THE DESERTED WOMAN
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Ellen Marriage
To Her Grace the Duchesse d'Abrantes,
Honore de Balzac.
PARIS, August 1835.
THE DESERTED WOMAN
In the early spring of 1822, the Paris doctors sent to Lower Normandy a
young man just recovering from an inflammatory complaint, brought on by
overstudy, or perhaps by excess of some other kind. His convalescence
demanded complete rest, a light diet, bracing air, and freedom from
excitement of every kind, and the fat lands of Bessin seemed to offer all
these conditions of recovery. To Bayeux, a picturesque place about six
miles from the sea, the patient therefore betook himself, and was received
with the cordiality characteristic of relatives who lead very retired
lives, and regard a new arrival as a godsend.
All little towns are alike, save for a few local customs. When M. le Baron
Gaston de Nueil, the young Parisian in question, had spent two or three
evenings in his cousin's house, or with the friends who made up Mme. de
Sainte-Severe's circle, he very soon had made the acquaintance of the
persons whom this exclusive society considered to be "the whole town."
Gaston de Nueil recognized in them the invariable stock characters which
every observer finds in every one of the many capitals of the little
States which made up the France of an older day.
First of all comes the family whose claims to nobility are regarded as
incontestable, and of the highest antiquity in the department, though no
one has so much as heard of them a bare fifty leagues away. This species
of royal family on a small scale is distantly, but unmistakably, connected
with the Navarreins and the Grandlieu family, and related to the
Cadignans, and the Blamont-Chauvrys. The head of the illustrious house is
invariably a determined sportsman. He has no manners, crushes everybody
else with his nominal superiority, tolerates the sub-prefect much as he
submits to the taxes, and declines to acknowledge any of the novel powers
created by the nineteenth century, pointing out to you as a political
monstrosity the fact that the prime minister is a man of no birth. His
wife takes a decided tone, and talks in a loud voice. She has had adorers
in her time, but takes the sacrament regularly at Easter. She brings up
her daughters badly, and is of the opinion that they will always be rich
enough with their name.
Neither husband nor wife has the remotest idea of modern luxury. They
retain a livery only seen elsewhere on the stage, and cling to old
fashions in plate, furniture, and equipages, as in language and manner of
life. This is a kind of ancient state, moreover, that suits passably well
with provincial thrift. The good folk are, in fact, the lords of the manor
of a bygone age, minus the quitrents and heriots, the pack of
hounds and the laced coats; full of honor among themselves, and one and
all loyally devoted to princes whom they only see at a distance. The
historical house incognito is as quaint a survival as a piece of
ancient tapestry. Vegetating somewhere among them there is sure to be an
uncle or a brother, a lieutenant-general, an old courtier of the Kings's,
who wears the red ribbon of the order of Saint-Louis, and went to Hanover
with the Marechal de Richelieu: and here you will find him like a stray
leaf out of some old pamphlet of the time of Louis Quinze.
This fossil greatness finds a rival in another house, wealthier, though of
less ancient lineage. Husband and wife spend a couple of months of every
winter in Paris, bringing back with them its frivolous tone and
short-lived contemporary crazes. Madame is a woman of fashion, though she
looks rather conscious of her clothes, and is always behind the mode. She
scoffs, however, at the ignorance affected by her neighbors. Her
plate is of modern fashion; she has "grooms," Negroes, a valet-de-chambre,
and what-not. Her oldest son drives a tilbury, and does nothing (the
estate is entailed upon him), his younger brother is auditor to a Council
of State. The father is well posted up in official scandals, and tells you
anecdotes of Louis XVIII. and Madame du Cayla. He invests his money in the
five per cents, and is careful to avoid the topic of cider, but has been
known occasionally to fall a victim to the craze for rectifying the
conjectural sums-total of the various fortunes of the department. He is a
member of the Departmental Council, has his clothes from Paris, and wears
the Cross of the Legion of Honor. In short, he is a country gentleman who
has fully grasped the significance of the Restoration, and is coining
money at the Chamber, but his Royalism is less pure than that of the rival
house; he takes the Gazette and the Debats, the other family
only read the Quotidienne.
His lordship the Bishop, a sometime Vicar-General, fluctuates between the
two powers, who pay him the respect due to religion, but at times they
bring home to him the moral appended by the worthy Lafontaine to the fable
of the Ass laden with Relics. The good man's origin is distinctly
Then come stars of the second magnitude, men of family with ten or twelve
hundred livres a year, captains in the navy or cavalry regiments, or
nothing at all. Out on the roads, on horseback, they rank half-way between
the cure bearing the sacraments and the tax collector on his rounds.
Pretty nearly all of them have been in the Pages or in the Household
Troops, and now are peaceably ending their days in a faisance-valoir,
more interested in felling timber and the cider prospects than in the
Still they talk of the Charter and the Liberals while the cards are
making, or over a game at backgammon, when they have exhausted the usual
stock of dots, and have married everybody off according to the
genealogies which they all know by heart. Their womenkind are haughty
dames, who assume the airs of Court ladies in their basket chaises. They
huddle themselves up in shawls and caps by way of full dress; and twice a
year, after ripe deliberation, have a new bonnet from Paris, brought as
opportunity offers. Exemplary wives are they for the most part, and
These are the principal elements of aristocratic gentility, with a few
outlying old maids of good family, spinsters who have solved the problem:
given a human being, to remain absolutely stationary. They might be sealed
up in the houses where you see them; their faces and their dresses are
literally part of the fixtures of the town, and the province in which they
dwell. They are its tradition, its memory, its quintessence, the genius
loci incarnate. There is something frigid and monumental about these
ladies; they know exactly when to laugh and when to shake their heads, and
every now and then give out some utterance which passes current as a
A few rich townspeople have crept into the miniature Faubourg
Saint-Germain, thanks to their money or their aristocratic leanings. But
despite their forty years, the circle still say of them, "Young So-and-so
has sound opinions," and of such do they make deputies. As a rule, the
elderly spinsters are their patronesses, not without comment.
Finally, in this exclusive little set include two or three ecclesiastics,
admitted for the sake of their cloth, or for their wit; for these great
nobles find their own society rather dull, and introduce the bourgeois
element into their drawing-rooms, as a baker puts leaven into his dough.
The sum-total contained by all heads put together consists of a certain
quantity of antiquated notions; a few new inflections brewed in company of
an evening being added from time to time to the common stock. Like
sea-water in a little creek, the phrases which represent these ideas surge
up daily, punctually obeying the tidal laws of conversation in their flow
and ebb; you hear the hollow echo of yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, a year
hence, and for evermore. On all things here below they pass immutable
judgments, which go to make up a body of tradition into which no power of
mortal man can infuse one drop of wit or sense. The lives of these persons
revolve with the regularity of clockwork in an orbit of use and wont which
admits of no more deviation or change than their opinions on matters
religious, political, moral, or literary.
If a stranger is admitted to the cenacle, every member of it in
turn will say (not without a trace of irony), "You will not find the
brilliancy of your Parisian society here," and proceed forthwith to
criticise the life led by his neighbors, as if he himself were an
exception who had striven, and vainly striven, to enlighten the rest. But
any stranger so ill advised as to concur in any of their freely expressed
criticism of each other, is pronounced at once to be an ill-natured
person, a heathen, an outlaw, a reprobate Parisian "as Parisians mostly
Before Gaston de Nueil made his appearance in this little world of
strictly observed etiquette, where every detail of life is an integrant
part of a whole, and everything is known; where the values of personalty
and real estate is quoted like stocks on the vast sheet of the newspaper—before
his arrival he had been weighed in the unerring scales of Bayeusaine
His cousin, Mme. de Sainte-Severe, had already given out the amount of his
fortune, and the sum of his expectations, had produced the family tree,
and expatiated on the talents, breeding, and modesty of this particular
branch. So he received the precise amount of attentions to which he was
entitled; he was accepted as a worthy scion of a good stock; and, for he
was but twenty-three, was made welcome without ceremony, though certain
young ladies and mothers of daughters looked not unkindly upon him.
He had an income of eighteen thousand livres from land in the valley of
the Auge; and sooner or later his father, as in duty bound, would leave
him the chateau of Manerville, with the lands thereunto belonging. As for
his education, political career, personal qualities, and qualifications—no
one so much as thought of raising the questions. His land was undeniable,
his rentals steady; excellent plantations had been made; the tenants paid
for repairs, rates, and taxes; the apple-trees were thirty-eight years
old; and, to crown all, his father was in treaty for two hundred acres of
woodland just outside the paternal park, which he intended to enclose with
walls. No hopes of a political career, no fame on earth, can compare with
such advantages as these.
Whether out of malice or design, Mme. de Sainte-Severe omitted to mention
that Gaston had an elder brother; nor did Gaston himself say a word about
him. But, at the same time, it is true that the brother was consumptive,
and to all appearance would shortly be laid in earth, lamented and
At first Gaston de Nueil amused himself at the expense of the circle. He
drew, as it were, for his mental album, a series of portraits of these
folk, with their angular, wrinkled faces, and hooked noses, their
crotchets and ludicrous eccentricities of dress, portraits which possessed
all the racy flavor of truth. He delighted in their "Normanisms," in the
primitive quaintness of their ideas and characters. For a short time he
flung himself into their squirrel's life of busy gyrations in a cage. Then
he began to feel the want of variety, and grew tired of it. It was like
the life of the cloister, cut short before it had well begun. He drifted
on till he reached a crisis, which is neither spleen nor disgust, but
combines all the symptoms of both. When a human being is transplanted into
an uncongenial soil, to lead a starved, stunted existence, there is always
a little discomfort over the transition. Then, gradually, if nothing
removes him from his surroundings, he grows accustomed to them, and adapts
himself to the vacuity which grows upon him and renders him powerless.
