As we have said, Franval was generously endowed with all the charm of youth and all the talents which embellish it; but so great was his contempt of both moral and religious duties that it had become impossible for his tutors to inculcate any of them in him.
In an age when the most dangerous, the most insidious books are available to children, as well as to their fathers and their tutors, when rashness of thought passes for philosophy, when incredulity passes for strength, and libertinage is mistaken for imagination, Franval’s wit provoked approving laughter. He may have been scolded immediately afterward, but later he was praised for it. Franval’s father, an ardent advocate of fashionable sophisms, was the first to encourage his son to think soundly on all these matters. He even went so far as to personally lend his son the works most liable to corrupt him all the more quickly. In the light of which, what teacher would have dared to inculcate principles different from those of the household wherein the young Franval was obliged to please?
Be that as it may, Franval lost his parents while he was still very young, and when he was nineteen an elderly uncle, who also died shortly thereafter, bequeathed him, upon the occasion of his marriage, the full wealth due him from his inheritance.
With such a fortune, Monsieur de Franval should have had not the slightest difficulty in finding a wife. An infinite number of possible matches were proposed, but since Franval had begged his uncle to arrange a match for him with a girl younger than he, and with as few relatives as possible, the old man directed his attentions to a Mademoiselle de Farneille, the daughter of a financier, who had lost her father and whose only family was her widowed mother. The girl was actually quite young, only fifteen, but she had sixty thousand very real livres annual income and one of the most charming and delightful faces in all Paris . . . one of those virgin-like faces in which the qualities of candor and charm vie with each other beneath the delicate features of love and feminine grace. Her long blond hair cascaded down below her waist and her large blue eyes bespoke both tenderness and modesty; she had a slender, lithe, and graceful figure, skin that was lily-white, and the freshness of roses about her. She was blessed with many talents, was possessed of a lively but slightly melancholy imagination—that gentle melancholy which predisposes one to a love of books and a taste for solitude, attributes which Nature seems to accord to those whom she has fated for misfortune, as though to make it less bitter for them by the somber and touching pleasure it brings them, a pleasure which makes them prefer tears to the frivolous joy of happiness, which is a much less active and less pervasive force.
Madame de Farneille, who was thirty-two at the time of her daughter’s marriage, was also a witty and winning woman, but perhaps a trifle too reserved and severe. Desirous to see her only child happy, she had consulted all of Paris about this marriage. And since she no longer had any family, she was obliged to rely for advice on a few of those cold friends who care not a whit about anything. They succeeded in convincing her that the young man who was being proposed for her daughter was, beyond any shadow of a doubt, the best match she could make in Paris, and that she would be utterly and unpardonably foolish if she were to turn it down. And so the marriage took place, and the young couple, wealthy enough to take their own house, moved into it within a few days.
Young Franval’s heart did not contain any of those vices of levity, disorder, or irresponsibility which prevent a man from maturing before the age of thirty. Possessed of a fair share of self-confidence, and being an orderly man who was at his best in managing the affairs of a household, Franval had all the qualities necessary for this aspect of a happy life. His vices, of a different order altogether, were rather the failings of maturity than the indiscretions of youth: he was artful, scheming, cruel, base, self-centered, given to maneuvering, deceitful, and cunning—all of this he concealed not only by the grace and talent we have previously mentioned but also by his eloquence, his uncommon wit, and his most pleasing appearance. Such was the man we shall be dealing with.
Mademoiselle de Farneille, who in accordance with the custom had only known her husband at most a month prior to their marriage, was taken in by this sparkling exterior, and she had become his dupe. She idolized him, and the days were not long enough for her to feast her adoring eyes upon him; so great was her adoration in fact, that had any obstacles intervened to trouble the sweetness of a marriage in which, she said, she had found her only happiness in life, her health, and even her life, might have been endangered.
As for Franval, a philosopher when it came to women as he was with regard to everything else in life, coolness and impassivity marked his attitude toward this charming young woman.
“The woman who belongs to us,” he would say, “is a sort of individual whom custom has given us in bondage. She must be gentle, submissive . . . utterly faithful and obedient; not that I especially share the common prejudice concerning the dishonor a wife can impose upon us when she imitates our debaucheries. ’Tis merely that a man does not enjoy seeing another usurp his rights. Everything else is a matter of complete indifference, and adds not a jot to happiness.”
With such sentiments in a husband, it is easy to predict that a life of roses is not what lies in store for the poor girl who is married to him. Honest, sensible, well-bred, lovingly anticipating the every desire of the only man in the world she cared about, Madame de Franval bore her chains during the early years without ever suspecting her enslavement. It was easy for her to see that she was merely gleaning meager scraps in the fields of Hymen, but, still too happy with what little he left her, she devoted her every attention and applied herself scrupulously to make certain that during those brief moments when Franval acknowledged her tenderness he would at least find everything that she believed her beloved husband required to make him happy.
