CHAPTER VII
REFLECTIONS
It would be difficult to describe the tumultuous and opposing sentiments that agitated M. d'Harville when alone. He reflected with delight on the detection of the unworthy falsehood charged upon Rodolph and Clémence; but he was, at the same time, thoroughly convinced that he must for ever forego the hope of being loved by her. The more Clémence had proved herself, in her conversation with Rodolph, resigned, full of courage, and bent on acting rightly, the more bitterly did M. d'Harville reproach himself for having, in his culpable egotism, chained the lot of his unhappy young wife to his own. Far from being consoled by the conversation he had overheard, he fell into a train of sorrowful thought and indescribable anguish.
Riches, without occupation, bring with them this wretchedness. Nothing can divert it, nothing relieve it, from the deepest feelings of mental torture. Not being compulsorily preoccupied by cares for the future or daily toil, it is utterly exposed to heavy moral affliction. Able to acquire all that money can purchase, it desires or regrets with intense violence —
"What gold could never buy."
The mental torture of M. d'Harville was intense, for, after all, what he desired was only what was just, and actually legal, – the society, if not the love, of his wife.
But, when placed beside the inexorable refusal of Clémence, he asked himself if there was not the bitterest derision in these words of the law: The wife belongs to her husband.
To what influence, to what means could he have recourse to subdue this coldness, this repugnance, which turned his whole existence into one long punishment, since he could not – ought not – would not love any woman but his wife?
He could not but see in this, as in many other positions of conjugal life, the simple will of the husband or the wife imperatively substituted, without appeal or possibility of prevention, for the sovereign will of the law.
To the paroxysms of vain anger there succeeded a melancholy depression. The future weighed him down, heavy, dull, and chill. He only saw before him the grief that would doubtless render more frequent the attacks of his fearful malady.
"Oh," he exclaimed, at once in tears and despair, "it is my fault, – it is my fault! Poor, unhappy girl! I deceived her, – shamefully deceived her! She must, – she ought to hate me; and yet but now she displayed the deepest interest in me, and, instead of contenting myself with that, my mad passion led me away, and I became tender. I spoke of my love, and scarcely had my lips touched her hand than she became startled, and bounded with fright. If I could for a moment have doubted the invincible repugnance with which I inspire her, what she said to the prince must for ever destroy that illusion. Ah, it is frightful, – frightful! By what right has she confided to him this hideous secret? It is an unworthy betrayal! By what right? – alas, by the right the victim has to complain of its executioner! Poor girl! So young, – so loving! All she could find most cruel to say against the horrid existence I have entailed upon her was, that such was not the lot of which she had dreamed, and that she was very young to renounce all hopes of love! I know Clémence, and the word she gave me, – the word she gave to the prince, – she will abide by for ever. She will be to me the tenderest of sisters! Well, is not my position still most enviable? To the cold and constrained demeanour which existed between us will succeed affectionate and gentle intercourse, whilst she might have treated me always with icy disdain of which it was impossible that I could complain. So, then, I will console myself by the enjoyment of what she offers to me. Shall I not be too happy then? – too happy? Ah, how weak I am! How cowardly! Is she not my wife, after all? Is she not mine and mine only? Does not the law recognise my right over her? My wife refuses, but is not the right on my side?" he interrupted himself, with a burst of sardonic laughter.
"Oh, yes, – be violent, eh? What, another infamy? But what can I do? For I love her yet, – love her to madness! I love her and her only! I want but her, – her love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. Ah, at last she must have pity; she is so kind, and she will see how unhappy I am! But no, no! Never! Mine is a case of estrangement which a woman never can surmount. Disgust, – yes, disgust, – I cannot but see it, – disgust! I must convince myself that it is my horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must, – always must!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, in his fearful excitement.
After a moment of gloomy silence, he continued:
"This anonymous attack, which accused the prince and my wife, comes from the hand of an enemy; and yet, but an hour ago, before I saw through it, I suspected him. Him! – to believe him capable of such base treachery! And my wife, too, I included in the same suspicion! Ah, jealousy is incurable! And yet I must not abuse myself. If the prince, who loves me as his best and dearest friend, has made Clémence promise to occupy her mind and heart in charitable works, if he promises her his advice, his support, it is because she requires advice, needs support. And, indeed, lovely and young, and surrounded as she is, and without that love in her heart which protects and even almost excuses her wrongs through mine, which are so atrocious, must she not fall? Another torturing thought! What I have suffered when I thought her guilty, – fallen, – Heaven knows what agony! But, no; the fear is vain! Clémence has sworn never to fail in her duties, and she will keep her promise, – strictly keep it! But at what a price! At what a price! But now, when she turned towards me with affectionate language, what agony did I feel at the sight of her gentle, sad, and resigned smile! How much this return to me must have cost! Poor love! how lovely and affecting she seemed at that moment! For the first time I felt a fierce remorse, for, up to that moment, her haughty coldness had sufficiently avenged her. Oh, wretch! – wretch that I am!"
