III April, 18
What a bewildering day! It has been so filled with happy hours that I fondly listen to their distant echoes in my heart.
It has been a radiantly beautiful day. As we had agreed upon yesterday, I met Marguerite in the Bois; her face, which is still rather pale, seemed to bloom afresh in the sunlight. She was on foot, and before joining her I followed her at some distance in the Alley of the Acacias. Nothing could be more elegant than her walk, or than her figure, whose suppleness and grace was only half hidden by the shawl that was wrapped around her. I also watched for some time her little feet, as, at each step, they raised the flowing edge of her dress.
I joined her, and she blushed deeply when she saw me. I am more than ever convinced of the value of this symptom. As soon as it ceases, as soon as the sight of the beloved one no longer causes the blood to rush from the heart to the face, real love, ardent and young, has disappeared; a weak and chilly affection has come in its place; indifference and forgetfulness are not far off.
I gave her my arm. As she scarcely touched it, I begged her to lean on it more.
The air was pure and mild, the turf was beginning to look green, the violets to blossom. We spoke very little at first. From time to time she turned her face up to mine, and looked smilingly at me, while her large eyes seemed to swim in clear crystal; then her nostrils would dilate, as she said, eagerly, “Oh, how good it is to breathe thus the springtime and happiness!”
When we saw the Heights of Calvary we talked about the country, the great forests, the fields, and the beautiful and vast treasures of nature. Our conversation was often interrupted by long pauses. After one of these, she said to me: “I wish you could come to Brittany; we would take long, long walks together, and I would plant you in our woods, so that later, when I was all alone, I should gather in a rich harvest of tender recollections.”
I replied that I had nothing to tell her in return for such charming flattery, and I was really glad it was so, for nothing is more tiresome than those persons who repay you instantly, by returning a pretty compliment or delicate attention, as though they wished to rid themselves at any price of an intolerable debt. We met several men and women of our acquaintance on foot as we were. After they had passed us and we had exchanged bows, we laughingly declared that we would like to know what they were saying about us.
While telling of our walk, I wish to say that Marguerite told me that Paris was becoming odious to her; that she had formed a fine project, but would not disclose it to me until the first of May. Impossible to make her tell any more.
At four o’clock the old Chevalier Don Luiz rejoined us, and we all three continued our walk for awhile. Madame de Pënâfiel and I each had some visits to make and so I left her. That night she was to go to a ball, and we agreed that I should go to see her at ten o’clock to have the first glimpse of her toilet, of which she made a great mystery.
On leaving Marguerite I called on Madame de ——. Our happiness is already very well known. Formerly, people would speak very freely about Madame de Pënâfiel in my presence; now no one ever pronounces her name before me, or, if they do so, it is always accompanied with the most exaggerated praise. I noticed this for the first time at Madame de ——’s.
One of her friends who has just arrived from Italy, and is ignorant of the latest liaisons in society, said to her, after having received information about several ladies of his acquaintance: “And what about Madame de Pënâfiel? I hope you have got some good story to tell me about her. Come, tell us who is the fortunate or unfortunate man of the hour? Tell me all about it. You owe that much to a man who arrives from the antipodes and knows nothing of what is going on; besides, unless I have some information I shall make some terrible blunders.”
“But you are crazy,” replied Madame de ——, blushing deeply, and glancing towards me; “you know how I perfectly detest such gossip, especially when it is about one of my best friends; for my affection for Marguerite dates from our childhood.” She said this very meaningly.
“One of your best friends! Ah, that is charming, ah, yes,” replied this stupid man, who understood nothing. “One of your best friends, ’tis very good! But then, you know they say, ‘Who loves well chastises well,’ and you used to tell me hundreds of entertaining tales about her, each one more spiteful than the other.”
Madame de ——’s embarrassment was so great that I took pity on her.
“Then I am not the only one that you have attempted to draw into that trap,” I said to her, laughing.
“A trap?” said the newcomer.
“A trap, monsieur,” I answered, “a trap baited with malice, into which even I, who am one of Madame de Pënâfiel’s sincerest and most devoted friends, had almost fallen.”
“Ah, do you believe me capable of such treachery?” replied Madame de ——, smiling, but not understanding my meaning.
“Certainly, madame, I think you are, for it is an excellent way of discovering our friends’ partisans; you pretend to have heard some dreadful scandal concerning an intimate friend, and, according to the way your acquaintances defend or attack the truth of your statement, you can judge of their kindly or inimical feelings; so that afterwards, when your friend hears their protestations of affection, she will be able to accept them at their true value.”