And yet the best proof that Franval had not been completely remiss in his duties was the fact that, during the first year of their marriage, his wife, then aged sixteen and a half, gave birth to a daughter even more beautiful than her mother, a child whom her father straightway named Eugénie—Eugénie, both the horror and the wonder of Nature.
Monsieur de Franval, who doubtless had formed the most odious designs upon the child the moment she was born, immediately separated her from her mother. Until she was seven, Eugénie was entrusted to the care of some women on whom Franval could rely, and they confined themselves to inculcating in her a good disposition and to teaching her to read. They scrupulously avoided imparting to her the slightest knowledge of any religious or moral principles of the sort that a girl of that age normally receives.
Madame de Farneille and her daughter, who were grieved and shocked by such conduct, reproached Monsieur de Franval for it. He replied imperturbably that his plan was to make his daughter happy, and he had no intention of filling her mind with chimeras designed solely to frighten men without ever proving of the least worth to them. He also said that a girl who needed nothing more than to learn how to make herself pleasing and attractive would be well advised to remain ignorant of such nonsense, for such fantasies would only disturb the serenity of her life without adding a grain of truth to her moral character or a grain of beauty to her body. Such remarks were sorely displeasing to Madame de Farneille, who was increasingly attracted to celestial ideas the more she withdrew from worldly pleasures. Piety is a failing inherent in periods of advancing age or declining health. In the tumult of the passions, we generally feel but slight concern over a future we gauge to be extremely remote, but when passions’ language becomes less compelling, when we advance on the final stages of life, when in a word everything leaves us, then we cast ourselves back into the arms of the God we have heard about when we were children. And if, according to philosophy, these latter illusions are fully as fantastic as the others, they are at least not as dangerous.
Franval’s mother-in-law had no close relatives, she herself had little or no influence, and at the very most a few casual friends who proved less than that when put to the test. Having to do ba
ttle against an amiable, young, well-situated son-in-law, she very wisely decided that it would be simpler to limit herself to remonstrating than to undertake more vigorous measures with a man who could ruin the mother and cause the daughter to be confined if they should dare to pit themselves against him. In consideration of which a few remonstrances were all she ventured, and as soon as she saw that they were to no avail, she fell silent.
Franval, certain of his superiority and perceiving that they were afraid of him, soon threw all restraint to the winds and, only thinly disguising his activities simply for the sake of appearances, he advanced straight toward his terrible goal.
When Eugénie was seven years old, Franval took her to his wife; and that loving mother, who had not seen her child since the day she had brought her into the world, could not get her fill of fondling and caressing her. For two hours she hugged the child to her breast, smothering her with kisses and bathing her with her tears. She wanted to learn all her little talents and accomplishments; but Eugénie had none except the ability to read fluently, to be blessed with perfect health, and to be as pretty as an angel. Madame de Franval was once again plunged into despair when she realized that it was only too true that her daughter was quite ignorant of the most basic principles of religion.
“What are you doing, Sir,” she said to her husband. “Do you mean to say you are bringing her up only for this world? Deign to reflect that she, like all of us, is destined to dwell but a second here, afterward to plunge into an eternity, which will be disastrous if you deprive her of the wherewithal to find happiness at the feet of Him from whom all life cometh.”
“If Eugénie knows nothing, Madame,” Franval replied, “if these maxims are carefully concealed from her, there is no way she could be made unhappy; for if they are true, the Supreme Being is too just to punish her for her ignorance, and if they are false, what need is there to speak to her about them? As for the rest of her education, please have confidence in me. Starting today I shall be her tutor, and I promise you that in a few years your daughter will surpass all the children her own age.”
Madame de Franval wished to pursue the matter further; calling the heart’s eloquence to the aid of reason, a few tears expressed themselves for her. But Franval, who was not in the least moved by the tears, did not seem even to notice them. He had Eugénie taken away, and informed his wife that if she tried to interfere in any way with the education he planned to give his daughter, or if she attempted to inculcate in the girl principles different from those with which he intended to nourish her, she would by so doing deprive herself of the pleasure of seeing her daughter, whom he would send to one of those châteaux from which she would not re-emerge. Madame de Franval, accustomed to submission, heard his words in silence. She begged her husband not to separate her from such a cherished possession and, weeping, promised not to interfere in any way with the education that was being prepared for her.
