“But Monsieur,” said that gracious girl, “if all these preparations come to naught, why make them? . . . What if I convince you that I was not born to be yours? . . .”
“That, Mademoiselle, is something I defy you ever to convince me of,” said the worthy Courval. “Let us proceed, I beg of you, and do not stand in the way of my plans.”
On this last point he was not to be swayed; all the arrangements were made, and they left for Courval’s estate. There, however, they were alone, as Mademoiselle de Florville had requested; the things she had to say were only for the ears of the man who wished to marry her; hence no one was admitted. The day after her arrival, this beautiful and interesting girl, having asked Monsieur de Courval to listen closely, related the events of her life in the following terms:
MADEMOISELLE DE FLORVILLE’S STORY
Your intentions concerning me, Monsieur, no longer allow that you be kept in ignorance of certain things. You have seen that Monsieur de Saint-Prât, to whom you have been told I was related, has himself attested to this fact. And yet, on this point, you have been completely misled. My origins are a total mystery to me, and I have never had the satisfaction of knowing who my parents were. When I was only a few days old, I was found in a green taffeta bassinet on Monsieur de Saint-Prât’s doorstep; to the canopy of the bassinet was attached an anonymous letter, which simply said:
Since after ten years of marriage you have no children, and since your constant desire is to have one, adopt this infant; her blood is pure; she is the issue of a chaste marriage and not of libertinage; her birth is honorable. If the child is not to your liking, take her to an orphanage. Make no inquiries, they will come to naught. It is impossible to tell you anything more.
The worthy people on whose doorstep I had been left straightway took me in, raised me, and tendered me every possible care. I can say that I owe them everything. As there was no indication of my name, it pleased Madame de Saint-Prât to call me Florville.
I had just turned fifteen when I had the misfortune of seeing my protectress die. Nothing can express the pain I felt at that loss. I had become so dear to her that on her deathbed she besought her husband never to abandon me and to settle on me an income of four thousand francs. Both requests were punctually granted, and to these kindnesses Monsieur de Saint-Prât added that of acknowledging me as a cousin of his wife and of arranging for me, in this capacity, the bequest with which you are familiar. Yet I could no longer remain under his roof; Monsieur de Saint-Prât explained to me why.
“I am a widower, and still young,” this virtuous man said to me. “To live under the same roof might give rise to suspicions that we do not deserve. Your happiness and your reputation are dear to me; I do not want to compromise either one. We must part company, Florville; but as long as I live I shall not abandon you; nor do I even want you to leave the fold of my family. I have a sister in Nancy; I am going to commend you to her. Her friendship will be no less steadfast than my own, of that I can assure you. And there, with her, still as it were before my eyes, I can continue to watch over anything you may require to complete your education or establish your situation in the world.”
I did not learn this news without breaking down into tears. This latest sorrow further intensified the grief I had felt upon the death of my benefactress. None the less convinced that Monsieur de Saint-Prât was right, I decided to follow his advice, and I set off for Lorraine, in the company of a lady from that region into whose care I had been entrusted. She delivered me to Madame de Verquin, Monsieur de Saint-Prât’s sister, with whom I was to live.
Madame de Verquin’s house bespoke an orientation quite different from that of Monsieur de Saint-Prât. If in the latter I had seen decency, religion, and morality reign supreme, in this other frivolity, the taste of pleasure, and independence were ensconced as though ’twas their sanctuary and refuge.
Before many days had elapsed after my arrival, Madame de Verquin informed me that my prudish air displeased her, saying that it was incredible for someone to arrive from Paris with such awkward manners . . . with so ludicrous a strain of modesty, and that if I wished not to offend her I would have to adopt another tone. This beginning alarmed me; I shall not attempt to make myself out to you any better than I am, Monsieur; but all my life I have been deeply displeased by anything which departs from the straight and narrow paths of morality and religion, I have been the avowed enemy of whatsoever offends virtue, and the sins into which I have been led in spite of myself have caused me so much remorse that ’tis not, I assure you, doing me a service to bring me back into contact with the world. I am not made to live in it; and when I am forced into contact with the world, I become shy and unsociable. What best befits the state of my soul and the inclinations of my mind is the most obscure seclusion.
These reflections, still imperfectly formulated, not fully ripened at such a tender age, did not protect me either from Madame de Verquin’s poor counsel or from the evil into which her enticements were to plunge me. The constant company I saw, the boisterous pleasures with which I was surrounded, the example set and the conversation heard—all combined to lure me into error. I was told that I was pretty, and I was foolish enough to believe it.
The Normandy regiment was at that time garrisoned in Nancy. Madame de Verquin’s house was the officers’ meeting place. ’Twas also the trysting place for all the young women in town, and there all the amorous intrigues of the town were begun, broken off, and re-formed.
It is likely that Monsieur de Saint-Prât was unaware of at least a part of his sister’s conduct. How, in the light of his austere morality, could he have agreed to send me there if indeed he had known her well? This consideration made me hesitate, nay kept me from complaining to him. Should I be perfectly honest? Perhaps I did not even want to complain to him. The impure air I was breathing began to defile my heart and, like Telemachus on Calypso’s island, perhaps I might not have listened to Mentor’s advice.
