IV April, 18
I went to her house at three o’clock.
I found her as tender and affectionate as ever, but serious, pensive, and almost sad.
There was no regret or reproachfulness in this sadness; it was a calm, melancholy mood, a sweet reverie. All her thoughts were elevated and serious.
I was amazed at this change in her.
In the souls of certain women there are inexhaustible treasures of delicacy.
With them everything is purified by sacrifice and idealised by the religious ardour of their love, by a sentiment of sacred duty that they find in loving, and a melancholy contemplation in which all thought of the future overwhelms them.
With us the horizon is much more restricted. When once our passion and our vanity are satisfied by possession, nothing can be more positive, more decided, than our sensations. The best of us are sometimes tender and grateful, but most of us are sated and sulky. With some women, however, it is just the opposite; they are happy and sad by turns, generally more sad than happy, for melancholy predominates in their nature, and what they feel is inexpressible. It is both joy and despair, regret and hope, burning shame and purest love, terrible remorse, and the intense desire to surrender herself once more.
I remained a long time with Marguerite. Our conversation was delightfully intimate. She asked me about my family, about my father. For awhile I was very much saddened by such unaccustomed thoughts. I confessed everything to her, my ingratitude and indifference to his memory.
Then Marguerite could not restrain her tears, and said to me: “You believe, though, in the eternal duration of other affections, since you dare to ask for my love.”
I was so intensely happy that I succeeded in reassuring her as to the future, and when her melancholy mood had passed she spoke with ineffable and almost maternal tenderness of my projects, of her annoyance at seeing me lead such a barren and idle life, whose uselessness she believed to be the source of all my unhappiness. I replied that at the present hour her reproaches were without foundation, and that she should no longer think of me as idle or unhappy, for, as I was to spend my time in worshipping her, I would be the happiest and best occupied of men.
And as to all this I added a thousand lively speeches, Marguerite took my hand, and said, with an inexpressible look of goodness, love, and kind reproach in her lovely eyes, which were filled with tears: “You are very gay, Arthur!”
“That is because I am so happy, so supremely happy.”
“It is strange,” said she. “I, too, am happy, completely happy. And yet you see I am weeping. I have to weep.”
Then we talked of signs and omens, and, finally, of divination and fortune-tellers. As we were wont to do, we discussed the worn out theme, Is there such a thing as foretelling the future? We ended by coming to the decision that to-morrow we would meet at Mlle. Lenormand’s in the Rue de Tournon, and have our fortunes told.
I left Marguerite’s at half-past six. She forbade me to come again in the evening, as she said she wished to spend it in writing letters.
When I was alone, and only influenced by my own thoughts, I was more than ever surprised at the great difference between the impressions of men and those of women.
After such a morning of sensual intoxication, Marguerite needed silence, reverie, and solitude, while I felt a positive want of noise, excitement, and animation. Though intense, my happiness was exuberant. I felt gay, talkative, amiable, perfectly contented with everything. In such a mood the gay world, with all its joy and splendour, was the only place to display my felicity.
Before going to one or two soirées, I went to the theatre to hear the second act of “Othello.” I saw Madame de V—— alone in her box. She looked, as she always does, charming and exquisitely dressed.
There is nothing prettier ever seen than a beautiful, smiling woman’s face, standing out in brilliant light, against the dark background of an opera box.
In the entr’acte I went to pay Madame de V—— a visit. She received me very graciously, I would almost say in a coquettish and provocative manner, if it were not her usual way, she being born coquettish and provoking as some women are born blonde or brunette. She is so original, and bright, and wild, and says everything in such a graceful, lively way, and with such innocent maliciousness, that people are willing to forgive her for anything she does.
She began by a lively attack on my devotion to a certain marquise, saying that the belle marquise was fortunate in being one of her enemies, as otherwise she would have taken great satisfaction in disturbing the serenity of our love scenes.
“How is that? You refrain from revenge because she is an enemy?”
“Certainly, we save those nice little treacheries for our best friends,” said she, “and it is a great pity, for in twenty-four hours, if I chose, I could make you so much in love with me that you would have to be tied hand and foot.”
“But you did that long ago, and without taking the least trouble,” said I. Then, through one gallant speech to another, I rang the praises of those ephemeral amours of former days, of those heart to heart communions which were so ravishing, but which in our days were unfortunately so rare. Charming meetings, with no yesterday nor to-morrow, and which leave only a delicious souvenir,—a single pearl.
“I don’t agree with you,” said she, very gaily; “when it comes to pearls, I prefer a necklace to a ring.”
“Yes, madame; but all the pearls of a necklace are exactly alike, of equal size, and very monotonous, whereas some pearls are inestimable, merely on account of their singularity, and are worth more than a whole necklace.”
“That is the reason, no doubt, monsieur, why you have always seemed to me so precious and peculiar.”
Thanks to our chatter, “Othello” was hardly listened to. I say this to my shame. People were beginning to leave the boxes. “Come, let us be going,” said Madame de V——, “my husband is not here, and I am all alone again.”
“Your husband,—I can understand that, for you know they say, ‘It is only the rich that undervalue their wealth,’ but what does surprise me is that—”
And as I hesitated, she said, very deliberately: “What surprises you is that M. de —— is not here to give me his arm and call the carriage for me; is not that what you wished to say?”
“That is just what, through ferocious envy and a tigerish jealousy, I did not wish to say at all.”