After a long and sleepless night, spent in bitter reflections, the agitation of M. d'Harville ceased, as if by enchantment. He had come to an unalterable resolution. He awaited daybreak with excessive impatience.
Early in the morning he rang for his valet de chambre.
When old Joseph entered his master's room, to his great surprise he heard him hum a hunting song, – a sign, as rare as certain, that M. d'Harville was in good humour.
"Ah, M. le Marquis," said the faithful old servant, quite affected, "what a charming voice you have! What a pity that you do not sing more frequently!"
"Really, Joseph, have I a charming voice?" said M. d'Harville, smiling.
"If M. le Marquis had a voice as hoarse as a night raven or as harsh as a rattle, I should still think he had a charming voice."
"Be silent, you flatterer!"
"Why, when you sing, M. le Marquis, it is a sign you are happy, and then your voice sounds to me the most beautiful music in the world."
"In that case, Joseph, my old friend, prepare to open your long ears."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You may enjoy every day the music which you call charming, and of which you seem so fond."
"What! You will be happy every day, M. le Marquis?" exclaimed Joseph, clasping his hands with extreme delight.
"Every day, my old Joseph, happy every day. Yes, no more sorrow, – no more sadness. I can tell you, the only and discreet confidant of my troubles, that I am at the height of happiness. My wife is an angel of goodness, and has asked my forgiveness for her past estrangement, attributing it (can you imagine?) to jealousy."
"To jealousy?"
"Yes, absurd suspicions, excited by anonymous letters."
"How shameful!"
"You understand? Women have so much self-love, – a little more and we should have been separated; but, fortunately, last evening she explained all frankly to me, and I disabused her mind. To tell you her extreme delight would be impossible, for she loves me, – oh, yes, she loves me! The coldness she evinced towards me lay as cruelly on herself as on me, and now, at length, our distressing separation has ended. Only conceive my delight!"
"Can it be true?" cried Joseph, with tears in his eyes. "Can it really be true, M. le Marquis? And now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady's love that you required, or, rather, since her estrangement was your sole misery, as you told me."
"And to whom but you should I have told it, my worthy old Joseph? Do not you possess, also, a still sadder secret? But do not let us say anything more of sorrows now, – it is too bright a time. You see, perhaps, that I have been weeping? It is because this happiness has come over me so suddenly, when I so little anticipated it! How weak I am! – am I not?"
"Well, well, M. le Marquis, you may weep for joy as much as you please, for you have wept long enough for pain; and now see, do not I do as you do? They are right sort of tears, and I would not give them for ten years more of life. I have now but one fear, and that is, not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet of Madame la Marquise the first time I see her."
"Silly old fellow! Why you are as weak as your master. And now I have but one fear."
"And what is that?"
"That this will not last; I am too happy. What now is wanting to me?"
"Nothing, – nothing, M. le Marquis, – absolutely nothing."
"That is why I mistrust such perfect happiness, – too complete."
"Alas! If that is all, why, M. le Marquis – But no, I dare not."
"I understand you. Well, I believe your fears are vain. The change which my happiness causes me is so intense, so complete, that I am almost sure of being nearly cured."
"How?"
"My doctor has told me a hundred times that a violent emotion is frequently sufficient either to bring on or to cure this terrible malady."
"You are right, monsieur, – you are cured, and what a blessing that is! Ah, as you say, M. le Marquis, the marquise is a good angel come down from heaven; and I begin myself to be almost alarmed lest the happiness is too great; but now I think of it, if you only want a small matter just to annoy you, thank God, I have just the very thing!"
"What is it?"
"One of your friends has very luckily had a sword-wound, very slight, to be sure; but that's all the same, it is quite enough for you, as you desire to make a small black spot in your too happy day."
"What do you mean, and of whom do you speak?"
"The Duke de Lucenay."
"Is he wounded?"
"A scratch in the arm. M. the Duke came yesterday to call on you, sir, and told me he should come again this morning, and invite himself to a cup of tea."
"Poor Lucenay! And why did you not tell me this?"
"I could not see you last night, M. le Marquis."
