. I would solemnly impose this duty upon you if

  I loved you less; but I prefer to let you choose it for yourself

  as an act of sacred repentance, and also in faithful continuance

  of your love — love, for us, was ever mingled with repentant

  thoughts and expiatory fears! but — I know it well — we shall

  forever love each other. Your wrong to me was not so fatal an act

  in itself as the power which I let it have within me. Did I not

  tell you I was jealous, jealous unto death? Well, I die of it.

  But, be comforted, we have kept all human laws. The Church has

  told me, by one of her purest voices, that God will be forgiving

  to those who subdue their natural desires to His commandments. My

  beloved, you are now to know all, for I would not leave you in

  ignorance of any thought of mine. What I confide to God in my last

  hour you, too, must know, — you, king of my heart as He is King of

  Heaven.

  Until the ball given to the Duc d’Angouleme (the only ball at

  which I was ever present), marriage had left me in that ignorance

  which gives to the soul of a young girl the beauty of the angels.

  True, I was a mother, but love had never surrounded me with its

  permitted pleasures. How did this happen? I do not know; neither

  do I know by what law everything within me changed in a moment.

  You remember your kisses? they have mastered my life, they have

  furrowed my soul; the ardor of your blood awoke the ardor of mine;

  your youth entered my youth, your desires my soul. When I rose and

  left you proudly I was filled with an emotion for which I know no

  name in any language — for children have not yet found a word to

  express the marriage of their eyes with light, nor the kiss of

  life laid upon their lips. Yes, it was sound coming in the echo,

  light flashing through the darkness, motion shaking the universe;

  at least, it was rapid like all these things, but far more

  beautiful, for it was the birth of the soul! I comprehended then

  that something, I knew not what, existed for me in the world, — a

  force nobler than thought; for it was all thoughts, all forces, it

  was the future itself in a shared emotion. I felt I was but half a

  mother. Falling thus upon my heart this thunderbolt awoke desires

  which slumbered there without my knowledge; suddenly I divined all

  that my aunt had meant when she kissed my forehead, murmuring,

  “Poor Henriette!”

  When I returned to Clochegourde, the springtime, the first leaves,

  the fragrance of the flowers, the white and fleecy clouds, the

  Indre, the sky, all spoke to me in a language till then unknown.

  If you have forgotten those terrible kisses, I have never been

  able to efface them from my memory, — I am dying of them! Yes, each

  time that I have met you since, their impress is revived. I was

  shaken from head to foot when I first saw you; the mere

  presentiment of your coming overcame me. Neither time nor my firm

  will has enabled me to conquer that imperious sense of pleasure. I

  asked myself involuntarily, “What must be such joys?” Our mutual

  looks, the respectful kisses you laid upon my hand, the pressure

  of my arm on yours, your voice with its tender tones, — all, even

  the slightest things, shook me so violently that clouds obscured

  my sight; the murmur of rebellious senses filled my ears. Ah! if

  in those moments when outwardly I increased my coldness you had

  taken me in your arms I should have died of happiness. Sometimes I

  desired it, but prayer subdued the evil thought. Your name uttered

  by my children filled my heart with warmer blood, which gave color

  to my cheeks; I laid snares for my poor Madeleine to induce her to

  say it, so much did I love the tumults of that sensation. Ah! what

  shall I say to you? Your writing had a charm; I gazed at your

  letters as we look at a portrait.