Even now, Gaston's lungs were accustomed to the air; and he was willing to
discern a kind of vegetable happiness in days that brought no mental
exertion and no responsibilities. The constant stirring of the sap of
life, the fertilizing influences of mind on mind, after which he had
sought so eagerly in Paris, were beginning to fade from his memory, and he
was in a fair way of becoming a fossil with these fossils, and ending his
days among them, content, like the companions of Ulysses, in his gross
One evening Gaston de Nueil was seated between a dowager and one of the
vicars-general of the diocese, in a gray-paneled drawing-room, floored
with large white tiles. The family portraits which adorned the walls
looked down upon four card-tables, and some sixteen persons gathered about
them, chattering over their whist. Gaston, thinking of nothing, digesting
one of those exquisite dinners to which the provincial looks forward all
through the day, found himself justifying the customs of the country.
He began to understand why these good folk continued to play with
yesterday's pack of cards and shuffle them on a threadbare tablecloth, and
how it was that they had ceased to dress for themselves or others. He saw
the glimmerings of something like a philosophy in the even tenor of their
perpetual round, in the calm of their methodical monotony, in their
ignorance of the refinements of luxury. Indeed, he almost came to think
that luxury profited nothing; and even now, the city of Paris, with its
passions, storms, and pleasures, was scarcely more than a memory of
He admired in all sincerity the red hands, and shy, bashful manner of some
young lady who at first struck him as an awkward simpleton, unattractive
to the last degree, and surprisingly ridiculous. His doom was sealed. He
had gone from the provinces to Paris; he had led the feverish life of
Paris; and now he would have sunk back into the lifeless life of the
provinces, but for a chance remark which reached his ear—a few words
that called up a swift rush of such emotion as he might have felt when a
strain of really good music mingles with the accompaniment of some tedious
"You went to call on Mme. de Beauseant yesterday, did you not?" The
speaker was an elderly lady, and she addressed the head of the local royal
"I went this morning. She was so poorly and depressed, that I could not
persuade her to dine with us to-morrow."
"With Mme. de Champignelles?" exclaimed the dowager with something like
astonishment in her manner.
"With my wife," calmly assented the noble. "Mme. de Beauseant is descended
from the House of Burgundy, on the spindle side, 'tis true, but the name
atones for everything. My wife is very much attached to the Vicomtesse,
and the poor lady has lived alone for such a long while, that——"
The Marquis de Champignelles looked round about him while he spoke with an
air of cool unconcern, so that it was almost impossible to guess whether
he made a concession to Mme. de Beauseant's misfortunes, or paid homage to
her noble birth; whether he felt flattered to receive her in his house,
or, on the contrary, sheer pride was the motive that led him to try to
force the country families to meet the Vicomtesse.
The women appeared to take counsel of each other by a glance; there was a
sudden silence in the room, and it was felt that their attitude was one of
"Does this Mme. de Beauseant happen to be the lady whose adventure with M.
d'Ajuda-Pinto made so much noise?" asked Gaston of his neighbor.
"The very same," he was told. "She came to Courcelles after the marriage
of the Marquis d'Ajuda; nobody visits her. She has, besides, too much
sense not to see that she is in a false position, so she has made no
attempt to see any one. M. de Champignelles and a few gentlemen went to
call upon her, but she would see no one but M. de Champignelles, perhaps
because he is a connection of the family. They are related through the
Beauseants; the father of the present Vicomte married a Mlle. de
Champignelles of the older branch. But though the Vicomtesse de Beauseant
is supposed to be a descendant of the House of Burgundy, you can
understand that we could not admit a wife separated from her husband into
our society here. We are foolish enough still to cling to these
old-fashioned ideas. There was the less excuse for the Vicomtesse, because
M. de Beauseant is a well-bred man of the world, who would have been quite
ready to listen to reason. But his wife is quite mad——" and so
forth and so forth.
M. de Nueil, still listening to the speaker's voice, gathered nothing of
the sense of the words; his brain was too full of thick-coming fancies.
Fancies? What other name can you give to the alluring charms of an
adventure that tempts the imagination and sets vague hopes springing up in
the soul; to the sense of coming events and mysterious felicity and fear
at hand, while as yet there is no substance of fact on which these
phantoms of caprice can fix and feed? Over these fancies thought hovers,
conceiving impossible projects, giving in the germ all the joys of love.
Perhaps, indeed, all passion is contained in that thought-germ, as the
beauty, and fragrance, and rich color of the flower is all packed in the
M. de Nueil did not know that Mme. de Beauseant had taken refuge in
Normandy, after a notoriety which women for the most part envy and
condemn, especially when youth and beauty in some sort excuse the
transgression. Any sort of celebrity bestows an inconceivable prestige.
Apparently for women, as for families, the glory of the crime effaces the
stain; and if such and such a noble house is proud of its tale of heads
that have fallen on the scaffold, a young and pretty woman becomes more
interesting for the dubious renown of a happy love or a scandalous
desertion, and the more she is to be pitied, the more she excites our
sympathies. We are only pitiless to the commonplace. If, moreover, we
attract all eyes, we are to all intents and purposes great; how, indeed,
are we to be seen unless we raise ourselves above other people's heads?
The common herd of humanity feels an involuntary respect for any person
who can rise above it, and is not over-particular as to the means by which
It may have been that some such motives influenced Gaston de Nueil at
unawares, or perhaps it was curiosity, or a craving for some interest in
his life, or, in a word, that crowd of inexplicable impulses which, for
want of a better name, we are wont to call "fatality," that drew him to
Mme. de Beauseant.
The figure of the Vicomtesse de Beauseant rose up suddenly before him with
gracious thronging associations. She was a new world for him, a world of
fears and hopes, a world to fight for and to conquer. Inevitably he felt
the contrast between this vision and the human beings in the shabby room;
and then, in truth, she was a woman; what woman had he seen so far in this
dull, little world, where calculation replaced thought and feeling, where
courtesy was a cut-and-dried formality, and ideas of the very simplest
were too alarming to be received or to pass current? The sound of Mme. de
Beauseant's name revived a young man's dreams and wakened urgent desires
that had lain dormant for a little.
Gaston de Nueil was absent-minded and preoccupied for the rest of the
evening. He was pondering how he might gain access to Mme. de Beauseant,
and truly it was no very easy matter. She was believed to be extremely
clever. But if men and women of parts may be captivated by something
subtle or eccentric, they are also exacting, and can read all that lies
below the surface; and after the first step has been taken, the chances of
failure and success in the difficult task of pleasing them are about even.
In this particular case, moreover, the Vicomtesse, besides the pride of
her position, had all the dignity of her name. Her utter seclusion was the
least of the barriers raised between her and the world. For which reasons
it was well-nigh impossible that a stranger, however well born, could hope
for admittance; and yet, the next morning found M. de Nueil taking his
walks abroad in the direction of Courcelles, a dupe of illusions natural
at his age. Several times he made the circuit of the garden walls, looking
earnestly through every gap at the closed shutters or open windows, hoping
for some romantic chance, on which he founded schemes for introducing
himself into this unknown lady's presence, without a thought of their
impracticability. Morning after morning was spent in this way to mighty
purpose; but with each day's walk, that vision of a woman living apart
from the world, of love's martyr buried in solitude, loomed larger in his
thoughts, and was enshrined in his soul. So Gaston de Nueil walked under
the walls of Courcelles, and some gardener's heavy footstep would set his
heart beating high with hope.
He thought of writing to Mme. de Beauseant, but on mature consideration,
what can you say to a woman whom you have never seen, a complete stranger?
And Gaston had little self-confidence. Like most young persons with a
plentiful crop of illusions still standing, he dreaded the mortifying
contempt of silence more than death itself, and shuddered at the thought
of sending his first tender epistle forth to face so many chances of being
thrown on the fire. He was distracted by innumerable conflicting ideas.
But by dint of inventing chimeras, weaving romances, and cudgeling his
brains, he hit at last upon one of the hopeful stratagems that are sure to
occur to your mind if you persevere long enough, a stratagem which must
make clear to the most inexperienced woman that here was a man who took a
fervent interest in her. The caprice of social conventions puts as many
barriers between lovers as any Oriental imagination can devise in the most
delightfully fantastic tale; indeed, the most extravagant pictures are
seldom exaggerations. In real life, as in the fairy tales, the woman
belongs to him who can reach her and set her free from the position in
which she languishes. The poorest of calenders that ever fell in love with
the daughter of the Khalif is in truth scarcely further from his lady than
Gaston de Nueil from Mme. de Beauseant. The Vicomtesse knew absolutely
nothing of M. de Nueil's wanderings round her house; Gaston de Nueil's
love grew to the height of the obstacles to overleap; and the distance set
between him and his extemporized lady-love produced the usual effect of
distance, in lending enchantment.
One day, confident in his inspiration, he hoped everything from the love
that must pour forth from his eyes. Spoken words, in his opinion, were
more eloquent than the most passionate letter; and, besides, he would
engage feminine curiosity to plead for him. He went, therefore, to M. de
Champignelles, proposing to employ that gentleman for the better success
of his enterprise. He informed the Marquis that he had been entrusted with
a delicate and important commission which concerned the Vicomtesse de
Beauseant, that he felt doubtful whether she would read a letter written
in an unknown handwriting, or put confidence in a stranger. Would M. de
Champignelles, on his next visit, ask the Vicomtesse if she would consent
to receive him—Gaston de Nueil? While he asked the Marquis to keep
his secret in case of a refusal, he very ingeniously insinuated sufficient
reasons for his own admittance, to be duly passed on to the Vicomtesse.