After a moment's reflection, M. d'Harville resumed:
"You are right, this slight regret will, doubtless, satisfy jealous Fate. But an idea has come across me; I should like to get up a bachelors' breakfast this morning of all the friends of M. de Lucenay, to celebrate the fortunate result of his duel; not anticipating such a meeting, he will be delighted."
"A capital idea, M. le Marquis. Vive la joie! Let us make up for lost time. For how many shall I desire the maître d'hôtel to lay covers?"
"For six, in the small winter dining-room."
"And the invitations?"
"I will write them. Let a groom get his horse ready, and take them instantly. It is very early, and he will find everybody at home. Ring."
Joseph rang the bell.
M. d'Harville entered into his cabinet, and wrote the following letter, with no other alteration than the name of each invited guest.
"My dear – : This is a circular, and is also an impromptu. Lucenay is coming to breakfast with me this morning, expecting only a tête-à-tête. Will you join me and several friends, whom I also invite, in giving him an agreeable surprise?
"Twelve punctually.
"M. d'Harville."
A servant entered.
"Desire some one to get on horseback, and deliver these notes directly," said M. d'Harville; and then, addressing Joseph, "Write the addresses: M. le Vicomte de Saint-Remy, – Lucenay cannot get on without him," said M. d'Harville to himself; "M. de Monville, one of the duke's travelling companions; Lord Douglas, his beloved partner at whist; the Baron de Sézannes, one of the friends of his childhood. Have you done?"
"Yes, M. le Marquis."
"Send them off, then, without losing a minute's time," said M. d'Harville.
"Ah, Philippe, request M. Doublet to come and speak to me."
Philippe left the room.
"Well, what is the matter with you?" inquired M. d'Harville of Joseph, who looked at him with astonishment.
"I cannot get over it, sir; I never saw you in such spirits, – so lively; and then you, who are usually so pale, have got such a colour, and your eyes sparkle."
"Happiness, my old friend, – happiness, and nothing else; and you must assist me in my little plot. You must go and learn of Mlle. Juliette, Madame d'Harville's waiting-woman, who has the care of her diamonds."
"Yes, M. le Marquis, it is Mlle. Juliette who has the charge of them, for it is not eight days since I helped her to clean them."
"Ask her to tell you the name of her lady's jeweller, but not to say a word on the subject to her mistress."
"Ah, I understand, – a surprise."
"Go as quickly as possible. Here is M. Doublet."
And the steward entered as Joseph quitted the apartment.
"I have the honour to attend the orders of M. le Marquis."
"My dear M. Doublet, I am going to alarm you," said M. d'Harville, smiling; "I shall compel you to utter fearful cries of distress."
"Me, sir?"
"You."
"I will endeavour to give satisfaction to M. le Marquis."
"I am going to spend an enormous sum, M. Doublet."
"Why not, M. le Marquis? We are well able to do so."
"I have been planning a considerable extent of building. I propose to annex a gallery in the garden, on the right wing of the hôtel. After having hesitated at this folly, of which I have not before spoken to you, I have made up my mind on the point, and I wish you to send to-day to my architect, desiring him to come and talk over the plans with me. Well, M. Doublet, you do not seem to object to the outlay."
"I can assure your lordship that I have no objection whatsoever."
"This gallery is destined for fêtes, and I wish to have it erected as though by enchantment; and, as enchantments are very dear, we must sell fifteen or twenty thousand livres of income in order to meet the expenditure, for I wish the work to be begun as speedily as possible."
"I have always said there is nothing which M. le Marquis wants, unless it be a certain taste. That for building has the advantage of having the buildings always left; as to money, M. le Marquis need not alarm himself, and he may, if he pleases, build the gallery."
Joseph returned.
"Here, M. le Marquis, is the address of the jeweller, whose name is M. Baudoin," said he to M. d'Harville.
"My dear M. Doublet, will you go to this jeweller's, and desire him to bring here in an hour a river of diamonds, worth, say, two thousand louis? Women never have too many jewels, now they wear gowns decorated with them. You can arrange with the jeweller as to the payment."
"Yes, M. le Marquis; and I do not even yet begin to groan. Diamonds are like buildings, – they remain. And then, no doubt, the surprise will greatly please Madame la Marquise, without counting the pleasure that you yourself will experience. It is as I had the honour of saying the other day, there is not in the world any person whose existence can be more delightful than that of M. le Marquis."
"My dear M. Doublet," said M. d'Harville, with a smile, "your congratulations are always so peculiarly apropos."
"That is their only merit, M. le Marquis; and they possess that merit, perhaps, because they proceed from the heart. I will run to the jeweller."