  If on that first day you obtained some fatal power over me,

  conceive, dear friend, how infinite that power became when it was

  given to me to read your soul. What delights filled me when I

  found you so pure, so absolutely truthful, gifted with noble

  qualities, capable of noblest things, and already so tried! Man

  and child, timid yet brave! What joy to find we both were

  consecrated by a common grief! Ever since that evening when we

  confided our childhoods to each other, I have known that to lose

  you would be death, — yes, I have kept you by me selfishly. The

  certainty felt by Monsieur de la Berge that I should die if I lost

  you touched him deeply, for he read my soul. He knew how necessary

  I was to my children and the count; he did not command me to

  forbid you my house, for I promised to continue pure in deed and

  thought. “Thought,” he said to me, “is involuntary, but it can be

  watched even in the midst of anguish.” “If I think,” I replied,

  “all will be lost; save me from myself. Let him remain beside me

  and keep me pure!” The good old man, though stern, was moved by my

  sincerity. “Love him as you would a son, and give him your

  daughter,” he said. I accepted bravely that life of suffering that

  I might not lose you, and I suffered joyfully, seeing that we were

  called to bear the same yoke — My God! I have been firm, faithful

  to my husband; I have given you no foothold, Felix, in your

  kingdom. The grandeur of my passion has reacted on my character; I

  have regarded the tortures Monsieur de Mortsauf has inflicted on

  me as expiations; I bore them proudly in condemnation of my faulty

  desires. Formerly I was disposed to murmur at my life, but since

  you entered it I have recovered some gaiety, and this has been the

  better for the count. Without this strength, which I derived

  through you, I should long since have succumbed to the inward life

  of which I told you.

  If you have counted for much in the exercise of my duty so have my

  children also. I felt I had deprived them of something, and I

  feared I could never do enough to make amends to them; my life was

  thus a continual struggle which I loved. Feeling that I was less a

  mother, less an honest wife, remorse entered
my heart; fearing to

  fail in my obligations, I constantly went beyond them. Often have

  I put Madeleine between you and me, giving you to each other,

  raising barriers between us, — barriers that were powerless! for

  what could stifle the emotions which you caused me? Absent or

  present, you had the same power. I preferred Madeleine to Jacques

  because Madeleine was sometime to be yours. But I did not yield

  you to my daughter without a struggle. I told myself that I was

  only twenty-eight when I first met you, and you were nearly

  twenty-two; I shortened the distance between us; I gave myself up

  to delusive hopes. Oh, Felix! I tell you these things to save you

  from remorse; also, perhaps, to show you that I was not cold and

  insensible, that our sufferings were cruelly mutual; that Arabella

  had no superiority of love over mine. I too am the daughter of a

  fallen race, such as men love well.

  There came a moment when the struggle was so terrible that I wept

  the long nights through; my hair fell off, — you have it! Do you

  remember the count’s illness? Your nobility of soul far from

  raising my soul belittled it. Alas! I dreamed of giving myself to

  you some day as the reward of so much heroism; but the folly was a

  brief one. I laid it at the feet of God during the mass that day

  when you refused to be with me. Jacques’ illness and Madeleine’s

  sufferings seemed to me the warnings of God calling back to Him

  His lost sheep.

  Then your love — which is so natural — for that Englishwoman

  revealed to me secrets of which I had no knowledge. I loved you

  better than I knew. The constant emotions of this stormy life, the

  efforts that I made to subdue myself with no other succor than

  that religion gave me, all, all has brought about the malady of

  which I die. The terrible shocks I have undergone brought on

  attacks about which I kept silence. I saw in death the sole

  solution of this hidden tragedy. A lifetime of anger, jealousy,

  and rage lay in those two months between the time my mother told

  me of your relations with Lady Dudley, and your return to

  Clochegourde. I wished to go to Paris; murder was in my heart; I

  desired that woman’s death; I was indifferent to my children.

  Prayer, which had hitherto been to me a balm, was now without

  influence on my soul. Jealousy made the breach through which death

  has entered. And yet I have kept a placid brow. Yes, that period

  of struggle was a secret between God and myself. After your return

  and when I saw that I was loved, even as I loved you, that nature

  had betrayed me and not your thought, I wished to live, — it was

  then too late! God had taken me under His protection, filled no

  doubt with pity for a being true with herself, true with Him,

  whose sufferings had often led her to the gates of the sanctuary.

  My beloved! God has judged me, Monsieur de Mortsauf will pardon

  me, but you — will you be merciful? Will you listen to this voice

  which now issues from my tomb? Will you repair the evils of which

  we are equally guilty? — you, perhaps, less than I. You know what I

  wish to ask of you. Be to Monsieur de Mortsauf what a sister of

  charity is to a sick man; listen to him, love him — no one loves

  him. Interpose between him and his children as I have done. Your

  task will not be a long one. Jacques will soon leave home to be in

  Paris near his grandfather, and you have long promised me to guide

  him through the dangers of that life. As for Madeleine, she will

  marry; I pray that you may please her. She is all myself, but

  stronger; she has the will in which I am lacking; the energy

  necessary for the companion of a man whose career destines him to

  the storms of political life; she is clever and perceptive. If

  your lives are united she will be happier than her mother. By

  acquiring the right to continue my work at Clochegourde you will

  blot out the faults I have not sufficiently expiated, though they

  are pardoned in heaven and also on earth, for he is generous and

  will forgive me. You see I am ever selfish; is it not the proof of

  a despotic love? I wish you to still love me in mine. Unable to be

  yours in life, I bequeath to you my thoughts and also my duties.