“Ah, you are terribly indiscreet,” said Madame de ——, with the pretence of a smile. The newcomer from Italy was quite astounded. Another visitor entering, I went out.
At ten o’clock I went to Marguerite’s. I hoped I should have to wait for her, for I find it delightful to be for awhile alone, and dreamily enjoy the quiet of a salon in which the beloved one passes so much of her life, and then to see it suddenly illumined by her presence. But I had not this pleasure, for she was already there and waiting for me. This victory that I had won over the important and pleasing duties of the toilet, this delicate and unusual attention of being ready to receive me, gave me the greatest delight.
Marguerite was adorable. She wore a dress of pale green moire, trimmed with lace and bows of rose-coloured ribbon, from the centre of which blossomed great pink roses. One of these flowers was in the corsage, and another one in her hair. She brought me one of her bracelets to fasten for her, which I did, but not without imprinting a kiss on that beautiful arm so white and round.
I wished her to tell me her great secret of the first of May, but she said that this springtime of hope must still remain a mystery.
I told her about my morning visit to Madame ——, and we both laughed at it; but Marguerite said she was too happy now to care for the falsehoods that were said of her. Then we spoke of a very beautiful foreigner, who had made a great sensation in society, and she thanked me gaily for having shown so much attention to that charming person.
“And why should you thank me for that?” I asked.
“Because when a man flirts with other women, it is a sure sign that he is absolutely certain of the heart of the one woman he loves. Thus, you see, I am very proud to have inspired such confidence, and such security.”
At eleven o’clock she ordered her carriage.
As I was expressing my gratitude at this opportunity of being entirely alone, Marguerite answered: “This is nothing; wait until my first of May.”
I went for a short visit to the Opéra. It was very brilliant. I found M. de Cernay in our box. What he calls my good fortune continues to annoy him; for he never forgets to tell me how pleased he is to see her so seriously attached to me; it was sure to happen one day or another. Besides, she must be tired of leading such a life of excitement. Her craze for Ismaël was but a piece of folly; her inclination for M. de Merteuil was only a caprice; her other mysterious but well-known adventures were simply to satisfy a wild imagination, while the affection she had for me was quite another thing.
According to my custom, I obstinately denied my good fortune, whereupon M. de Cernay accused me of dissimulation, of trying to hide what all Paris was aware of. He finished by predicting that, if I persisted in remaining so secretive, I would never have a friend in the world. This prediction really caused me serious annoyance.
I went to Madame de ——’s ball to join Marguerite. On entering the salons I had not to go far to find her. Who can explain that instinct, that strange faculty, thanks to which an instant and a single look suffice for a man to discover in a crowded room, among hundreds of other men and women, the person of all others he desires to meet?
Marguerite was conversing with Madame de ——, when I discovered her. She received me with a perfect graciousness and a marked preference, although she was surrounded by several others. I speak of this peculiarity, because most women who have special interest in some particular man think they show a great deal of tact in receiving the one they care for most with affected indifference or even positive rudeness.
Madame de —— is very lively, intelligent, and gay, of a frank and sensible disposition, indulgent, but not commonplace, and very fierce and disagreeable, when any of her absent friends are attacked. Marguerite and I are fortunate enough to be favourites of hers. They sat down on a small sofa, and I taking a chair behind them, we made a thousand amusing remarks about every one and everything. Finally we spoke of pictures, and Madame de —— said to me:
“I know that you have a charming collection of paintings. Why do you not give us a supper some evening and invite some of our friends, so that we can all admire your marvels?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” I replied. “But it must be understood that I will not invite any of the husbands; they spoil everything, like a man in a ballet.”
“Quite the contrary,” she said to me, “it will be very entertaining, for in many liaisons there is as much tiresome stupidity and jealousy as in conjugal life. Many husbands are very amiable, and the only thing against them is that they are husbands.” After having discussed the question for some time, we agreed to invite a reasonable proportion of both husbands and lovers.
It was getting late. Marguerite begged her cousin, Don Luiz, to call the carriage. While she was waiting for it, I threw her cloak over her beautiful shoulders, and said, in a low voice, “At eleven o’clock, to-morrow?”
She blushed deeply, and softly pressed my hand when I gave her the fan.
I understood what it meant.
Don Luiz offered his arm, and they went away.
Returning home, I have just written the details of this day, which was apparently so devoid of interest and yet has been filled with charming episodes. Yes, a series of charming little episodes. Nothing in themselves, but the making of a memorable day when linked together. It is, then, a bouquet composed of a thousand happy souvenirs as intoxicating as the perfume of a thousand sweet-smelling flowers.