“I have sent him hunting for a week, so as to take him into my good graces once more,” replied Madame de V——, negligently, “for his absences are delightful.”
“Delightful for every one, for I shall be indebted to him for a charming privilege, if you will accept my arm to go to the door.”
“Certainly I will; I was waiting for you to offer it.”
“And will my privileges stop at such a small favour as that? Alas!”
“You are very curious and very indiscreet.”
“Perhaps so, I should like to be curiously eager, and then indiscreetly happy.”
“But,” said she, without answering me, and pointing out a woman whose appearance was perfectly ludicrous, “look at that poor Madame B——. They all say she has such stupid eyes. Ridiculous! I think they are the brightest eyes in the world, for they look as though they wished to run away from her ugly head.”
I forget all the other malicious observations she made, laughing aloud, as we descended the staircase, she on one step, and I on another.
At last, just as she was leaving, she reminded me that it was a long time since I had been to see her sketches; that she was very proud of the progress she had made, and would like to have my opinion on the subject.
“Madame, I shall be delighted either to criticise or admire so many marvels, only as I am very severe, and like to give my opinion frankly, I should be seriously annoyed by the presence of a third party; so I hope you will close your doors to visitors while I am there.”
“But, monsieur, that would seem like a tête-à-tête, a rendezvous.”
“Exactly so, madame.”
“And my servants?”
“Tell them you do not wish to see any one but your notary.”
“And you would pass yourself off—”
“For the notary, for an attorney, for anything you please; if necessary I will get a package of papers and green spectacles, and then we can talk as long as we please, without raising any suspicions,—we can talk business.”
“About a will, for instance.”
“Certainly, the will of poor ——, whose inheritor I would so like to be.”
“Heavens! how well you act your rôle!” cried Madame de V——.
Just then her carriage was called.
“Very well,” said I, as I accompanied her, “then you will expect to see your notary at three o’clock to-morrow?”
“He can come, and perhaps I will be able to see him.”
“Are you going to Madame T——’s concert to-night?”
“No, I am on my way home.”
“What, so early?”
“Yes, I have to put my papers in order, for to-morrow I shall have an interview with the most terrible and tiresome of lawyers.”
Saying these words, and still laughing, she got into her carriage.
I went under the portico to wait for mine; there I was accosted by fat old Pommerive, who in passing me said: “Faithless, already! It is very soon, or very late.”
I shrugged my shoulders, and smiled.
I went to the concert, the crowd was too great. For my part I cannot enjoy music unless I am comfortably seated. I have just returned and found a long and tender letter from Marguerite awaiting me.
In our conversation of this morning I chanced to say how fond I was of Parma violets. I find two enormous baskets of them in my salon.
Such a souvenir, such a delicate attention, touches and charms me, but it does not make me feel really ashamed of my assiduity towards Madame de V——, who is so pretty and so charmingly vivacious.
However, I read Marguerite’s letter with the greatest fondness; it is tender and sweet, and full of melancholy; she has spent a long, quiet evening thinking only of me. In the postscript she reminds me that to-morrow at three o’clock we are to meet at Mlle. Lenormand’s to have our fortunes told.
Now it is at three o’clock that I have promised Madame de V—— to go and see her drawings. What is to be done? Certainly, I do not mean to compare the profound and real affection I have for Marguerite with the intense but ephemeral fancy I have taken to Madame de V——, who is as great a flirt as she is seductive and pretty.
I am perfectly sure of Marguerite’s love, it is a sincere and lasting affection; the passing fancy that I feel for, Madame de V—— could in no way interfere with such a tender and serious intimacy. When a woman is known to be as changeable and inconstant as Madame de V——, a lost opportunity is lost for ever. Hazard is her god. I certainly will go to see her to-morrow. I can easily find an excuse for putting off our visit to Mlle. Lenormand until day after to-morrow. What excuse shall I give? Business with a notary? No, that would be too childish a pretext. What am I to say? I have decided at last, but by way of compensation I shall write Marguerite a most passionate love-letter.
I have just read over the letter I mean to send Madame de Pënâfiel. It is very well written, full of feeling, of tenderness and passion, and it is unfeigned and entirely truthful. I feel every word in it is true. How strange it is that at this moment, when I have fully made up my mind to deceive her, my love is greater and more sincere than it ever was before! There is no reason why I should deceive myself about this. I can almost hear my own thoughts. This is the real truth, I love Marguerite more than I have ever loved her. Formerly I might have hesitated at some sacrifice she imposed on me, now I would gladly give up anything she might ask of me, and yet, I repeat, I am planning how to be false to her!
Does such an idea cause me any shame, remorse, or regret? No.
Would I hesitate an instant if I thought that Marguerite would discover my infidelity, and be distressed by it? No.
In my infatuation for Madame de V——, is there any noble feeling and real affection? No; it is an ardent desire which I know will be as quickly extinguished as it was kindled.
And yet, see what a strange thing it is, I say it again, I love Marguerite better than ever. Why should this love be stronger than before? Is it an illusion, a deceitful phantom called up by the consciousness of my deceit? Is it not an excuse that I am trying to find for myself! Am I only pretending that I care for her so much? No, no, I search my thoughts, and it seems that I assuredly love her more than ever.
What a singular contradiction in my soul! What a perverse nature! Can it be that my love for Marguerite will become greater and greater, according to the grief I feel I shall cause her?