by Eugène Sue
“It was Michel?”
“Yes, Michel and that woman!”
It is impossible to describe the way in which Valentine uttered the words, “That woman.”
After a moment of painful silence she continued:
“The night was clear and still, and the two vibrant, impassioned voices soared heavenward like a pæan of happiness and love. For awhile I listened in spite of myself, but towards the last it made me so utterly wretched, that, not having the courage to go away, I covered my ears with my hands; then, blushing for my absurd weakness, I tried to listen again, but the song had ended. I went back to the window; the air was heavy with the rich perfume of a thousand flowers; there was not a breath of wind; a soft, faint light like that from an alabaster lamp shone through the lowered blinds of the gallery. A profound silence reigned for a few moments, then I heard the gravel in the garden path crunch under the feet of Michel and that woman. They were walking slowly along; his arm was around her waist. I could bear no more, and I hastily closed the window. I passed a frightful night. What new and terrible passions had been aroused during the last two days! Love, desire, jealousy, hatred, remorse, — yes, remorse, for I felt now that an irresistible power was sweeping me on to ruin, and that I should succumb in the struggle. You know the energy and ardour of my character; the same attributes entered into this unfortunate love. I resisted bravely for a time; but when my husband’s cruel and brutal conduct exasperated me so deeply, I felt released from all obligations to him, and blindly abandoned myself to the passion that was devouring me.”
“But you have been happy, very happy, have you not, Valentine?”
“At first I experienced bliss unspeakable, though it was marred at times by the recollection of that woman from whom Michel had long been separated. She was a celebrated opera singer, celebrated even in Italy, I believe. I found Michel all I had dreamed, — talented, witty, refined, graceful, deferential, courteous, — all these attributes were united in him, together with a marvellous tenderness and delicacy of feeling, and a perfect disposition. And yet, this liaison had scarcely lasted two months before I became the most miserable of women, while adoring Michel as much as ever.”
“But why, my poor Valentine? From what you have just told me, I should think that Michel possessed every attribute necessary to make you happy.”
“Yes,” sighed Valentine, “but all these attributes are nullified by an incurable fault, by—”
Madame d’Infreville gave a sudden start, then paused abruptly.
“Why do you stop so suddenly, Valentine?” asked Florence, in surprise. “Why this reticence? Go on, I beg of you. Haven’t you perfect confidence in me?”
“Have I not just proved it by my confession?”
“Yes, oh, yes; but go on.”
“You will understand my reticence, I think,” continued Madame d’Infreville, after a moment’s hesitation, “when I tell you that all that is kind and noble and tender and commendable in Michel is spoiled by an incurable apathy.”
“My chief fault!” exclaimed Madame de Luceval, “so you were afraid to tell me that.”
“No, no, Florence; your indolence is charming.”
“M. de Luceval doesn’t agree with you on that point,” responded the young wife, smiling faintly.
“But your indolence has no such disastrous consequences, either so far as you, yourself, or your husband are concerned,” replied Valentine. “You enjoy it, and no one really suffers from it. It is very different in Michel’s case. He has paid no attention whatever to money matters, and his man of business, encouraged by this negligence, has not only stolen from him in the most shameful manner, but has also embarked in various business enterprises which have been profitable to him but ruinous to Michel, who has been too indolent to verify his accounts; and now, I am by no means sure that he has enough money left to live upon even in the most frugal manner.”
“Poor fellow, how sad that is! But is not your influence sufficiently strong to overcome this unfortunate indolence?”
“My influence!” repeated Valentine, smiling bitterly. “What influence can one have over a character like his. Arguments, prayers, entreaties, and warnings do not disturb his serenity in the least. No harsh or unkind word ever falls from Michel’s lips, oh, no, but he shrinks from anger and impatience, precisely as he shrinks from fatigue. Always calm, smiling, and affectionate, the most vehement remonstrances, the most despairing supplications, receive no other answer than a smile or a kiss. It is because he has thus completely ignored my advice and entreaties that he finds himself in his present alarming position, alarming at least to me, though not to him; for having led a perfectly indolent life up to the present time, he is not likely to find himself possessed of sufficient courage or energy to rescue himself from his deplorable position when his entire ruin is accomplished.”