The shameless Madame de Verquin, who for a long time had been trying to corrupt me, asked me one day if it was indeed true that I had brought a pure heart with me to Lorraine, and whether I was not languishing over some lover left behind in Paris?
“Alas, Madame,” I said to her, “I have never even dreamt of the misdeeds you impute to me, and your brother can answer to you concerning my conduct. . . .”
“Misdeeds?” Madame de Verquin broke in. “If you are guilty of any, ’tis to be yet so naive at your age. I trust you’ll take steps to correct this.”
“Oh, Madame, is this the kind of language I should be hearing from such a respectable lady?”
“Respectable? . . . Ah, not another word! I assure you, my dear, that of all the sentiments I would like to inspire, respect is the one I care least about. ’Tis love I wish to inspire. . . . But respect—I am not yet of an age to cultivate that sentiment. Follow my example, my dear, and you will be happy. . . . By the way, have you noticed Senneval?” added that siren, referring to a young officer of seventeen who was wont to frequent her house.
“Not particularly, Madame,” I replied. “I can assure you that I look upon them all with equal indifference.”
“That is precisely what you must not do, my dear young friend. From now on, I want us to share our conquests. . . . You must have Senneval. He is my handiwork, ’tis I who took the trouble to form him. He loves you; you must have him. . . .”
“Oh! Madame, I would appreciate your excusing me from such plans. Truly, I don’t care for anyone.”
“You must. The arrangements have already been made with his colonel, who, as you have seen, is my present lover.”
“I beg of you not to involve me in your designs. I am not by nature inclined toward the pleasures you cherish.”
“Oh, that will change! Someday you will love them, as I do. ’Tis all too easy not to appreciate things whereof one is still ignorant. But ’tis inadmissible not to want to know something which was meant to be adored. In a word, the plans have already been set: thi
s evening, Mademoiselle, Senneval will declare his passion to you. You had better not keep him languishing too long or I shall be angry with you . . . extremely angry.”
At five o’clock the group gathered. As it was very warm, card parties were arranged outside in the groves, and everything was so well organized that Monsieur de Senneval and I, being the only ones who were not playing, found ourselves obliged to engage in a conversation.
It would be useless to conceal from you, Monsieur, that no sooner had this charming and witty young man revealed his love to me than I felt myself drawn to him as though by some irresistible force. And when later I tried to analyze this attraction, I found that it was all very obscure. It seemed to me that this inclination was not the result merely of some ordinary feeling; what distinguished it was concealed by a veil before my eyes. On the other hand, at the very moment my heart would fly out to him, an invincible force seemed to hold it back, and in this tumult, in this ebb and flow of incomprehensible ideas, I could not make up my mind whether I was doing right to love Senneval, or whether I should flee from him forever.
He was given ample time to declare his love to me . . . alas, he was allowed more than enough! I had time to appear responsive, in his eyes, to his declaration and, taking advantage of my confusion, he demanded that I confess my feelings toward him. I was weak enough to tell him that he was far from displeasing me and, three days later, guilty enough to let him taste the fruits of victory.
’Tis a truly extraordinary thing, the malicious joy of vice in its triumphs over virtue. Nothing could match Madame de Verquin’s transports of pleasure as soon as she learned that I had fallen into the trap she had set for me. She laughed at me, poked fun at me, and in the end assured me that what I had done was the simplest, most reasonable thing in the world. She said I could receive my lover every night in her house, without fear, for she would not even be aware of what I did, being too occupied for her own part to pay any attention to such trifles. She added that she would still have as high a regard for my virtue, since in all likelihood I would limit myself to this one, whilst she, obliged to contend with three, was most assuredly far from possessing my qualities of modesty and reserve. When I took the liberty of telling her that such promiscuous conduct was odious, that it showed a lack of sensitivity and feeling, that it was demeaning to our sex and reduced it to the level of the basest of animals, Madame de Verquin burst out laughing.
“You Gallic heroine,” she said. “I admire you and do not blame you. I am well aware that at your age sensitivity and feeling are the twin gods to whom one sacrifices pleasure. At my age, ’tis not quite the same. Completely disillusioned concerning these phantoms, we accord them slightly less sway. We prefer pleasures of a more concrete sort than the silly things about which you wax ecstatic. Why, pray tell, should we be faithful to men who have never been faithful to us? Is it not bad enough to be the weaker sex, without being the more gullible as well? Any woman who lets herself be guided by the principle of sensitivity in such matters is quite foolish. . . . Believe me, my dear, vary your pleasures whilst your age and your charms allow you to, and cast aside your chimerical faithfulness, your sad, shy virtue, which is never satisfying in itself and never makes any impression on others.”
These words made me shudder, but I realized that I no longer had the right to dispute them. The criminal help of that immoral woman was now necessary to me, and I had to treat her with circumspection. ’Tis a fatal disadvantage of vice, for it places us, as soon as we are in its clutches, in bondage to people whom we would otherwise scorn. And so I accepted all of Madame de Verquin’s complaisances. Each night Senneval gave me new proof of his love, and thus six months passed in such a state of intoxication that I scarcely had time to reflect.