Was not M. de Champignelles a man of honor, a loyal gentleman incapable of
lending himself to any transaction in bad taste, nay, the merest suspicion
of bad taste! Love lends a young man all the self-possession and astute
craft of an old ambassador; all the Marquis' harmless vanities were
gratified, and the haughty grandee was completely duped. He tried hard to
fathom Gaston's secret; but the latter, who would have been greatly
perplexed to tell it, turned off M. de Champignelles' adroit questioning
with a Norman's shrewdness, till the Marquis, as a gallant Frenchman,
complimented his young visitor upon his discretion.
M. de Champignelles hurried off at once to Courcelles, with that eagerness
to serve a pretty woman which belongs to his time of life. In the
Vicomtesse de Beauseant's position, such a message was likely to arouse
keen curiosity; so, although her memory supplied no reason at all that
could bring M. de Nueil to her house, she saw no objection to his visit—after
some prudent inquiries as to his family and condition. At the same time,
she began by a refusal. Then she discussed the propriety of the matter
with M. de Champignelles, directing her questions so as to discover, if
possible, whether he knew the motives for the visit, and finally revoked
her negative answer. The discussion and the discretion shown perforce by
the Marquis had piqued her curiosity.
M. de Champignelles had no mind to cut a ridiculous figure. He said, with
the air of a man who can keep another's counsel, that the Vicomtesse must
know the purpose of this visit perfectly well; while the Vicomtesse, in
all sincerity, had no notion what it could be. Mme. de Beauseant, in
perplexity, connected Gaston with people whom he had never met, went
astray after various wild conjectures, and asked herself if she had seen
this M. de Nueil before. In truth, no love-letter, however sincere or
skilfully indited, could have produced so much effect as this riddle.
Again and again Mme. de Beauseant puzzled over it.
When Gaston heard that he might call upon the Vicomtesse, his rapture at
so soon obtaining the ardently longed-for good fortune was mingled with
singular embarrassment. How was he to contrive a suitable sequel to this
"Bah! I shall see her," he said over and over again to himself as
he dressed. "See her, and that is everything!"
He fell to hoping that once across the threshold of Courcelles he should
find an expedient for unfastening this Gordian knot of his own tying.
There are believers in the omnipotence of necessity who never turn back;
the close presence of danger is an inspiration that calls out all their
powers for victory. Gaston de Nueil was one of these.
He took particular pains with his dress, imagining, as youth is apt to
imagine, that success or failure hangs on the position of a curl, and
ignorant of the fact that anything is charming in youth. And, in any case,
such women as Mme. de Beauseant are only attracted by the charms of wit or
character of an unusual order. Greatness of character flatters their
vanity, promises a great passion, seems to imply a comprehension of the
requirements of their hearts. Wit amuses them, responds to the subtlety of
their natures, and they think that they are understood. And what do all
women wish but to be amused, understood, or adored? It is only after much
reflection on the things of life that we understand the consummate
coquetry of neglect of dress and reserve at a first interview; and by the
time we have gained sufficient astuteness for successful strategy, we are
too old to profit by our experience.
While Gaston's lack of confidence in his mental equipment drove him to
borrow charms from his clothes, Madame de Beauseant herself was
instinctively giving more attention to her toilette.
"I would rather not frighten people, at all events," she said to herself
as she arranged her hair.
In M. de Nueil's character, person, and manner there was that touch of
unconscious originality which gives a kind of flavor to things that any
one might say or do, and absolves everything that they may choose to do or
say. He was highly cultivated, he had a keen brain, and a face, mobile as
his own nature, which won the goodwill of others. The promise of passion
and tenderness in the bright eyes was fulfilled by an essentially kindly
heart. The resolution which he made as he entered the house at Courcelles
was in keeping with his frank nature and ardent imagination. But, bold has
he was with love, his heart beat violently when he had crossed the great
court, laid out like an English garden, and the man-servant, who had taken
his name to the Vicomtesse, returned to say that she would receive him.
"M. le Baron de Nueil."
Gaston came in slowly, but with sufficient ease of manner; and it is a
more difficult thing, be it said, to enter a room where there is but one
woman, than a room that holds a score.
A great fire was burning on the hearth in spite of the mild weather, and
by the soft light of the candles in the sconces he saw a young woman
sitting on a high-backed bergere in the angle by the hearth. The
seat was so low that she could move her head freely; every turn of it was
full of grace and delicate charm, whether she bent, leaning forward, or
raised and held it erect, slowly and languidly, as though it were a heavy
burden, so low that she could cross her feet and let them appear, or draw
them back under the folds of a long black dress.
The Vicomtesse made as if she would lay the book that she was reading on a
small, round stand; but as she did so, she turned towards M. de Nueil, and
the volume, insecurely laid upon the edge, fell to the ground between the
stand and the sofa. This did not seem to disconcert her. She looked up,
bowing almost imperceptibly in response to his greeting, without rising
from the depths of the low chair in which she lay. Bending forwards, she
stirred the fire briskly, and stooped to pick up a fallen glove, drawing
it mechanically over her left hand, while her eyes wandered in search of
its fellow. The glance was instantly checked, however, for she stretched
out a thin, white, all-but-transparent right hand, with flawless ovals of
rose-colored nail at the tips of the slender, ringless fingers, and
pointed to a chair as if to bid Gaston be seated. He sat down, and she
turned her face questioningly towards him. Words cannot describe the
subtlety of the winning charm and inquiry in that gesture; deliberate in
its kindliness, gracious yet accurate in expression, it was the outcome of
early education and of a constant use and wont of the graciousness of
life. These movements of hers, so swift, so deft, succeeded each other by
the blending of a pretty woman's fastidious carelessness with the
high-bred manner of a great lady.
Mme. de Beauseant stood out in such strong contrast against the automatons
among whom he had spent two months of exile in that out-of-the-world
district of Normandy, that he could not but find in her the realization of
his romantic dreams; and, on the other hand, he could not compare her
perfections with those of other women whom he had formerly admired. Here
in her presence, in a drawing-room like some salon in the Faubourg
Saint-Germain, full of costly trifles lying about upon the tables, and
flowers and books, he felt as if he were back in Paris. It was a real
Parisian carpet beneath his feet, he saw once more the high-bred type of
Parisienne, the fragile outlines of her form, her exquisite charm, her
disdain of the studied effects which did so much to spoil provincial
Mme. de Beauseant had fair hair and dark eyes, and the pale complexion
that belongs to fair hair. She held up her brow nobly like some fallen
angel, grown proud through the fall, disdainful of pardon. Her way of
gathering her thick hair into a crown of plaits above the broad, curving
lines of the bandeaux upon her forehead, added to the queenliness of her
face. Imagination could discover the ducal coronet of Burgundy in the
spiral threads of her golden hair; all the courage of her house seemed to
gleam from the great lady's brilliant eyes, such courage as women use to
repel audacity or scorn, for they were full of tenderness for gentleness.
The outline of that little head, so admirably poised above the long, white
throat, the delicate, fine features, the subtle curves of the lips, the
mobile face itself, wore an expression of delicate discretion, a faint
semblance of irony suggestive of craft and insolence. Yet it would have
been difficult to refuse forgiveness to those two feminine failings in
her; for the lines that came out in her forehead whenever her face was not
in repose, like her upward glances (that pathetic trick of manner), told
unmistakably of unhappiness, of a passion that had all but cost her her
life. A woman, sitting in the great, silent salon, a woman cut off from
the rest of the world in this remote little valley, alone, with the
memories of her brilliant, happy, and impassioned youth, of continual
gaiety and homage paid on all sides, now replaced by the horrors of the
void—was there not something in the sight to strike awe that
deepened with reflection? Consciousness of her own value lurked in her
smile. She was neither wife nor mother, she was an outlaw; she had lost
the one heart that could set her pulses beating without shame; she had
nothing from without to support her reeling soul; she must even look for
strength from within, live her own life, cherish no hope save that of
forsaken love, which looks forward to Death's coming, and hastens his
lagging footsteps. And this while life was in its prime. Oh! to feel
destined for happiness and to die—never having given nor received
it! A woman too! What pain was this! These thoughts flashing across M. de
Nueil's mind like lightning, left him very humble in the presence of the
greatest charm with which woman can be invested. The triple aureole of
beauty, nobleness, and misfortune dazzled him; he stood in dreamy, almost
open-mouthed admiration of the Vicomtesse. But he found nothing to say to
Mme. de Beauseant, by no means displeased, no doubt, by his surprise, held
out her hand with a kindly but imperious gesture; then, summoning a smile
to her pale lips, as if obeying, even yet, the woman's impulse to be
"I have heard from M. de Champignelles of a message which you have kindly
undertaken to deliver, monsieur," she said. "Can it be from——"
With that terrible phrase Gaston understood, even more clearly than
before, his own ridiculous position, the bad taste and bad faith of his
behavior towards a woman so noble and so unfortunate. He reddened. The
thoughts that crowded in upon him could be read in his troubled eyes; but
suddenly, with the courage which youth draws from a sense of its own
wrongdoing, he gained confidence, and very humbly interrupted Mme. de
"Madame," he faltered out, "I do not deserve the happiness of seeing you.
I have deceived you basely. However strong the motive may have been, it
can never excuse the pitiful subterfuge which I used to gain my end. But,
madame, if your goodness will permit me to tell you——"
The Vicomtesse glanced at M. de Nueil, haughty disdain in her whole
manner. She stretched her hand to the bell and rang it.
"Jacques," she said, "light this gentleman to the door," and she looked
with dignity at the visitor.
She rose proudly, bowed to Gaston, and then stooped for the fallen volume.
If all her movements on his entrance had been caressingly dainty and
gracious, her every gesture now was no less severely frigid. M. de Nueil
rose to his feet, but he stood waiting. Mme. de Beauseant flung another
glance at him. "Well, why do you not go?" she seemed to say.
