by Eugène Sue
“Then you are perfectly happy!”
“Perfectly, madame, mundane life never appeared to me under the form of a more radiant and seductive vision.”
Madame de Pënâfiel gazed at me for some moments with her great astonished eyes, and then said, in a firm and very decided way: “All that is not true; you are not happy; it is impossible that you should be. I know the truth; why will you not admit the truth, and then I could tell you—” Then she hesitated and cast down her eyes as though she were on the point of revealing a secret.
“If it will give you the least satisfaction, madame,” I replied, smiling, “I will hasten to declare myself the most unfortunate, melancholy, dismal, sophisticated of mortals, and from henceforth I will go about proclaiming only, Anathema! Fatality!”
After contemplating me for some moments with inexpressible amazement, she said, as though speaking to herself: “Can I have deceived myself? Was I mistaken?” Then continuing, “No, no, it is impossible, if you were as happy and indifferent as you pretend to be, would I not have known it instinctively? Would I have opened my heart to you and exposed my grief? Would I have risked a confession only to have derision in return? No, no, my heart whispered the truth when it said, ‘Speak to him, tell him all, he is your friend, a friend who will pity you, for he also is lonely and wretched!” Her strange persistence in making me acknowledge some imaginary sorrow, in order to deride me afterwards, astonished and irritated me.
“Madame,” I said, “why do you persist in believing me to be so miserable?”
“Why, why?” said she, quite impatiently. “Because there are some confessions that one never makes to the gay and careless; because, to understand the bitterness of certain woes, there must exist some sort of harmony between the soul that bewails its grief, and the one who hears its complaining; because, had I thought you careless, merry, flippant, happy in the enjoyment of the life of frivolity whose charms you were just now vaunting, I never would have dreamed of telling you why I am so wretched, or explaining the secret of a life which must seem fantastic and bizarre. I would never have wished to tell you, as to a devoted and true friend, a brother, indeed, the reason I am so overwhelmed with sorrow.”
I had reached such a point of irritation and distrust, that when she said the words “friend, brother,” another idea suggested itself to me. Remembering Madame de Pënâfiel’s reticence and a thousand other incidents which had passed unnoticed until now, I decided that her nameless sorrow, her disgust for everything, her weariness of the world, resembled very strongly an unrequited passion, and that she was in love, but that her love was not returned. I therefore believed her willing to make me the discreet confidant of her pains and longings.
This last hypothesis woke the most violent and mortal jealousy in my breast, and showed me plainly the extent of my love for Madame de Pënâfiel, as well as the ridiculous rôle I was expected to play if my last supposition were true.
I was about to reply, when, by moving the folds of her dress, she uncovered on the carpet at her feet a medallion, which had probably fallen from the buhl cabinet, when, in order to hide the crucifix (and, perhaps, the medallion as well), she had so suddenly closed its doors. It was a man’s portrait, but I could not see the features.
I had no longer the least doubt, all my other imaginings vanished before this evident proof of Madame de Pënâfiel’s duplicity; then, tortured by jealousy and wild with anger and wounded pride, I arose, and said, with perfect coolness:
“You are my friend, madame?”
“Oh, a very devoted and sincere one,” she replied, with such a joyful look of gratitude.
“Then I can speak freely to you?”
“Speak as you would to a sister,” she said to me, as she held out her hand, smiling, and pleased to find that at last we understood each other.
I took her beautiful hand and kissed it; then I continued:
“As to a sister? Well, let it be so, for no doubt, in this amusing comedy, you expect me to take the part of an honourable but stupid brother, who bemoans with his sister her unrequited love.”
She looked wildly at me; her hands fell again on her knees; she was unable to utter a word. I continued:
“But we will not speak of that I wish to tell you as a friend, the various convictions which, thanks to my knowledge of your frankness, have passed through my mind since I saw you bowed at the foot of the crucifix. As for that charming pantomime, I must say that you were in a most artistic pose. Your eyes raised to heaven, your clasped hands, your tears, — it was a beautiful piece of acting; so, as I had no faith in your grief, but a great deal in your talent for mystification, I waited to see the comedy acted out.”
“A comedy!” said she, not seeming to understand my words.
“A mystification, madame, of which I should have been the ridiculous object, had I been weak enough to offer to console you, or to make you any sentimental speeches on the subject of melancholy, misanthropy, lost illusions, and other strange nightmares that were supposed to be wearing my life away.”
“This is all very dreadful!” said she, as though stunned by a blow. “I am horrified, and yet I do not understand—”
“Then I must speak more clearly, madame. The confession you wished me to make was to serve as amusement for your friends, when you should tell it in your charmingly malicious way, — like the way you told me about M. de Cernay’s offer of marriage.”
“But what you are saying is horrible!” she cried, wringing her hands in alarm “Could you believe — ?”
“Yes, I believed it at first, but after your confession of disgust for the world, and a nameless sorrow, which I now can easily understand, I recognised that the second rôle I was to play was even worse than this; for, in the first rôle, I was to force a woman of your rank to play a comedy to puzzle me, and it was so well performed, that I was quite proud to serve in any capacity that would give you an opportunity of exercising your rare talent for serious comedy.”
