V April, 18
Days of sunshine? Alas! no; these radiant days of happiness that had lasted more than two months were about to be obscured by dark clouds.
What a strange day this has been!
This morning, on awakening, I received a note from Marguerite. She is quite irritated at having this fortune-telling postponed. As to-day was the anniversary of her birth she believed it to be the most suitable, because the most lucky or unlucky.
As she wished to make some purchases in Saxony and Sèvres porcelains, she begged me to meet her at half-past two at ——’s, which was then the most fashionable china store, to give her my opinion in the selection.
I went there.
In going with her to look at some marquetry furniture in the back part of the store, we were left alone for a few moments. Marguerite then asked me to come to her in the evening, when she promised she would tell me about her secret plan for the first of May.
I thanked her tenderly. She appeared prettier than ever before; she wore a straw hat trimmed with lace and bleuets that was exceedingly becoming.
I left her at three o’clock, and went to see Madame V——.
In spite of our foolish bargain of the day previous, according to which I was to assume the character of a notary, if I wished to enjoy a tête-à-tête, I gave my own name to the servant, and I found her alone.
She showed me her water-colours, which were really clever, for Madame V—— is a very gifted woman. However, I pretended to think them very ordinary, the drawing incorrect, the colour bad and too glaring, and the handling weak and undecided.
“You know nothing about it,” said she, laughing. “I have a great deal of talent; but as you paint also, it is because you are jealous.”
“We can never agree on this subject, madame; you consider your water-colours good, I think they are very bad. Don’t let us speak of them again. Let us find some other subject on which we can agree.”
“And what subject can we agree on, monsieur?”
“Your intelligence and your beauty.”
“You are very much mistaken, monsieur; for now that you have so unjustly criticised my drawings, it is my turn, and I frankly tell you, that, though you may think me charming, I am sure that I am detestable, for I have a thousand bad qualities. So as I am perfectly sure we will never agree on this subject, let us talk of something else.”
“Alas! you are too hard on yourself, madame; unfortunately for me, you have not all the charming imperfections I could wish,—one imperfection at least.”
“You are certainly crazy; do you wish to know how wicked I can be?”
“It is the thing of all others I most desire.”
“Listen, then, to me, and don’t interrupt me. One of my intimate friends, who was as bad as I am, wished to be revenged on a lady of her acquaintance,—the reason doesn’t matter to you. My friend was beautiful, or rather pretty, gay, giddy; you may call these good qualities or faults just as you please, and you can add that she was very entertaining and charming, and with plenty of ’go,’—excuse the vulgarity of the word,—and there you have her portrait.
“The woman on whom my friend wished to be revenged was also beautiful, but pretentious, haughty, false to the last degree; she was, however, seriously interested in a man who was—why should I not say it?—was agreeable, but rather eccentric, in fact, not just like every one else; to-day he would be gay, amusing, and amiable; to-morrow sulky, peculiar, and tiresome. In one of his reasonable days, a day of good humour, and good sense, he showed himself to be very fond of my friend, who found him, she tells me, a very nice fellow, perhaps too nice. These being the circumstances, she came to ask my advice—”
“And you told her, I hope, what I should have advised her myself, to revenge herself on this haughty woman by making the eccentric man happy in secret. A schoolgirl would have known that much. The easiest way is always the best.”
“Do not interrupt me, please. As my friend wished for my advice, I tried to sound the character of the eccentric man, to see if he were true and sincere, or indiscreet and a trifler.”
“Well, madame?”
“Well, monsieur, I found him to be one of the few men that a woman can trust, who understand and appreciate everything, admit everything, and say just what they think, but who are quite incapable of betraying any confidence that may have been placed in them. ‘If he is all this,’ said I to my friend, ’you have only one thing to do,—be rash, inconsequent, bold, be what we women never are, outspoken and true to yourself; say to your eccentric friend, you wish to please me, but I know you are interested elsewhere. Now I have no desire to share your affections, but if I accept them I mean to make it impossible that you should ever have a reconciliation with the person you are to sacrifice to me. I demand that you send me all of her letters with a very compromising letter of your own; do this for me, and “live and be happy ever afterwards.”’
“That was my advice to my friend,” said Madame de V——. “Do you think it was terribly immoral?”