There was such cutting irony in that glance that Gaston grew white as if
he were about to faint. Tears came into his eyes, but he would not let
them fall, and scorching shame and despair dried them. He looked back at
Madame de Beauseant, and a certain pride and consciousness of his own
worth was mingled with his humility; the Vicomtesse had a right to punish
him, but ought she to use her right? Then he went out.
As he crossed the ante-chamber, a clear head, and wits sharpened by
passion, were not slow to grasp the danger of his situation.
"If I leave this house, I can never come back to it again," he said to
himself. "The Vicomtesse will always think of me as a fool. It is
impossible that a woman, and such a woman, should not guess the love that
she has called forth. Perhaps she feels a little, vague, involuntary
regret for dismissing me so abruptly.—But she could not do
otherwise, and she cannot recall her sentence. It rests with me to
At that thought Gaston stopped short on the flight of steps with an
exclamation; he turned sharply, saying, "I have forgotten something," and
went back to the salon. The lackey, all respect for a baron and the rights
of property, was completely deceived by the natural utterance, and
followed him. Gaston returned quietly and unannounced. The Vicomtesse,
thinking that the intruder was the servant, looked up and beheld M. de
"Jacques lighted me to the door," he said, with a half-sad smile which
dispelled any suspicion of jest in those words, while the tone in which
they were spoken went to the heart. Mme. de Beauseant was disarmed.
"Very well, take a seat," she said.
Gaston eagerly took possession of a chair. His eyes were shining with
happiness; the Vicomtesse, unable to endure the brilliant light in them,
looked down at the book. She was enjoying a delicious, ever new sensation;
the sense of a man's delight in her presence is an unfailing feminine
instinct. And then, besides, he had divined her, and a woman is so
grateful to the man who has mastered the apparently capricious, yet
logical, reasoning of her heart; who can track her thought through the
seemingly contradictory workings of her mind, and read the sensations, shy
or bold, written in fleeting red, a bewildering maze of coquetry and
"Madame," Gaston exclaimed in a low voice, "my blunder you know, but you
do not know how much I am to blame. If you only knew what joy it was to——"
"Ah! take care," she said, holding up one finger with an air of mystery,
as she put out her hand towards the bell.
The charming gesture, the gracious threat, no doubt called up some sad
thought, some memory of the old happy time when she could be wholly
charming and gentle without an afterthought; when the gladness of her
heart justified every caprice, and put charm into every least movement.
The lines in her forehead gathered between her brows, and the expression
of her face grew dark in the soft candle-light. Then looking across at M.
de Nueil gravely but not unkindly, she spoke like a woman who deeply feels
the meaning of every word.
"This is all very ridiculous! Once upon a time, monsieur, when thoughtless
high spirits were my privilege, I should have laughed fearlessly over your
visit with you. But now my life is very much changed. I cannot do as I
like, I am obliged to think. What brings you here? Is it curiosity? In
that case I am paying dearly for a little fleeting pleasure. Have you
fallen passionately in love already with a woman whom you have
never seen, a woman with whose name slander has, of course, been busy? If
so, your motive in making this visit is based on disrespect, on an error
which accident brought into notoriety."
She flung her book down scornfully upon the table, then, with a terrible
look at Gaston, she went on: "Because I once was weak, must it be supposed
that I am always weak? This is horrible, degrading. Or have you come here
to pity me? You are very young to offer sympathy with heart troubles.
Understand this clearly, sir, that I would rather have scorn than pity. I
will not endure compassion from any one."
There was a brief pause.
"Well, sir," she continued (and the face that she turned to him was gentle
and sad), "whatever motive induced this rash intrusion upon my solitude,
it is very painful to me, you see. You are too young to be totally without
good feeling, so surely you will feel that this behavior of yours is
improper. I forgive you for it, and, as you see, I am speaking of it to
you without bitterness. You will not come here again, will you? I am
entreating when I might command. If you come to see me again, neither you
nor I can prevent the whole place from believing that you are my lover,
and you would cause me great additional annoyance. You do not mean to do
that, I think."
She said no more, but looked at him with a great dignity which abashed
"I have done wrong, madame," he said, with deep feeling in his voice, "but
it was through enthusiasm and thoughtlessness and eager desire of
happiness, the qualities and defects of my age. Now, I understand that I
ought not to have tried to see you," he added; "but, at the same time, the
desire was a very natural one"—and, making an appeal to feeling
rather than to the intellect, he described the weariness of his enforced
exile. He drew a portrait of a young man in whom the fires of life were
burning themselves out, conveying the impression that here was a heart
worthy of tender love, a heart which, notwithstanding, had never known the
joys of love for a young and beautiful woman of refinement and taste. He
explained, without attempting to justify, his unusual conduct. He
flattered Mme. de Beauseant by showing that she had realized for him the
ideal lady of a young man's dream, the ideal sought by so many, and so
often sought in vain. Then he touched upon his morning prowlings under the
walls of Courcelles, and his wild thoughts at the first sight of the
house, till he excited that vague feeling of indulgence which a woman can
find in her heart for the follies committed for her sake.
An impassioned voice was speaking in the chill solitude; the speaker
brought with him a warm breath of youth and the charms of a carefully
cultivated mind. It was so long since Mme. de Beauseant had felt stirred
by real feeling delicately expressed, that it affected her very strongly
now. In spite of herself, she watched M. de Nueil's expressive face, and
admired the noble countenance of a soul, unbroken as yet by the cruel
discipline of the life of the world, unfretted by continual scheming to
gratify personal ambition and vanity. Gaston was in the flower of his
youth, he impressed her as a man with something in him, unaware as yet of
the great career that lay before him. So both these two made reflections
most dangerous for their peace of mind, and both strove to conceal their
thoughts. M. de Nueil saw in the Vicomtesse a rare type of woman, always
the victim of her perfections and tenderness; her graceful beauty is the
least of her charms for those who are privileged to know the infinite of
feeling and thought and goodness in the soul within; a woman whose
instinctive feeling for beauty runs through all the most varied
expressions of love, purifying its transports, turning them to something
almost holy; wonderful secret of womanhood, the exquisite gift that Nature
so seldom bestows. And the Vicomtesse, on her side, listening to the ring
of sincerity in Gaston's voice, while he told of his youthful troubles,
began to understand all that grown children of five-and-twenty suffer from
diffidence, when hard work has kept them alike from corrupting influences
and intercourse with men and women of the world whose sophistical
reasoning and experience destroys the fair qualities of youth. Here was
the ideal of a woman's dreams, a man unspoiled as yet by the egoism of
family or success, or by that narrow selfishness which blights the first
impulses of honor, devotion, self-sacrifice, and high demands of self; all
the flowers so soon wither that enrich at first the life of delicate but
strong emotions, and keep alive the loyalty of the heart.
But these two, once launched forth into the vast of sentiment, went far
indeed in theory, sounding the depths in either soul, testing the
sincerity of their expressions; only, whereas Gaston's experiments were
made unconsciously, Mme. de Beauseant had a purpose in all that she said.
Bringing her natural and acquired subtlety to the work, she sought to
learn M. de Nueil's opinions by advancing, as far as she could do so,
views diametrically opposed to her own. So witty and so gracious was she,
so much herself with this stranger, with whom she felt completely at ease,
because she felt sure that they should never meet again, that, after some
delicious epigram of hers, Gaston exclaimed unthinkingly:
"Oh! madame, how could any man have left you?"
The Vicomtesse was silent. Gaston reddened, he thought that he had
offended her; but she was not angry. The first deep thrill of delight
since the day of her calamity had taken her by surprise. The skill of the
cleverest roue could not have made the impression that M. de Nueil
made with that cry from the heart. That verdict wrung from a young man's
candor gave her back innocence in her own eyes, condemned the world, laid
the blame upon the lover who had left her, and justified her subsequent
solitary drooping life. The world's absolution, the heartfelt sympathy,
the social esteem so longed for, and so harshly refused, nay, all her
secret desires were given her to the full in that exclamation, made fairer
yet by the heart's sweetest flatteries and the admiration that women
always relish eagerly. He understood her, understood all, and he had given
her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the opportunity of
rising higher through her fall. She looked at the clock.
"Ah! madame, do not punish me for my heedlessness. If you grant me but one
evening, vouchsafe not to shorten it."
She smiled at the pretty speech.
"Well, as we must never meet again," she said, "what signifies a moment
more or less? If you were to care for me, it would be a pity."
"It is too late now," he said.
"Do not tell me that," she answered gravely. "Under any other
circumstances I should be very glad to see you. I will speak frankly, and
you will understand how it is that I do not choose to see you again, and
ought not to do so. You have too much magnanimity not to feel that if I
were so much as suspected of a second trespass, every one would think of
me as a contemptible and vulgar woman; I should be like other women. A
pure and blameless life will bring my character into relief. I am too
proud not to endeavor to live like one apart in the world, a victim of the
law through my marriage, man's victim through my love. If I were not
faithful to the position which I have taken up, then I should deserve all
the reproach that is heaped upon me; I should be lowered in my own eyes. I
had not enough lofty social virtue to remain with a man whom I did not
love. I have snapped the bonds of marriage in spite of the law; it was
wrong, it was a crime, it was anything you like, but for me the bonds
meant death. I meant to live. Perhaps if I had been a mother I could have
endured the torture of a forced marriage of suitability. At eighteen we
scarcely know what is done with us, poor girls that we are! I have broken
the laws of the world, and the world has punished me; we both did rightly.
I sought happiness. Is it not a law of our nature to seek for happiness? I
was young, I was beautiful... I thought that I had found a nature as
loving, as apparently passionate. I was loved indeed; for a little
"I used to think," she said, "that no one could leave a woman in such a
position as mine. I have been forsaken; I must have offended in some way.