“Monsieur,” cried Madame de Pënâfiel, rising to her full height, “do you understand that you are speaking to me?” But she suddenly changed her haughty accent, and, clasping her hands, said: “It is enough to make me insane. I beseech you, explain yourself. What is it that you mean? Why should I wish to puzzle you? What rôle did I wish you to perform? Ah, be merciful, and do not blight the only moment of confidence, the only appeal for sympathy that I have given way to for so many long, weary months. If you only knew.”
“I know,” said I, in the fiercest and most insulting way, as I approached her, so that I might place my foot on the medallion, and crush it, “I know, madame, that if I were a woman, and a man should scorn my love, I would rather die of shame and despair than to make the first corner, who cared nothing about them, such humiliating confessions, as weak and silly for the one who tells them as they are revolting and wearisome to the one who is obliged to hear them.”
“Monsieur, how dare you be so audacious? How dare you to suppose — ?”
“This!” said I, pointing with a scornful look at the portrait at her feet; then, pressing my boot on the medallion, I crushed the crystal.
“It is a sacrilege!” cried out Madame de Pënâfiel, quickly stooping to seize the portrait, which she took in her two hands, and turned on me her eyes that were blazing with indignation.
“It may be sacrilege, madame, but I treat your divinity as well as he treats you.” Then I bowed myself out
CHAPTER XXII.
CONTRADICTIONS.
AFTER THIS INTERVIEW, my anger and jealousy were for some hours so furious that the only thing I regretted was not to have been even more cruel and insolent to Madame de Pënâfiel.
By the violence of these transports of rage, I recognised the extent of my love for her, — a love whose depths I had not before sounded.
This medallion that I had discovered was to my eyes sufficient proof of the truth of my last suspicions, and if they were true, why should not those other stories be true, that had distre
ssed me so at first? Now I no longer believed that she had wished to force me into confiding in her so that she might mock at me afterwards. I thought that another refused to requite the love that I would have given my life to obtain.
Then the calm of reason succeeded to the tumultuous excitement of passion; I could think calmly of my real position towards Madame de Pënâfiel. I had never alluded in any way to the great affection I bore her; why, then, should I be astonished at her confession, and the secret I thought I had discovered? How could I have treated her so? A woman, suffering perhaps from an unreturned affection, an incurable love, who was ignorant of my feelings towards her, and, relying on my generosity, came to me, if not for consolation, at least for my sympathy and pity. But my watchful jealousy and my anger were not to be quieted by these wise reflections. Who was that man whose portrait I had meant to crush? I had been in constant attendance on Madame de Pënâfiel for a long time, and I had seen no one that I could suppose to be the object of this unrequited passion that I suspected.
Her grief and her regrets, therefore, had existed for a long time. I understood now many singularities that were never clearly seen before, and that were so variously interpreted by the world, her sudden silences, her ennui, her disdain, her wild outbursts of enthusiasm which some souvenir would evoke, and which, as often as not, ended in fits of regret or despair. There was some object in her coquetry and her constant desire to please, but when could this mysterious personage enjoy the sight of all these charms? I sought the answer to this enigma in vain, though I remembered the reticence of her last conversation, and her embarrassment when, no doubt, she was on the point of telling me her secret sorrow.
But who could be the object of this fervent and unfortunate passion? Of this love that had caused her for the last few weeks a more profound grief than ever before?
Loving Marguerite as I loved her, ought I to attempt to offer her the tenderest of consolations? Might I hope to supplant in her heart this painful souvenir? Would I succeed if I made the attempt, should I dare to try? Tortured by regret and despair, this unhappy woman, who was so noble and refined, had become so susceptible through suffering, and so shy, that, for fear of wounding her sensitive nature, I could not, without the greatest tact, speak to her of a happier future.
And yet, in asking me to bewail her sufferings, had she not with rare delicacy and tact understood that certain great misfortunes invest one with such dignity, such majestic sorrow, that the most devoted, the most loving are compelled to be silent, and to wait until the victim of this royal grief speaks first, as other princes are obliged to do, and says, “Come to me, for my misfortune is great.”
What hope could I now have, even supposing Madame de Pënâfiel to have given way to a secret liking for me when she addressed me with such confidence? My language to her had been so brutal, so strange, that it was impossible for me to imagine what the consequences might be.
Sometimes the very excess of my insolence reassured me. My answers had been so insulting, so violent, such a contrast to my former behaviour towards her, not to seem incomprehensible. Knowing her own merit, surrounded by every attention, and constantly flattered, she must have been more astounded than angered by my words, and she is probably still at a loss to discover the key to my conduct.
I am not sure whether tins thought was inspired by hope or despair. But though I felt thoroughly ashamed of my impertinence, I ended by persuading myself that the outrageousness of my conduct, far from injuring my prospects, might be of great service to me, and, had I planned it all, I could not have managed it better.