  If you do not wish to marry Madeleine you will at least seek the

  repose of my soul by making Monsieur de Mortsauf as happy as he

  ever can be.

  Farewell, dear child of my heart; this is the farewell of a mind

  absolutely sane, still full of life; the farewell of a spirit on

  which thou hast shed too many and too great joys to suffer thee to

  feel remorse for the catastrophe they have caused. I use that word

  “catastrophe” thinking of you and how you love me; as for me, I

  reach the haven of my rest, sacrificed to duty and not without

  regret — ah! I tremble at that thought. God knows better than I

  whether I have fulfilled his holy laws in accordance with their

  spirit. Often, no doubt, I have tottered, but I have not fallen;

  the most potent cause of my wrong-doing lay in the grandeur of the

  seductions that encompassed me. The Lord will behold me trembling

  when I enter His presence as though I had succumbed. Farewell

  again, a long farewell like that I gave last night to our dear

  valley, where I soon shall rest and where you will often — will you

  not? — return.

  Henriette.

  I fell into an abyss of terrible reflections, as I perceived the depths unknown of the life now lighted up by this expiring flame. The clouds of my egotism rolled away. She had suffered as much as I — more than I, for she was dead. She believed that others would be kind to her friend; she was so blinded by love that she had never so much as suspected the enmity of her daughter. That last proof of her tenderness pained me terribly. Poor Henriette wished to give me Clochegourde and her daughter.

  Natalie, from that dread day when first I entered a graveyard following the remains of my noble Henriette, whom now you know, the sun has been less warm, less luminous, the nights more gloomy, movement less agile, thought more dull. There are some departed whom we bury in the earth, but there are others more deeply loved for whom our souls are winding-sheets, whose memory mingles daily with our heart-beats; we think of them as we breathe; they are in us by the tender law of a metempsychosis special to love. A soul is within my soul. When some good thing is done by me, when some true word is spoken, that soul acts and speaks. All that is good within me issues from that grave, as the fragrance of a lily fills the air; sarcasm, bitterness, all that you blame in me is mine. Natalie, when next my eyes are darkened by a cloud or raised to heaven after long contemplation of earth, when my lips make no reply to your words or your devotion, do not ask me again, “Of what are you thinking?”

  Dear Natalie, I ceased to write some days ago; these memories were too bitter for me. Still, I owe you an account of the events which followed this catastrophe; they need few words. When a life is made up of action and movement it is soon told, but when it passes in the higher regions of the soul its story becomes diffuse. Henriette’s letter put the star of hope before my eyes. In this great shipwreck I saw an isle on which I might be rescued. To live at Clochegourde with Madeleine, consecrating my life to hers, was a fate which satisfied the ideas of which my heart was full. But it was nece
ssary to know the truth as to her real feelings. As I was bound to bid the count farewell, I went to Clochegourde to see him, and met him on the terrace. We walked up and down for some time. At first he spoke of the countess like a man who knew the extent of his loss, and all the injury it was doing to his inner self. But after the first outbreak of his grief was over he seemed more concerned about the future than the present. He feared his daughter, who, he told me, had not her mother’s gentleness. Madeleine’s firm character, in which there was something heroic blending with her mother’s gracious nature, alarmed the old man, used to Henriette’s tenderness, and he now foresaw the power of a will that never yielded. His only consolation for his irreparable loss, he said, was the certainty of soon rejoining his wife; the agitations, the griefs of these last few weeks had increased his illness and brought back all his former pains; the struggle which he foresaw between his authority as a father and that of his daughter, now mistress of the house, would end his days in bitterness; for though he should have struggled against his wife, he should, he knew, be forced to give way before his child. Besides, his son was soon to leave him; his daughter would marry, and what sort of son-in-law was he likely to have? Though he thus talked of dying, his real distress was in feeling himself alone for many years to come without sympathy.