Yes, in some way, no doubt, I failed to keep some law of our nature, was
too loving, too devoted, too exacting—I do not know. Evil days have
brought light with them! For a long while I blamed another, now I am
content to bear the whole blame. At my own expense, I have absolved that
other of whom I once thought I had a right to complain. I had not the art
to keep him; fate has punished me heavily for my lack of skill. I only
knew how to love; how can one keep oneself in mind when one loves? So I
was a slave when I should have sought to be a tyrant. Those who know me
may condemn me, but they will respect me too. Pain has taught me that I
must not lay myself open to this a second time. I cannot understand how it
is that I am living yet, after the anguish of that first week of the most
fearful crisis in a woman's life. Only from three years of loneliness
would it be possible to draw strength to speak of that time as I am
speaking now. Such agony, monsieur, usually ends in death; but this—well,
it was the agony of death with no tomb to end it. Oh! I have known pain
The Vicomtesse raised her beautiful eyes to the ceiling; and the cornice,
no doubt, received all the confidences which a stranger might not hear.
When a woman is afraid to look at her interlocutor, there is in truth no
gentler, meeker, more accommodating confidant than the cornice. The
cornice is quite an institution in the boudoir; what is it but the
confessional, minus the priest?
Mme. de Beauseant was eloquent and beautiful at that moment; nay,
"coquettish," if the word were not too heavy. By justifying herself and
love, she was stimulating every sentiment in the man before her; nay,
more, the higher she set the goal, the more conspicuous it grew. At last,
when her eyes had lost the too eloquent expression given to them by
painful memories, she let them fall on Gaston.
"You acknowledge, do you not, that I am bound to lead a solitary,
self-contained life?" she said quietly.
So sublime was she in her reasoning and her madness, that M. de Nueil felt
a wild longing to throw himself at her feet; but he was afraid of making
himself ridiculous, so he held his enthusiasm and his thoughts in check.
He was afraid, too, that he might totally fail to express them, and in no
less terror of some awful rejection on her part, or of her mockery, an
apprehension which strikes like ice to the most fervid soul. The revulsion
which led him to crush down every feeling as it sprang up in his heart
cost him the intense pain that diffident and ambitious natures experience
in the frequent crises when they are compelled to stifle their longings.
And yet, in spite of himself, he broke the silence to say in a faltering
"Madame, permit me to give way to one of the strongest emotions of my
life, and own to all that you have made me feel. You set the heart in me
swelling high! I feel within me a longing to make you forget your
mortifications, to devote my life to this, to give you love for all who
ever have given you wounds or hate. But this is a very sudden outpouring
of the heart, nothing can justify it to-day, and I ought not——"
"Enough, monsieur," said Mme. de Beauseant; "we have both of us gone too
far. By giving you the sad reasons for a refusal which I am compelled to
give, I meant to soften it and not to elicit homage. Coquetry only suits a
happy woman. Believe me, we must remain strangers to each other. At a
later day you will know that ties which must inevitably be broken ought
not to be formed at all."
She sighed lightly, and her brows contracted, but almost immediately grew
"How painful it is for a woman to be powerless to follow the man she loves
through all the phases of his life! And if that man loves her truly, his
heart must surely vibrate with pain to the deep trouble in hers. Are they
not twice unhappy?"
There was a short pause. Then she rose smiling.
"You little suspected, when you came to Courcelles, that you were to hear
a sermon, did you?"
Gaston felt even further than at first from this extraordinary woman. Was
the charm of that delightful hour due after all to the coquetry of the
mistress of the house? She had been anxious to display her wit. He bowed
stiffly to the Vicomtesse, and went away in desperation.
On the way home he tried to detect the real character of a creature supple
and hard as a steel spring; but he had seen her pass through so many
phases, that he could not make up his mind about her. The tones of her
voice, too, were ringing in his ears; her gestures, the little movements
of her head, and the varying expression of her eyes grew more gracious in
memory, more fascinating as he thought of them. The Vicomtesse's beauty
shone out again for him in the darkness; his reviving impressions called
up yet others, and he was enthralled anew by womanly charm and wit, which
at first he had not perceived. He fell to wandering musings, in which the
most lucid thoughts grow refractory and flatly contradict each other, and
the soul passes through a brief frenzy fit. Youth only can understand all
that lies in the dithyrambic outpourings of youth when, after a stormy
siege, of the most frantic folly and coolest common-sense, the heart
finally yields to the assault of the latest comer, be it hope, or despair,
as some mysterious power determines.
At three-and-twenty, diffidence nearly always rules a man's conduct; he is
perplexed with a young girl's shyness, a girl's trouble; he is afraid lest
he should express his love ill, sees nothing but difficulties, and takes
alarm at them; he would be bolder if he loved less, for he has no
confidence in himself, and with a growing sense of the cost of happiness
comes a conviction that the woman he loves cannot easily be won; perhaps,
too, he is giving himself up too entirely to his own pleasure, and fears
that he can give none; and when, for his misfortune, his idol inspires him
with awe, he worships in secret and afar, and unless his love is guessed,
it dies away. Then it often happens that one of these dead early loves
lingers on, bright with illusions in many a young heart. What man is there
but keeps within him these virgin memories that grow fairer every time
they rise before him, memories that hold up to him the ideal of perfect
bliss? Such recollections are like children who die in the flower of
childhood, before their parents have known anything of them but their
So M. de Nueil came home from Courcelles, the victim of a mood fraught
with desperate resolutions. Even now he felt that Mme. de Beauseant was
one of the conditions of his existence, and that death would be preferable
to life without her. He was still young enough to feel the tyrannous
fascination which fully-developed womanhood exerts over immature and
impassioned natures; and, consequently, he was to spend one of those
stormy nights when a young man's thoughts travel from happiness to suicide
and back again—nights in which youth rushes through a lifetime of
bliss and falls asleep from sheer exhaustion. Fateful nights are they, and
the worst misfortune that can happen is to awake a philosopher afterwards.
M. de Nueil was far too deeply in love to sleep; he rose and betook to
inditing letters, but none of them were satisfactory, and he burned them
The next day he went to Courcelles to make the circuit of her garden
walls, but he waited till nightfall; he was afraid that she might see him.
The instinct that led him to act in this way arose out of so obscure a
mood of the soul, that none but a young man, or a man in like case, can
fully understand its mute ecstasies and its vagaries, matter to set those
people who are lucky enough to see life only in its matter-of-fact aspect
shrugging their shoulders. After painful hesitation, Gaston wrote to Mme.
de Beauseant. Here is the letter, which may serve as a sample of the
epistolary style peculiar to lovers, a performance which, like the
drawings prepared with great secrecy by children for the birthdays of
father or mother, is found insufferable by every mortal except the
"MADAME,—Your power over my heart, my soul, myself, is so great
that my fate depends wholly upon you to-day. Do not throw this
letter into the fire; be so kind as to read it through. Perhaps
you may pardon the opening sentence when you see that it is no
commonplace, selfish declaration, but that it expresses a simple
fact. Perhaps you may feel moved, because I ask for so little, by
the submission of one who feels himself so much beneath you, by
the influence that your decision will exercise upon my life. At my
age, madame, I only know how to love, I am utterly ignorant of
ways of attracting and winning a woman's love, but in my own heart
I know raptures of adoration of her. I am irresistibly drawn to
you by the great happiness that I feel through you; my thoughts
turn to you with the selfish instinct which bids us draw nearer to
the fire of life when we find it. I do not imagine that I am
worthy of you; it seems impossible that I, young, ignorant, and
shy, could bring you one-thousandth part of the happiness that I
drink in at the sound of your voice and the sight of you. For me
you are the only woman in the world. I cannot imagine life without
you, so I have made up my mind to leave France, and to risk my
life till I lose it in some desperate enterprise, in the Indies,
in Africa, I care not where. How can I quell a love that knows no
limits save by opposing to it something as infinite? Yet, if you
will allow me to hope, not to be yours, but to win your
friendship, I will stay. Let me come, not so very often, if you
require it, to spend a few such hours with you as those stolen
hours of yesterday. The keen delight of that brief happiness to be
cut short at the least over-ardent word from me, will suffice to
enable me to endure the boiling torrent in my veins. Have I
presumed too much upon your generosity by this entreaty to suffer
an intercourse in which all the gain is mine alone? You could find
ways of showing the world, to which you sacrifice so much, that I
am nothing to you; you are so clever and so proud! What have you
to fear? If I could only lay bare my heart to you at this moment,
to convince you that it is with no lurking afterthought that I
make this humble request! Should I have told you that my love was
boundless, while I prayed you to grant me friendship, if I had any
hope of your sharing this feeling in the depths of my soul? No,
while I am with you, I will be whatever you will, if only I may be
with you. If you refuse (as you have the power to refuse), I will
not utter one murmur, I will go. And if, at a later day, any other
woman should enter into my life, you will have proof that you were
right; but if I am faithful till death, you may feel some regret
perhaps. The hope of causing you a regret will soothe my agony,
and that thought shall be the sole revenge of a slighted
Only those who have passed through all the exceeding tribulations of
youth, who have seized on all the chimeras with two white pinions, the
nightmare fancies at the disposal of a fervid imagination, can realize the
horrors that seized upon Gaston de Nueil when he had reason to suppose
that his ultimatum was in Mme. de Beauseant's hands. He saw the
Vicomtesse, wholly untouched, laughing at his letter and his love, as
those can laugh who have ceased to believe in love. He could have wished
to have his letter back again. It was an absurd letter. There were a
thousand and one things, now that he came to think of it, that he might
have said, things infinitely better and more moving than those stilted
phrases of his, those accursed, sophisticated, pretentious, fine-spun
phrases, though, luckily, the punctuation had been pretty bad and the
lines shockingly crooked. He tried not to think, not to feel; but he felt
and thought, and was wretched. If he had been thirty years old, he might
have got drunk, but the innocence of three-and-twenty knew nothing of the
resources of opium nor of the expedients of advanced civilization. Nor had
he at hand one of those good friends of the Parisian pattern who
understand so well how to say Poete, non dolet! by producing a
bottle of champagne, or alleviate the agony of suspense by carrying you
off somewhere to make a night of it. Capital fellows are they, always in
low water when you are in funds, always off to some watering-place when
you go to look them up, always with some bad bargain in horse-flesh to
sell you; it is true, that when you want to borrow of them, they have
always just lost their last louis at play; but in all other respects they
are the best fellows on earth, always ready to embark with you on one of
the steep down-grades where you lose your time, your soul, and your life!