The baleful consequences soon opened my eyes. I became pregnant, and I thought I would die of despair upon finding myself in a condition which Madame de Verquin merely found amusing.
“Still in all,” she said, “we must save appearances, and since it would not be very seemly for you to have your child in my house, Senneval’s colonel and I have made some arrangements. He is going to give the young man a leave. You will depart a few days ahead of him for Metz, and he will follow shortly behind. There, with his help, you’ll give birth to this illicit fruit of your tenderness. Afterward, you will both return here, one after the other, the same way you have gone.”
I had no choice but to obey. As I told you, Monsieur, once one has had the misfortune to commit a sin, one places oneself at the mercy of all men and all situations; the whole world has a claim upon us, we become the slaves of anything that breathes the moment we forget ourselves to the point of becoming a thrall to our passions.
Everything happened just as Madame de Verquin had said. On the third day, Senneval and I were once again together, in Metz, at the house of a midwife whose address I had obtained before leaving Nancy, and there I gave birth to a boy. Senneval, who had never ceased to display the most tender and delicate sentiments, seemed to love me even more after I had, to use his own words, doubled his existence. He showed me every possible consideration, begged me to leave his son to him, swore to me that he would receive every possible care throughout his life, and said that he would not return to Nancy until his debt with regard to me had been fulfilled.
It was not until he was on the verge of leaving that I dared to mention how unhappy the sin he had caused me to commit was bound to make me, and to propose that we atone for it by consecrating our union at the foot of the altar. Senneval, who had not been expecting this proposal, was much disturbed by it. . . .
“Alas,” he said to me, “am I free to do as I like? I am still not of age; would I not therefore require my father’s consent? And what would our marriage be without this formality? Besides, I am far from a suitable match for you; as Madame de Verquin’s niece—for in Nancy I was considered as such—you can aspire to a much better match. Believe me, Florville, let us forget our past mistakes. You can count on my discretion.”
These words, which I had not at all expected, made me cruelly aware of the enormity of my transgression. My pride kept me from responding, but as a result my sorrow was all the greater. If anything had been concealing the full horror of my conduct from my own eyes, it was, I confess, the hope of one day atoning for it by marrying my lover.
What a credulous girl I was! I did not imagine—although Madame de Verquin’s perverse ways should have opened my eyes—I did not believe that one could make sport of seducing a poor miserable girl and then abandon her. Nor did I realize that honor, this sentiment so highly respected amongst men, was so empty and ineffective with regard to us, and that our weakness could justify an insult which men would never dare subject one another to except at the risk of their lives. Thus I saw myself at once the victim and the dupe of the man for whom I gladly would have laid down my life. This frightful realization came very close to sending me to my grave. Senneval did not leave me. The cares he proffered me were the same as ever, but never again did he allude to my proposal, and I was far too proud to reveal to him a second time the reason for my despair. He disappeared as soon as I was fully recovered.
My mind made up never to return to Nancy, and knowing full well that I was seeing my lover for the last time in my life, I felt all my old wounds reopening when I bade him farewell. None the less, I had the strength to endure this final blow. . . . What a heartless creature! He left, tore himself from my breast, which was wet with tears, without shedding a single tear himself!
Such then is the consequence of those vows of love we are foolish enough to believe! The more sensitive we are, the more our seducers forsake and abandon us. . . . Perfidious creatures! The greater the means we employ to hold them, the greater their tendency to leave us.
Senneval had taken his child and had placed him somewhere in the country where it was impossible for me to find him. . . . He wanted to deprive me of the joy of loving and raising this tender fruit of our union. One would have thought that he wanted me to
forget everything which might still bind us to each other, and so I did; or, rather, I thought I did.
I determined to leave Metz immediately and not return to Nancy. Yet I did not want to quarrel or break off relations with Madame de Verquin. In spite of her failings, it was enough that she was such a close relative of my benefactor to make me treat her with consideration throughout my life. I wrote her a most courteous letter, using as an excuse for not returning to Nancy that my shame over the sin I had committed there was too great, and requesting her permission to return to her brother’s house in Paris. She answered me straightway that I was mistress of my own destiny and free to do as I pleased, and said that I could always count on her friendship. She added that Senneval had not yet come back to Nancy, that no one knew whither he had gone, and that I was a foolish girl to worry my head over all these trifles.
After I had received this letter, I returned to Paris and hastened to cast myself at Monsieur de Saint-Prât’s knees. My silence and my tears soon revealed my wretchedness to him; but I was careful to blame no one but myself and never to mention the role his sister had played in my seduction. Monsieur de Saint-Prât, like all souls in whom good predominates, in no wise suspected his relative’s dissolute ways; he judged her the most worthy of women. I did nothing to dissuade him or destroy his illusions; Madame de Verquin was aware of this act of loyalty, because of which her friendship for me did not wither.
The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings Page 16