“I could answer you, madame, by continuing your allegory, and instantly inventing a friend of my own who might be that very same eccentric man your friend told you about, but it is not worth while. Come, let us not confuse ourselves, let us speak plainly. You know me well enough to know me safe. Do you ask me to commit such treachery? Is it only on such a condition that you will consent to all I mean to ask?”
“Monsieur, you must be crazy!”
“Not at all.”
“Why should you suppose that what I said about my friend was only a pretext to speak of my own feelings? Why should you dare to think that I have any intention of accepting your attentions?”
“Very well, just as you please. You can fancy that the eccentric man was speaking and not I.”
“Ah, that is sensible; now at least we can understand each other. Would you have told my friend that she was asking you to be a traitor, and if she said yes, what would you answer?”
“That, for her sake, I would gladly commit every sort of infidelity,—but not treason.”
“And if my friend would only bestow her favours at such a price?”
“That could never be.”
“Why not?”
“Because I would only consider such a proposition as a joke, and would obstinately refuse to be a party to such pleasantry.”
“Why would it be a pleasantry?”
“Because there is not a woman living who would be capable of such a base thought.”
“That is putting it very strong.”
“That is what I think.”
“No living woman?”
“Not one.”
“But I just told you that I gave such advice to my friend.”
“Permit me to think that you are mistaken.”
“You are unbearable! The thought was mine, and that was the advice I gave her, I tell you.”
“It is impossible for me to believe you; I know how high-minded you are. You should not expect me to believe you when you so slander yourself.”
“Suppose I should say such a thing to you?”
“To me?”
“Yes, to you.”
“I cannot suppose what would be impossible.”
“But I do say it to you now.”
“Seriously? You say such a thing seriously? You offer me such conditions?”
“Yes; seriously.”
“Well, then, you are trying to make a fool of me.”
“You are very humble, certainly.”
“On the contrary, I am very proud to prove to you that I am incapable of such a piece of cowardice. But come, let us quit speaking of others; let us talk of ourselves. Accept my attentions; take me unconditionally, or rather on condition of making me the most faithless of men.”
“And those letters?”
“Again? Don’t you suppose I can see that all this is a very clever trick to prove me; to find out if I am perfectly trustworthy; that you can safely confide in my discretion and my love? Between you and me, I think it augurs well for our future happiness,—all these precautions on your part.”
“You are not wanting in confidence, at least.”
“Do you consider it vanity to hope and desire?”
“Those letters? Those letters?”
“Now you are joking again. As to this trial you have seen fit to submit me to, I forgive you for it, for what woman could ever have a particle of confidence, esteem, or affection for a man who was capable of such a treacherous act? Would she not be certain that at some future day her own letters—?”
“Certainly; she might fear the same fate for her letters if she were ever fool enough to write any,” said Madame de V——, with a self-possession that astounded me.
Before the end of our interview I discovered that I could not hope to win any favour from Madame de V—— except on these treasonable conditions.
This calculation on her part was doubly odious to me, because it wounded my vanity. It proved that Madame de V——’s desire to be revenged on Madame de Pënâfiel (for which she had never given any reason) was stronger than any passing affection she ever had for me.
I left Madame de V—— a very much disappointed man. I had counted on an interview which, if not more decisive, would have at least been more tender. Madame de V——’s reputation for levity was such that I had expected an unconditional surrender, whereas the conditions she exacted were as exorbitant as they were inadmissible.
It is strange, though, that, as yesterday when contemplating this infidelity to Marguerite, my love for her was stronger than ever, so now, after being checked in my miserable attempt to betray her, my affection seems to be on the wane. It is only ephemeral, this change in me. I exaggerate, perhaps, but it is the truth. As I think of the evening I am about to spend with her, I feel that I would be much more amiable, much more affectionate, if I had something to reproach myself with and to hide from her. I feel that I acted honourably in refusing what Madame de V—— hoped for, but my conscience is not satisfied with that much, for I really love Marguerite much better than her enemy, and so I have sacrificed nothing. Still, I can not help feeling violently angry with Marguerite for having caused Madame de V—— to hate her so, for if this hatred had not existed, I should have been able to enjoy this short-lived passion, which I feel sure would have been charmingly piquant.
Nothing could be more unjust, more selfish, or more ridiculous than the irritation I feel towards Marguerite for having deprived me of a pleasure which might have been a serious menace to her happiness.
I admit these are base sentiments, but this is how I feel, and it is in such a state of mind that I am about to go to Marguerite. How will it end? I know not, but I am filled with sad forebodings.