At length M. de Nueil received a missive through the instrumentality of
Jacques, a letter that bore the arms of Burgundy on the scented seal, a
letter written on vellum notepaper.
He rushed away at once to lock himself in, and read and re-read her
"You are punishing me very severely, monsieur, both for the
friendliness of my effort to spare you a rebuff, and for the
attraction which intellect always has for me. I put confidence in
the generosity of youth, and you have disappointed me. And yet, if
I did not speak unreservedly (which would have been perfectly
ridiculous), at any rate I spoke frankly of my position, so that
you might imagine that I was not to be touched by a young soul. My
distress is the keener for my interest in you. I am naturally
tender-hearted and kindly, but circumstances force me to act
unkindly. Another woman would have flung your letter, unread, into
the fire; I read it, and I am answering it. My answer will make it
clear to you that while I am not untouched by the expression of
this feeling which I have inspired, albeit unconsciously, I am
still far from sharing it, and the step which I am about to take
will show you still more plainly that I mean what I say. I wish
besides, to use, for your welfare, that authority, as it were,
which you give me over your life; and I desire to exercise it this
once to draw aside the veil from your eyes.
"I am nearly thirty years old, monsieur; you are barely
two-and-twenty. You yourself cannot know what your thoughts will
be at my age. The vows that you make so lightly to-day may seem a
very heavy burden to you then. I am quite willing to believe that
at this moment you would give me your whole life without a regret,
you would even be ready to die for a little brief happiness; but
at the age of thirty experience will take from you the very power
of making daily sacrifices for my sake, and I myself should feel
deeply humiliated if I accepted them. A day would come when
everything, even Nature, would bid you leave me, and I have
already told you that death is preferable to desertion. Misfortune
has taught me to calculate; as you see, I am arguing perfectly
dispassionately. You force me to tell you that I have no love for
you; I ought not to love, I cannot, and I will not. It is too late
to yield, as women yield, to a blind unreasoning impulse of the
heart, too late to be the mistress whom you seek. My consolations
spring from God, not from earth. Ah, and besides, with the
melancholy insight of disappointed love, I read hearts too clearly
to accept your proffered friendship. It is only instinct. I
forgive the boyish ruse, for which you are not responsible as yet.
In the name of this passing fancy of yours, for the sake of your
career and my own peace of mind, I bid you stay in your own
country; you must not spoil a fair and honorable life for an
illusion which, by its very nature, cannot last. At a later day,
when you have accomplished your real destiny, in the fully
developed manhood that awaits you, you will appreciate this answer
of mine, though to-day it may be that you blame its hardness. You
will turn with pleasure to an old woman whose friendship will
certainly be sweet and precious to you then; a friendship untried
by the extremes of passion and the disenchanting processes of
life; a friendship which noble thoughts and thoughts of religion
will keep pure and sacred. Farewell; do my bidding with the
thought that your success will bring a gleam of pleasure into my
solitude, and only think of me as we think of absent friends."
Gaston de Nueil read the letter, and wrote the following lines:—
"MADAME,—If I could cease to love you, to take the chances of
becoming an ordinary man which you hold out to me, you must admit
that I should thoroughly deserve my fate. No, I shall not do as
you bid me; the oath of fidelity which I swear to you shall only
be absolved by death. Ah! take my life, unless indeed you do not
fear to carry a remorse all through your own——"
When the man returned from his errand, M. de Nueil asked him with whom he
left the note?
"I gave it to Mme. la Vicomtesse herself, sir; she was in her carriage and
just about to start."
"For the town?"
"I don't think so, sir. Mme. la Vicomtesse had post-horses."
"Ah! then she is going away," said the Baron.
"Yes, sir," the man answered.
Gaston de Nueil at once prepared to follow Mme. de Beauseant. She led the
way as far as Geneva, without a suspicion that he followed. And he? Amid
the many thoughts that assailed him during that journey, one all-absorbing
problem filled his mind—"Why did she go away?" Theories grew thickly
on such ground for supposition, and naturally he inclined to the one that
flattered his hopes—"If the Vicomtesse cares for me, a clever woman
would, of course, choose Switzerland, where nobody knows either of us, in
preference to France, where she would find censorious critics."
An impassioned lover of a certain stamp would not feel attracted to a
woman clever enough to choose her own ground; such women are too clever.
However, there is nothing to prove that there was any truth in Gaston's
The Vicomtesse took a small house by the side of the lake. As soon as she
was installed in it, Gaston came one summer evening in the twilight.
Jacques, that flunkey in grain, showed no sign of surprise, and announced
M. le Baron de Nueil like a discreet domestic well acquainted with
good society. At the sound of the name, at the sight of its owner, Mme. de
Beauseant let her book fall from her hands; her surprise gave him time to
come close to her, and to say in tones that sounded like music in her
"What a joy it was to me to take the horses that brought you on this
To have the inmost desires of the heart so fulfilled! Where is the woman
who could resist such happiness as this? An Italian woman, one of those
divine creatures who, psychologically, are as far removed from the
Parisian as if they lived at the Antipodes, a being who would be regarded
as profoundly immoral on this side of the Alps, an Italian (to resume)
made the following comment on some French novels which she had been
reading. "I cannot see," she remarked, "why these poor lovers take such a
time over coming to an arrangement which ought to be the affair of a
single morning." Why should not the novelist take a hint from this worthy
lady, and refrain from exhausting the theme and the reader? Some few
passages of coquetry it would certainly be pleasant to give in outline;
the story of Mme. de Beauseant's demurs and sweet delayings, that, like
the vestal virgins of antiquity, she might fall gracefully, and by
lingering over the innocent raptures of first love draw from it its utmost
strength and sweetness. M. de Nueil was at an age when a man is the dupe
of these caprices, of the fence which women delight to prolong; either to
dictate their own terms, or to enjoy the sense of their power yet longer,
knowing instinctively as they do that it must soon grow less. But, after
all, these little boudoir protocols, less numerous than those of the
Congress of London, are too small to be worth mention in the history of
For three years Mme. de Beauseant and M. de Nueil lived in the villa on
the lake of Geneva. They lived quite alone, received no visitors, caused
no talk, rose late, went out together upon the lake, knew, in short, the
happiness of which we all of us dream. It was a simple little house, with
green shutters, and broad balconies shaded with awnings, a house contrived
of set purpose for lovers, with its white couches, soundless carpets, and
fresh hangings, everything within it reflecting their joy. Every window
looked out on some new view of the lake; in the far distance lay the
mountains, fantastic visions of changing color and evanescent cloud; above
them spread the sunny sky, before them stretched the broad sheet of water,
never the same in its fitful changes. All their surroundings seemed to
dream for them, all things smiled upon them.
Then weighty matters recalled M. de Nueil to France. His father and
brother died, and he was obliged to leave Geneva. The lovers bought the
house; and if they could have had their way, they would have removed the
hills piecemeal, drawn off the lake with a siphon, and taken everything
away with them.
Mme. de Beauseant followed M. de Nueil. She realized her property, and
bought a considerable estate near Manerville, adjoining Gaston's lands,
and here they lived together; Gaston very graciously giving up Manerville
to his mother for the present in consideration of the bachelor freedom in
which she left him.
Mme. de Beauseant's estate was close to a little town in one of the most
picturesque spots in the valley of the Auge. Here the lovers raised
barriers between themselves and social intercourse, barriers which no
creature could overleap, and here the happy days of Switzerland were lived
over again. For nine whole years they knew happiness which it serves no
purpose to describe; happiness which may be divined from the outcome of
the story by those whose souls can comprehend poetry and prayer in their
All this time Mme. de Beauseant's husband, the present Marquis (his father
and elder brother having died), enjoyed the soundest health. There is no
better aid to life than a certain knowledge that our demise would confer a
benefit on some fellow-creature. M. de Beauseant was one of those ironical
and wayward beings who, like holders of life-annuities, wake with an
additional sense of relish every morning to a consciousness of good
health. For the rest, he was a man of the world, somewhat methodical and
ceremonious, and a calculator of consequences, who could make a
declaration of love as quietly as a lackey announces that "Madame is
This brief biographical notice of his lordship the Marquis de Beauseant is
given to explain the reasons why it was impossible for the Marquise to
marry M. de Nueil.
So, after a nine years' lease of happiness, the sweetest agreement to
which a woman ever put her hand, M. de Nueil and Mme. de Beauseant were
still in a position quite as natural and quite as false as at the
beginning of their adventure. And yet they had reached a fatal crisis,
which may be stated as clearly as any problem in mathematics.