“You are right, Valentine; the situation is even graver than I thought.”
“Yes, for one terrible fear haunts me continually.”
“What do you mean?”
“Michel is endowed with too keen powers of discernment to deceive himself in regard to his future. He knows, too, that when his last louis is spent he has nothing to expect from any one, much less from himself.”
“But what do you fear?”
“That he will kill himself,” replied Valentine, shuddering.
“Good Heavens! has he hinted at anything of the kind?”
“Oh, no, he has taken good care not to do that. Any such intimation would be sure to lead to a distressing scene on my part, and he hates tears and complaints of any kind. No, he has never admitted that the thought of self-destruction has even occurred to him, but the fact escaped him one day, for he remarked, laughingly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world: ‘Happy dead, — eternal idleness is their portion.’”
“But Valentine, this fear is terrible.”
“And it never leaves me, even for an instant,” replied the unfortunate woman, bursting into tears; “and yet I am obliged to conceal it in his presence, for whenever he sees me sad or preoccupied, he says to me, with that tender, gracious smile of his:
“‘Why this sadness, my dear Valentine? Are we not young, and do we not love each other? Let us think only of our happiness. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any one, so take me as I am, and if I have displeased you in any way, or if I no longer please you, leave me, find some one who suits you better, and let us remain friends only. In my opinion, love should be only joy and felicity, tenderness and repose. It should be like a beautiful lake, clear and calm, reflecting only the pleasant things of life. Why cast a gloom over it by useless anxiety? Let us enjoy our youth in peace, my angel! The person who has known during his whole life ten days of perfect, radiant happiness, should be content to thank God and die. We have had a hundred and more of such days, my Valentine, and whether we enjoy more of them depends only upon yourself, for I adore you. Am I not too indolent to be inconstant?’”
“Yes,” added Valentine, with increasing earnestness, “yes, that is the way in which Michel regards love. Those alternations of hope and fear, the vague unrest, the foolish, but no less terrible fits of jealousy that lacerate one’s heart, only excite Michel’s derision. His indolence — I can not say his indifference, for, after all, he loves me as much as he can love any one, as he says himself — irritates me and makes my blood fairly boil sometimes; but I restrain myself, because, in spite of myself, I adore him just as he is. Nor is this all. Michel never seems to have the slightest suspicion of the remorse and anxiety and fears that assail me every day, for in order that I may be able to spend several hours and sometimes even an entire day with him, I am obliged to tell falsehood after falsehood, to place myself almost at the mercy of my servants, and to devise new pretexts for my frequent absences. And when I return, ah, Florence, when I return, — if you knew what a terrible load I have on my heart when, after a long absence, I place my hand on the knocker, saying to myself all the while, ‘What if e
verything has been discovered!’ And when I find myself face to face with my husband, I am even more miserable. To meet his gaze, to try to discover if he has the slightest suspicion of the truth, to tremble inwardly at his most trivial question, to appear calm and indifferent when I am half crazed with fear and anxiety, — all this is torture. And to add to my misery and degradation, I must be assiduous in my attentions to a husband I loathe; I must even stoop to flattery to keep him in good humour, so terribly am I afraid of him, and so eager am I to drive away his suspicions by a bright and cheerful manner. Sometimes, Florence, I must even be gay, do you hear me? Gay, when I have death in my soul. Ah, Florence, such a life is nothing more or less than a hell upon earth, and yet it is impossible for me to abandon it.”
“Oh, Valentine,” exclaimed Madame de Luceval, throwing herself in her friend’s arms, “I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you! You have saved me!”
CHAPTER VI.
CONNUBIAL INFELICITIES.