In every love affair, the main thing, I think, is to excite and fill the imagination. To attain this end there is nothing more successful than a contrast. Therefore, it is above all things necessary that the impression you are to make should be essentially different from all those hitherto received, though at some later day, by your devotion and love, you may have to obliterate any bad impression you have made in the beginning.
If a woman has ordinarily but few friends, and is unused to flattery, there is no better way of captivating her mind, and afterwards her heart, than by the most extreme carefulness of her comfort, by the most delicate attentions; her vanity rejoices in these thousand respectful and tender proofs of solicitude, to which she had never been accustomed. It is in this manner we can explain the frequent and wonderful success of men who are no longer young, but who have great refinement and persistence. Such men can completely subjugate young girls, and even young married women.
On the other hand, does a woman fill a high position? is she continually and basely flattered? Then severity and haughtiness often have a powerful effect on her. Some women have to be treated as clever courtiers treat princes, with a certain amount of firmness, even brusqueness. If the rude outspoken language does not please them at first, it surprises, astonishes, and often subjugates them; for it is such a contrast to the commonplace and stupid things they hear every day, from every class of men, that it is frequently far from injuring the man who dares to make use of it. Applying these thoughts to my position, I said to myself: “The hardness and disdain with which I received Madame de Pënâfiel’s confidences, my anger at the sight of the portrait she attempted to hide, can easily be attributed to the violence of my love, which she has, no doubt, guessed by this time; now, rages caused by love are always excusable, especially in the eyes of the woman who is loved, and as Marguerite is high-minded and generous, she will understand how miserable I was when I believed her about to entertain me with a tale of her unrequited affection.”
Sometimes, arguing in another way, I thought I might be mistaken, and that, after all, Madame de Pënâfiel was not in love with any one else. Then my old suspicions returned, and I wondered why I should ever have dismissed them. This portrait was only one of the accessories of the comedy I accused her of acting. Then, as I had but a poor and mean opinion of myself, which was not improved by the realisation of my latest conduct, it was, I believed, impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel should have any sympathy for me, so I tried to explain her apparent confidence by assigning her the meanest motives.
This aroused my anger more than ever, and I applauded my insolence.
In the midst of this uncertainty and anxiety this restless and agonising fever, I received the following note from Madame de Penafiel:
“I am waiting for you. Come — you must — come immediately. M.”
It was nine o’clock, I started off instantly almost wild with joy. She had sent for me. I might still hope.
CHAPTER XXIII.
MARGUERITE.
ON ENTERING THE room, I was overcome with astonishment at finding Madame de Pënâfiel in almost the same attitude as when I left her.
Her face was deadly pale, fearful to see; it was like a marble mask.
This sickly paleness that had so suddenly changed her appearance, this expression of grief and resignation, touched me so deeply that all my reasonings and all my miserable suspicions vanished in an instant; it seemed as though I loved her for the first time with the most confiding and sincere love. I had no thought, even of asking her forgiveness for all that was hateful in my behaviour towards her.
I had no thoughts to waste on the miserable past. By I know not what magic, all I thought of now was how to console her for some dreadful grief of which I knew nothing. I was about to throw myself at her knees, when she said, in such an altered voice that I scarcely recognised it, although she attempted to give it an accent of firmness:
“I have sent for you, because I wished to see you for the last time, I wished to ask you the meaning of the strange words you said to me this morning, — that is, if you can explain them to yourself; I wished to tell you—”
Here her pale lips contracted tremulously, with that involuntary movement one feels when with tearful eyes an attempt is made to prevent sobbing. “I wished—” said Madame de Pënâfiel in a faint voice. Then as she could say no more, as she was weeping, she hid her head in her hands, and I only
heard these words pronounced in a stifled voice, “Ah, poor unhappy woman that I am!”
“Oh, pardon — pardon, Marguerite!” I exclaimed, falling at her feet; “but do you not know how I love you — how I love you!”
“You love me?”
“Wildly, madly!”
“He loves me! He dares to say that he loves me!” she said, with indignation.
“This morning the secret of my soul was twenty times on my lips; but when I saw how unhappy you were — when I listened to your confession—”
“Well!”
“Well! T believed, yes, I believed, that it was love for another, a love that was not returned, scorned perhaps, and that such unrequited love was the cause of all the grief which you said was without cause and unreasonable.”
“You believed that, — you!” and she raised her eyes to heaven.
“Yes, I believed it; and then I became wild with hate and despair, for every one of your confessions was a wound, an insult, an agony to me, — to me who loved you so fondly.”
“You could believe that, — you!” repeated Marguerite, gazing on me with painful emotion, while two tears trickled slowly down her pale cheeks.
“Yes, and I believe it still.”
“You believe it still. But you must think me infamous. Do you not know?”
“I know,” I cried out, interrupting her, “I know that I love you to distraction. I know that another man causes you such suffering as I feel for you. Well, then, such thoughts have made me desperate, and I am going away.”
“You are going away?”
“Yes, this very night. I did not dare to see you again. I need all my courage, and I will have it.”