Mme. la Comtesse de Nueil, Gaston's mother, a strait-laced and virtuous
person, who had made the late Baron happy in strictly legal fashion would
never consent to meet Mme. de Beauseant. Mme. de Beauseant quite
understood that the worthy dowager must of necessity be her enemy, and
that she would try to draw Gaston from his unhallowed and immoral way of
life. The Marquise de Beauseant would willingly have sold her property and
gone back to Geneva, but she could not bring herself to do it; it would
mean that she distrusted M. de Nueil. Moreover, he had taken a great fancy
to this very Valleroy estate, where he was making plantations and
improvements. She would not deprive him of a piece of pleasurable
routine-work, such as women always wish for their husbands, and even for
A Mlle. de la Rodiere, twenty-two years of age, an heiress with a
rent-roll of forty thousand livres, had come to live in the neighborhood.
Gaston always met her at Manerville whenever he was obliged to go thither.
These various personages being to each other as the terms of a proportion
sum, the following letter will throw light on the appalling problem which
Mme. de Beauseant had been trying for the past month to solve:—
"My beloved angel, it seems like nonsense, does it not, to write
to you when there is nothing to keep us apart, when a caress so
often takes the place of words, and words too are caresses? Ah,
well, no, love. There are some things that a woman cannot say when
she is face to face with the man she loves; at the bare thought of
them her voice fails her, and the blood goes back to her heart;
she has no strength, no intelligence left. It hurts me to feel
like this when you are near me, and it happens often. I feel that
my heart should be wholly sincere for you; that I should disguise
no thought, however transient, in my heart; and I love the sweet
carelessness, which suits me so well, too much to endure this
embarrassment and constraint any longer. So I will tell you about
my anguish—yes, it is anguish. Listen to me! do not begin with
the little 'Tut, tut, tut,' that you use to silence me, an
impertinence that I love, because anything from you pleases me.
Dear soul from heaven, wedded to mine, let me first tell you that
you have effaced all memory of the pain that once was crushing the
life out of me. I did not know what love was before I knew you.
Only the candor of your beautiful young life, only the purity of
that great soul of yours, could satisfy the requirements of an
exacting woman's heart. Dear love, how very often I have thrilled
with joy to think that in these nine long, swift years, my
jealousy has not been once awakened. All the flowers of your soul
have been mine, all your thoughts. There has not been the faintest
cloud in our heaven; we have not known what sacrifice is; we have
always acted on the impulses of our hearts. I have known
happiness, infinite for a woman. Will the tears that drench this
sheet tell you all my gratitude? I could wish that I had knelt to
write the words!—Well, out of this felicity has arisen torture
more terrible than the pain of desertion. Dear, there are very
deep recesses in a woman's heart; how deep in my own heart, I did
not know myself until to-day, as I did not know the whole extent
of love. The greatest misery which could overwhelm us is a light
burden compared with the mere thought of harm for him whom we
love. And how if we cause the harm, is it not enough to make one
die?... This is the thought that is weighing upon me. But
it brings in its train another thought that is heavier far, a
thought that tarnishes the glory of love, and slays it, and turns
it into a humiliation which sullies life as long as it lasts. You
are thirty years old; I am forty. What dread this difference in
age calls up in a woman who loves! It is possible that, first of
all unconsciously, afterwards in earnest, you have felt the
sacrifices that you have made by renouncing all in the world for
me. Perhaps you have thought of your future from the social point
of view, of the marriage which would, of course, increase your
fortune, and give you avowed happiness and children who would
inherit your wealth; perhaps you have thought of reappearing in
the world, and filling your place there honorably. And then, if
so, you must have repressed those thoughts, and felt glad to
sacrifice heiress and fortune and a fair future to me without my
knowledge. In your young man's generosity, you must have resolved
to be faithful to the vows which bind us each to each in the sight
of God. My past pain has risen up before your mind, and the misery
from which you rescued me has been my protection. To owe your love
to your pity! The thought is even more painful to me than the fear
of spoiling your life for you. The man who can bring himself to
stab his mistress is very charitable if he gives her her deathblow
while she is happy and ignorant of evil, while illusions are in
full blossom.... Yes, death is preferable to the two thoughts
which have secretly saddened the hours for several days. To-day,
when you asked 'What ails you?' so tenderly, the sound of your
voice made me shiver. I thought that, after your wont, you were
reading my very soul, and I waited for your confidence to come,
thinking that my presentiments had come true, and that I had
guessed all that was going on in your mind. Then I began to think
over certain little things that you always do for me, and I
thought I could see in you the sort of affection by which a man
betrays a consciousness that his loyalty is becoming a burden. And
in that moment I paid very dear for my happiness. I felt that
Nature always demands the price for the treasure called love.
Briefly, has not fate separated us? Can you have said, 'Sooner or
later I must leave poor Claire; why not separate in time?' I read
that thought in the depths of your eyes, and went away to cry by
myself. Hiding my tears from you! the first tears that I have shed
for sorrow for these ten years; I am too proud to let you see
them, but I did not reproach you in the least.
"Yes, you are right. I ought not to be so selfish as to bind your
long and brilliant career to my so-soon out-worn life.... And
yet—how if I have been mistaken? How if I have taken your love
melancholy for a deliberation? Oh, my love, do not leave me in
suspense; punish this jealous wife of yours, but give her back the
sense of her love and yours; the whole woman lies in that—that
consciousness sanctifies everything.
"Since your mother came, since you paid a visit to Mlle. de
Rodiere, I have been gnawed by doubts dishonoring to us both. Make
me suffer for this, but do not deceive me; I want to know
everything that your mother said and that you think! If you have
hesitated between some alternative and me, I give you back your
liberty.... I will not let you know what happens to me; I will
not shed tears for you to see; only—I will not see you again....
Ah! I cannot go on, my heart is breaking..................
I have been sitting benumbed and stupid for some moments. Dear love,
I do not find that any feeling of pride rises against you; you are so
kind-hearted, so open; you would find it impossible to hurt me or
to deceive me; and you will tell me the truth, however cruel it may
be. Do you wish me to encourage your confession? Well, then, heart
of mine, I shall find comfort in a woman's thought. Has not the
youth of your being been mine, your sensitive, wholly gracious,
beautiful, and delicate youth? No woman shall find henceforth the
Gaston whom I have known, nor the delicious happiness that he has
given me.... No; you will never love again as you have loved,
as you love me now; no, I shall never have a rival, it is
impossible. There will be no bitterness in my memories of our
love, and I shall think of nothing else. It is out of your power
to enchant any woman henceforth by the childish provocations, the
charming ways of a young heart, the soul's winning charm, the
body's grace, the swift communion of rapture, the whole divine
cortege of young love, in fine.
"Oh, you are a man now, you will obey your destiny, weighing and
considering all things. You will have cares, and anxieties, and
ambitions, and concerns that will rob her of the unchanging
smile that made your lips fair for me. The tones that were always
so sweet for me will be troubled at times; and your eyes that
lighted up with radiance from heaven at the sight of me, will
often be lustreless for her. And besides, as it is impossible to
love you as I love you, you will never care for that woman as you
have cared for me. She will never keep a constant watch over
herself as I have done; she will never study your happiness at
every moment with an intuition which has never failed me. Ah, yes,
the man, the heart and soul, which I shall have known will exist
no longer. I shall bury him deep in my memory, that I may have the
joy of him still; I shall live happy in that fair past life of
ours, a life hidden from all but our inmost selves.
"Dear treasure of mine, if all the while no least thought of
liberty has risen in your mind, if my love is no burden on you, if
my fears are chimerical, if I am still your Eve—the one woman in
the world for you—come to me as soon as you have read this
letter, come quickly! Ah, in one moment I will love you more than
I have ever loved you, I think, in these nine years. After
enduring the needless torture of these doubts of which I am
accusing myself, every added day of love, yes, every single day,
will be a whole lifetime of bliss. So speak, and speak openly; do
not deceive me, it would be a crime. Tell me, do you wish for your
liberty? Have you thought of all that a man's life means? Is there
any regret in your mind? That I should cause you a regret! I
should die of it. I have said it: I love you enough to set your
happiness above mine, your life before my own. Leave on one side,
if you can, the wealth of memories of our nine years' happiness,
that they may not influence your decision, but speak! I submit
myself to you as to God, the one Consoler who remains if you
When Mme. de Beauseant knew that her letter was in M. de Nueil's hands,
she sank in such utter prostration, the over-pressure of many thoughts so
numbed her faculties, that she seemed almost drowsy. At any rate, she was
suffering from a pain not always proportioned in its intensity to a
woman's strength; pain which women alone know. And while the unhappy
Marquise awaited her doom, M. de Nueil, reading her letter, felt that he
was "in a very difficult position," to use the expression that young men
apply to a crisis of this kind.
By this time he had all but yielded to his mother's importunities and to
the attractions of Mlle. de la Rodiere, a somewhat insignificant,
pink-and-white young person, as straight as a poplar. It is true that, in
accordance with the rules laid down for marriageable young ladies, she
scarcely opened her mouth, but her rent-roll of forty thousand livres
spoke quite sufficiently for her. Mme. de Nueil, with a mother's sincere
affection, tried to entangle her son in virtuous courses. She called his
attention to the fact that it was a flattering distinction to be preferred
by Mlle. de la Rodiere, who had refused so many great matches; it was
quite time, she urged, that he should think of his future, such a good
opportunity might not repeat itself, some day he would have eighty
thousand livres of income from land; money made everything bearable; if
Mme. de Beauseant loved him for his own sake, she ought to be the first to
urge him to marry. In short, the well-intentioned mother forgot no
arguments which the feminine intellect can bring to bear upon the
masculine mind, and by these means she had brought her son into a wavering
Mme. de Beauseant's letter arrived just as Gaston's love of her was
holding out against the temptations of a settled life conformable to
received ideas. That letter decided the day. He made up his mind to break
off with the Marquise and to marry.
"One must live a man's life," said he to himself.