MADAME DE LUCEVAL had been listening to her friend with rapidly increasing interest and curiosity for several minutes; then, apparently unable to control her emotion any longer, she had thrown herself in Valentine’s arms, exclaiming:
“I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you. You have saved me!”
“Good Heavens! Florence, why do you thank me? Explain, I beg of you,” said Madame d’Infreville, gazing at her friend with the utmost astonishment.
“You think I have lost my senses, I suppose,” responded Madame de Luceval, smiling faintly. “You little know what a great service you have rendered me.”
“I?”
“Yes; a great, an immense service,” replied Florence, with a strange mixture of emotion, mirth, and mischievousness. “Would you believe it, when you first told me that you had a lover, I envied you as I envied you at the convent when you left it to be married. And then — why should I try to conceal it from you? — Cousin Michel’s tastes and his manner of life seemed so entirely congenial to me, that I said to myself: ‘This is just my idea of love. That which annoys my poor Valentine so much would, on the contrary, delight me, and I believe I should love to have a Michel myself.’”
“Florence, what are you saying?”
“Let me finish, please. I am not disposed to conceal anything from you, so I may as well tell you that, as I see stormy times ahead, and as my husband is becoming more and more insupportable, I thought it quite possible that I should require consolation for such an ill-assorted union myself at some future day.”
“Oh, Florence, take care,” exclaimed Valentine, in evident alarm, “if you knew—”
“If I knew?” retorted Madame de Luceval, interrupting her friend; “if I knew? Why, thanks to you, I do know, and after what you have just told me, nothing on earth could induce me to have a lover. And I verily believe, Heaven forgive me! that I would rather go to the North Pole or to the Caucasus with my husband, than subject myself to all the misery and trials and torments your lover has cost you. A lover! Great Heavens! How wearing it would be! My natural indolence will serve in place of virtue in this instance. Each person is virtuous according to his or her ability, and provided one is virtuous, that is the essential thing, isn’t it, Valentine?”
As Florence uttered these words, her expression was at once so serious and so droll, that, in spite of her own troubles, her friend could not help smiling as Madame de Luceval added:
“Ah, my poor Valentine, I do pity you, for such a life must be a hell upon earth, as you say.”
“Yes, Florence, so take my advice. Persist in your resolve, and remain faithful to your duties, no matter how onerous they may seem. Profit by my experience, I entreat you,” added Valentine, tenderly. “I shall reproach myself all my life if I feel that I have put sinful ideas into your head, or encouraged you to follow my example. So promise me, Florence, my friend, my dear friend, that I shall be spared this sorrow, promise me—”
“You need have no fears on that score, Valentine. Think what it would be for a person who loves her ease as I do, to attempt to deceive a husband who is rushing in and out of my room a dozen times a day. Why, it makes my brain reel, merely to think of it. No, no; the lesson you have taught me is a good one. It will bear fruit, I assure you. But to return to the subject of your troubles. Your husband’s suspicions do not seem to have been aroused as yet.”
“You are mistaken about that, I fear, though I am not positive of it.”
“Why do you think so?”
“As I told you, my husband spends very little time at home. He leaves the house in the morning, directly after breakfast, and is not only in the habit of dining with his mistress, but of receiving his friends at her house. Afterwards, he takes her to the theatre, returning to her home with her afterwards, where there is pretty heavy playing, people say. At all events, he seldom returns home before three or four o’clock in the morning.”
“A nice life for a married man!”
“Either because he has confidence in me, or is indifferent on the subject, he seldom questions me about the way in which I spend my time; but a couple of days ago, not feeling as well as usual, he returned home about three o’clock in the afternoon. I supposed that he would be absent all day, as he told me in the morning that he would not dine at home, so I did not return from Michel’s until ten in the evening.”
“Mon Dieu! How frightened you must have been when you heard of your husband’s return. It makes me shudder to think of it!”