From that moment on, Mademoiselle de Franval was installed in a very lovely apartment adjacent to that of her father, with a highly intelligent governess, an assistant governess, a chambermaid, and two girl companions her own age, solely intended for Eugénie’s amusement. She was given teachers of writing, drawing, poetry, natural history, elocution, geography, astronomy, Greek, English, German, Italian, fencing, dancing, riding and music. Eugénie arose at seven every day, in summer as well as winter. For breakfast she had a large piece of rye bread, which she took with her out into the garden. She ran and played there till eight, when she came back inside and spent a few moments with her father in his apartment, while he acquainted her with the little tricks and games that society indulges in. Till nine she worked on her lessons; at nine her first tutor arrived. Between then and two she was visited by no less than five teachers. She ate lunch with her two little friends and her head governess. The dinner was composed of vegetables, fish, pastries, and fruit; never any meat, soup, wine, liqueurs, or coffee. From three to four, Eugénie went back out again to play with her companions. There they exercised together, playing tennis, ball, skittles, battledore and shuttlecock, or seeing how far they could run and jump. They dressed according to the seasons; they wore nothing that constricted their waists, never any of those ridiculous corsets equally dangerous for the stomach and chest which, impairing the breathing of a young person, perforce attack the lungs. From four to six, Mademoiselle de Franval received other tutors; and as all had not been able to appear the same day, the others came the following day. Three times a week, Eugénie went to the theater with her father, in the little grilled boxes that were rented for her by the year. At nine o’clock she returned home and dined. All she then had to eat were vegetables and fruit. Four times a week, from ten to eleven, she played with her two governesses and her maid, read from one or more novels, and then went to bed. The three other days, those when Franval did not dine out, she spent alone in her father’s apartment, and Franval devoted this period to what he termed his conferences. During these sessions he inculcated in his daughter his maxims on morality and religion, presenting to her on the one hand what some men thought on these matters, and then on the other expounding his own views.
Possessed of considerable intelligence, a vast range of knowledge, a keen mind, and passions that were already awakening, it is easy to judge the progress that these views made in Eugénie’s soul. But since the shameful Franval’s intention was not only to strengthen her mind, these lectures rarely concluded without inflaming her heart as well; and this horrible man succeeded so well in finding the means to please his daughter, he corrupted her so cleverly, he made himself so useful both to her education and her pleasures, he so ardently anticipated her every desire that Eugénie, even in the most brilliant circles, found no one as attractive as her father. And even before he made his intentions explicit, the innocent and pliant creature had filled her young heart with all the sentiments of friendship, gratitude, and tenderness which must inevitably lead to the most ardent love. She had eyes only for Franval; she paid no attention to anyone but him, and rebelled at any idea that might separate her from him. She would gladly have lavished upon him not her honor, not her charms—all these sacrifices would have seemed far too meager for the object of her idolatry—but her blood, her very life, if this tender friend of her heart had demanded it.
Mademoiselle de Franval’s feelings for her mother, her respectable and wretched mother, were not quite the same. Her father, by skillfully conveying to his daughter that Madame de Franval, being his wife, demanded certain ministrations from him which often prevented him from doing for his dear Eugénie everything his heart dictated, had discovered the secret of implanting in the heart of this young person much more hate and jealousy than the sort of respectable and tender sentiments that she ought to have felt for such a mother.
“My friend, my brother,” Eugénie sometimes used to say to Franval, who did not want his daughter to employ other expressions with him, “this woman you call your wife, this creature who, you tell me, brought me into this world, is indeed most demanding, since in wishing to have you always by her side, she deprives me of the happiness of spending my life with you. . . . It is quite obvious to me that you prefer her to your Eugénie. As for me, I shall never love anything that steals your heart away from me.”
“You are wrong, my dear friend,” Franval replied. “No one in this world will ever acquire over me rights as strong as yours. The ties which bind this woman and your best friend—the fruit of usage and social convention, which I view philosophically—will never equal the ties between us. . . . You will always be my favorite, Eugénie; you will be the angel and the light of my life, the hearth of my heart, the moving force of my existence.”
“Oh! how sweet these words are!” Eugénie replied. “Repeat them to me often, my friend. . . . If only you knew how happy these expressions of your tenderness make me!”
And taking Franval’s hand and clasping it to her heart, she went on:
“Here, feel, I can feel them all there. . . .”
“Your tender caresses assure me it’s true,” Franval answered, pressing her in his arms. . . . And thus, without a trace of remorse, the perfidious wretch concluded his plans for the seduction of this poor girl.
Eugénie’s fourteenth year was the time Franval had set for the consummation of his crime. Let us shudder! . . . He did it.
The very day that she reached that age, or rather the day she completed her fourteenth year, they were both in the country, without the encumbering presence of family or other intrusions. The Count, having that day attired his daughter in the manner that vestal virgins had been clothed in ancient times upon the occasion of their consecration to the goddess Venus, brought her upon the stroke of eleven o’clock into a voluptuous drawing room wherein the daylight was softened by muslin curtains and the furniture was bedecked with flowers. In the middle of the room was a throne of roses; Franval led his daughter over to it.
“Eugénie,” he said to her, helping her to sit down upon it, “today be the queen of my heart and allow me, on bended knee, to worship and adore thee.”
“You adore me, my brother, when it is to you that I owe everything, you who are the author of my days, who has formed me. . . . Ah! let me rather fall down at your feet; that is the only place I belong, and the only place I aspire to with you.”
Justine, Philosophy in the Bedroom, and Other Writings Page 40