Then followed some inkling of the pain that this decision would give to
Mme. de Beauseant. The man's vanity and the lover's conscience further
exaggerated this pain, and a sincere pity for her seized upon him. All at
once the immensity of the misery became apparent to him, and he thought it
necessary and charitable to deaden the deadly blow. He hoped to bring Mme.
de Beauseant to a calm frame of mind by gradually reconciling her to the
idea of separation; while Mlle. de la Rodiere, always like a shadowy third
between them, should be sacrificed to her at first, only to be imposed
upon her later. His marriage should take place later, in obedience to Mme.
de Beauseant's expressed wish. He went so far as to enlist the Marquise's
nobleness and pride and all the great qualities of her nature to help him
to succeed in this compassionate design. He would write a letter at once
to allay her suspicions. A letter! For a woman with the most
exquisite feminine perception, as well as the intuition of passionate
love, a letter in itself was a sentence of death.
So when Jacques came and brought Mme. de Beauseant a sheet of paper folded
in a triangle, she trembled, poor woman, like a snared swallow. A
mysterious sensation of physical cold spread from head to foot, wrapping
her about in an icy winding sheet. If he did not rush to her feet, if he
did not come to her in tears, and pale, and like a lover, she knew that
all was lost. And yet, so many hopes are there in the heart of a woman who
loves, that she is only slain by stab after stab, and loves on till the
last drop of life-blood drains away.
"Does madame need anything?" Jacques asked gently, as he went away.
"No," she said.
"Poor fellow!" she thought, brushing a tear from her eyes, "he guesses my
feelings, servant though he is!"
She read: "My beloved, you are inventing idle terrors for yourself..." The
Marquise gazed at the words, and a thick mist spread before her eyes. A
voice in her heart cried, "He lies!"—Then she glanced down the page
with the clairvoyant eagerness of passion, and read these words at the
foot, "Nothing has been decided as yet..." Turning to the other
side with convulsive quickness, she saw the mind of the writer distinctly
through the intricacies of the wording; this was no spontaneous outburst
of love. She crushed it in her fingers, twisted it, tore it with her
teeth, flung it in the fire, and cried aloud, "Ah! base that he is! I was
his, and he had ceased to love me!"
She sank half dead upon the couch.
M. de Nueil went out as soon as he had written his letter. When he came
back, Jacques met him on the threshold with a note. "Madame la Marquise
has left the chateau," said the man.
M. de Nueil, in amazement, broke the seal and read:—
"MADAME,—If I could cease to love you, to take the chances of
becoming an ordinary man which you hold out to me, you must admit
that I should thoroughly deserve my fate. No, I shall not do as
you bid me; the oath of fidelity which I swear to you shall only
be absolved by death. Ah! take my life, unless indeed you do not
fear to carry a remorse all through your own..."
It was his own letter, written to the Marquise as she set out for Geneva
nine years before. At the foot of it Claire de Bourgogne had written,
"Monsieur, you are free."
M. de Nueil went to his mother at Manerville. In less than three weeks he
married Mlle. Stephanie de la Rodiere.
If this commonplace story of real life ended here, it would be to some
extent a sort of mystification. The first man you meet can tell you a
better. But the widespread fame of the catastrophe (for, unhappily, this
is a true tale), and all the memories which it may arouse in those who
have known the divine delights of infinite passion, and lost them by their
own deed, or through the cruelty of fate,—these things may perhaps
shelter the story from criticism.
Mme. la Marquise de Beauseant never left Valleroy after her parting from
M. de Nueil. After his marriage she still continued to live there, for
some inscrutable woman's reason; any woman is at liberty to assign the one
which most appeals to her. Claire de Bourgogne lived in such complete
retirement that none of the servants, save Jacques and her own woman, ever
saw their mistress. She required absolute silence all about her, and only
left her room to go to the chapel on the Valleroy estate, whither a
neighboring priest came to say mass every morning.
The Comte de Nueil sank a few days after his marriage into something like
conjugal apathy, which might be interpreted to mean happiness or
unhappiness equally easily.
"My son is perfectly happy," his mother said everywhere.
Mme. Gaston de Nueil, like a great many young women, was a rather
colorless character, sweet and passive. A month after her marriage she had
expectations of becoming a mother. All this was quite in accordance with
ordinary views. M. de Nueil was very nice to her; but two months after his
separation from the Marquise, he grew notably thoughtful and abstracted.
But then he always had been serious, his mother said.
After seven months of this tepid happiness, a little thing occurred, one
of those seemingly small matters which imply such great development of
thought and such widespread trouble of the soul, that only the bare fact
can be recorded; the interpretation of it must be left to the fancy of
each individual mind. One day, when M. de Nueil had been shooting over the
lands of Manerville and Valleroy, he crossed Mme. de Beauseant's park on
his way home, summoned Jacques, and when the man came, asked him, "Whether
the Marquise was as fond of game as ever?"
Jacques answering in the affirmative, Gaston offered him a good round sum
(accompanied by plenty of specious reasoning) for a very little service.
Would he set aside for the Marquise the game that the Count would bring?
It seemed to Jacques to be a matter of no great importance whether the
partridge on which his mistress dined had been shot by her keeper or by M.
de Nueil, especially since the latter particularly wished that the
Marquise should know nothing about it.
"It was killed on her land," said the Count, and for some days Jacques
lent himself to the harmless deceit. Day after day M. de Nueil went
shooting, and came back at dinner-time with an empty bag. A whole week
went by in this way. Gaston grew bold enough to write a long letter to the
Marquise, and had it conveyed to her. It was returned to him unopened. The
Marquise's servant brought it back about nightfall. The Count, sitting in
the drawing-room listening, while his wife at the piano mangled a Caprice
of Herold's, suddenly sprang up and rushed out to the Marquise, as if he
were flying to an assignation. He dashed through a well-known gap into the
park, and went slowly along the avenues, stopping now and again for a
little to still the loud beating of his heart. Smothered sounds as he came
nearer the chateau told him that the servants must be at supper, and he
went straight to Mme. de Beauseant's room.
Mme. de Beauseant never left her bedroom. M. de Nueil could gain the
doorway without making the slightest sound. There, by the light of two wax
candles, he saw the thin, white Marquise in a great armchair; her head was
bowed, her hands hung listlessly, her eyes gazing fixedly at some object
which she did not seem to see. Her whole attitude spoke of hopeless pain.
There was a vague something like hope in her bearing, but it was
impossible to say whither Claire de Bourgogne was looking—forwards
to the tomb or backwards into the past. Perhaps M. de Nueil's tears
glittered in the deep shadows; perhaps his breathing sounded faintly;
perhaps unconsciously he trembled, or again it may have been impossible
that he should stand there, his presence unfelt by that quick sense which
grows to be an instinct, the glory, the delight, the proof of perfect
love. However it was, Mme. de Beauseant slowly turned her face towards the
doorway, and beheld her lover of bygone days. Then Gaston de Nueil came
forward a few paces.
"If you come any further, sir," exclaimed the Marquise, growing paler, "I
shall fling myself out of the window!"
She sprang to the window, flung it open, and stood with one foot on the
ledge, her hand upon the iron balustrade, her face turned towards Gaston.
"Go out! go out!" she cried, "or I will throw myself over."
At that dreadful cry the servants began to stir, and M. de Nueil fled like
When he reached his home again he wrote a few lines and gave them to his
own man, telling him to give the letter himself into Mme. de Beauseant's
hands, and to say that it was a matter of life and death for his master.
The messenger went. M. de Nueil went back to the drawing-room where his
wife was still murdering the Caprice, and sat down to wait till the
answer came. An hour later, when the Caprice had come to an end,
and the husband and wife sat in silence on opposite sides of the hearth,
the man came back from Valleroy and gave his master his own letter,
M. de Nueil went into a small room beyond the drawing-room, where he had
left his rifle, and shot himself.
The swift and fatal ending of the drama, contrary as it is to all the
habits of young France, is only what might have been expected. Those who
have closely observed, or known for themselves by delicious experience,
all that is meant by the perfect union of two beings, will understand
Gaston de Nueil's suicide perfectly well. A woman does not bend and form
herself in a day to the caprices of passion. The pleasure of loving, like
some rare flower, needs the most careful ingenuity of culture. Time alone,
and two souls attuned each to each, can discover all its resources, and
call into being all the tender and delicate delights for which we are
steeped in a thousand superstitions, imagining them to be inherent in the
heart that lavishes them upon us. It is this wonderful response of one
nature to another, this religious belief, this certainty of finding
peculiar or excessive happiness in the presence of one we love, that
accounts in part for perdurable attachments and long-lived passion. If a
woman possesses the genius of her sex, love never comes to be a matter of
use and wont. She brings all her heart and brain to love, clothes her
tenderness in forms so varied, there is such art in her most natural
moments, or so much nature in her art, that in absence her memory is
almost as potent as her presence. All other women are as shadows compared
with her. Not until we have lost or known the dread of losing a love so
vast and glorious, do we prize it at its just worth. And if a man who has
once possessed this love shuts himself out from it by his own act and
deed, and sinks to some loveless marriage; if by some incident, hidden in
the obscurity of married life, the woman with whom he hoped to know the
same felicity makes it clear that it will never be revived for him; if,
with the sweetness of divine love still on his lips, he has dealt a deadly
wound to her, his wife in truth, whom he forsook for a social
chimera,—then he must either die or take refuge in a materialistic,
selfish, and heartless philosophy, from which impassioned souls shrink in
As for Mme. de Beauseant, she doubtless did not imagine that her friend's
despair could drive him to suicide, when he had drunk deep of love for
nine years. Possibly she may have thought that she alone was to suffer. At
any rate, she did quite rightly to refuse the most humiliating of all
positions; a wife may stoop for weighty social reasons to a kind of
compromise which a mistress is bound to hold in abhorrence, for in the
purity of her passion lies all its justification.
ANGOULEME, September 1832.