“I was so terrified that I at first thought I would not even go up to my own room, but run out of the house and never come back.”
“That is what I should have done, I am sure. Still, I don’t know—”
“At last I summoned up all my courage, and went up-stairs. The doctor was there, and M. d’Infreville was suffering so much that he scarcely addressed a word to me. I nursed him all night with hypocritical zeal. When he became easier, he asked me why I had absented myself from home so long, and where I had been. I had been preparing an answer, for I knew the question would come sooner or later, so I told him I had been spending the day with you, as I did quite frequently, since he had left me so much of the time alone. He seemed to believe me, and even pretended to approve, remarking that he knew M. de Luceval by reputation, and was glad to hear of my intimacy with his wife. I thought I was saved, but last night I learned, through my maid, that my husband had questioned her very adroitly, evidently for the purpose of finding out if I was often absent from home. My apprehensions became so grave that, resolved to escape from such an intolerable position at any cost, I went to Michel this morning, and said: ‘I am going to confess all to my mother; tell her that my husband has grave suspicions, and that there is nothing left for me but to flee. I shall not return to my husband’s house. My mother and I will leave Paris this evening for Brussels. You can join us there if you wish, and the remains of your fortune, and what I can earn by my needle, will suffice for our support. However poor and laborious our life may be, I shall be spared the terrible necessity of lying every day, and of living in a state of continual suspense and terror.”
“And he consented?”
“He!” exclaimed Valentine, bitterly. “What a fool I was to count upon any such display of firmness on his part! He gazed at me a moment as if stupefied, then assured me that my resolution was absurd in the extreme; that persons resorted to such extreme measures only when they were absolutely compelled to do so; that it would probably be a comparatively easy matter to allay my husband’s suspicions, and he finally suggested my asking you to write that letter.”
“Perhaps he was right, after all, in advising you not to flee, as much for your sake as his own, for you are not in such very desperate straits, after all, it seems to me.”
“Florence, I feel a presentiment that—”
But Madame d’Infreville never finished the sentence.
The door of the room was suddenly burst open, and M. de Luceval and M. d’Infreville presented themselves to the astonished gaze
of Florence and Valentine.
“I am lost!” the latter exclaimed, overwhelmed with terror. Then, covered with shame at the sight of M. de Luceval, she buried her face in her hands.
Florence hastily sprang to her friend’s side as if to protect her, and said to M. de Luceval, imperiously:
“What is your business here?”
“I have come to convict you of falsehood, and of a disgraceful complicity with an evil-doer, madame,” responded M. de Luceval, threateningly.
“I have discovered that Madame d’Infreville has been absenting herself from her home for entire days for some time past, madame,” added the other husband, turning to Florence. “Yesterday I asked Madame d’Infreville where she had spent the day. She told me she had spent it at your house. This letter of yours, madame (he held it up as he spoke), written at the instigation of my wife and with the intention of making me the dupe of an infamous falsehood, happened to fall into M. de Luceval’s hands. He has sworn, and I believe him, that he has never once seen Madame d’Infreville here. Under such circumstances, madame, I can hardly believe that you will insist any longer that the contrary is the truth.”
“Yes, madame,” exclaimed M. de Luceval, “such an admission on your part will not only convict a guilty woman, but at the same time serve as a just punishment for your own shameless complicity.”
“All I have to say, monsieur, is that Madame d’Infreville is, and always will be, my best friend,” responded Florence, resolutely; “and the more unhappy she is, the more she can count upon my devoted affection.”
“What, madame!” exclaimed M. de Luceval; “is it possible that you dare—”
“Yes; and I also dare to tell M. d’Infreville that his conduct towards his wife has been both disgraceful and heartless.”
“Enough, madame, enough!” cried M. de Luceval, deeply exasperated.
“No, monsieur, it is not enough,” retorted Florence. “I still have to remind M. d’Infreville that he is in my house, and that as he knows now what I think of him, he must realise that his presence is an intrusion here.”