As soon as he was alone, M. d'Harville began to pace up and down his cabinet, with his arms folded, and his eye fixed and meditative. His features suddenly changed, and no longer expressed that somewhat feverish contentment of which the steward and his old servant had been the dupes, but assumed a calm, sad, and chilling resolution. Afterwards, having paced up and down for a short time, he sunk into a chair heavily, and, as though weighed down with sorrow, placed his elbows on his desk, and hid his face in his hands. After a moment he rose suddenly, wiped a tear which moistened his red eyelid, and said with effort:
"Come, come! Courage, courage!"
He then wrote to several persons on very trifling matters, and postponed various meetings for some days. The marquis had concluded this correspondence when Joseph again entered, so gay, and so forgetful of himself, as to hum a tune in his turn.
"M. Joseph, what a charming voice you have!" said his master, jestingly.
"Ma foi! so much the worse, M. le Marquis, for I don't care about it. I am singing so merrily within, that my music must be heard without."
"Send these letters to the post."
"Yes, M. le Marquis; but where will you receive the gentlemen who are expected this morning?"
"Here, in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast, and then the smell of the tobacco will not reach Madame d'Harville."
At this moment the noise of carriage wheels was heard in the courtyard of the hôtel.
"It is Madame la Marquise going out; she ordered her carriage very early this morning," said Joseph.
"Run and request her to be so kind and come here before she goes out."
"Yes, M. le Marquis."
The domestic had scarcely left the room when M. d'Harville approached a mirror, and looked at himself attentively.
"Well, well," said he, in a hoarse voice, "it is there, – the flushed cheeks – the bright look – joy or fever, it is little consequence which, so that they are deceived; now, then, for the smile on the lips, – there are so many sorts of smiles! But who can distinguish the false from the true? Who can peep beneath the false mask, and say, 'That laugh hides a dark despair, that noisy gaiety conceals a thought of death?' Who could guess that? No one, – fortunately, no one, – no one! Ah, yes, love would never be mistaken; his instinct would enlighten him. But I hear my wife, – my wife! Now, then, sinister actor, play thy part."
Clémence entered M. d'Harville's apartment.
"Good morrow, dear brother Albert," she said, in a tone full of sweetness. Then, observing the smiling expression of her husband's countenance, "But what is it, my dear, that gives you such a smiling air?"
"It was because, when you entered, my dear sister, I was thinking of you, and, moreover, I was under the influence of an excellent resolution."
"That does not surprise me."
"What took place yesterday, – your extreme generosity, the prince's noble conduct, – has given me much food for reflection, and I am converted, – entirely converted to your ideas."
"Indeed! That is a happy change!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville. "Ah! I was sure that, when I appealed to your heart, to your reason, you would understand me; and now I have no doubt about the future."
"Nor I either, Clémence, I assure you. Yes, since my resolution last night, the future, which seemed so vague and sombre, is singularly brightened and simplified."
"Nothing can be more natural, my dear. Now we both go towards the same end, like a brother and sister, mutually dependent on each other; at the end of our career we shall find each other what we are to-day. The feeling will be unalterable. In a word, I wish you to be happy; and you shall be, for I have resolved it there," said Clémence, placing her finger on her forehead. Then she added, with charming emphasis, lowering her hand to her heart, "No, I mistake, it is here. That is the good thought that will watch over you incessantly, and myself also; and you shall see, my brother, in what the obstinacy of a devoted heart consists."
"Dear Clémence!" said M. d'Harville with repressed emotion; then, after a moment's silence, he continued, in a gay tone:
"I sent to beg you to come here before you went out, to tell you that I could not take tea with you this morning. I have some friends to breakfast, – a sort of impromptu, – to celebrate the fortunate result of a duel of poor Lucenay, who, by the way, was only very slightly wounded by his adversary."
Madame d'Harville blushed when she reflected on the origin of this duel, – an absurd remark addressed in her presence by the Duke de Lucenay to M. Charles Robert. It reminded her of an erreur of which she was ashamed, and, to escape from the pain she felt, she said to her husband:
"What a singular chance! M. de Lucenay is coming to breakfast with you, and I am going, perhaps rather indiscreetly, to invite myself this morning to Madame de Lucenay's; for I have a great deal to say to her about my two unknowns. From her, it is my intention to go to the prison of St. Lazare with Madame de Blinval, for you do not know all my projects; at this time I am intriguing to get admittance into the workroom of the young prisoner-girls."
"You are really insatiable," said M. d'Harville, with a smile; and then he added, with a painful emotion, which, despite his efforts, betrayed itself a little, "Then I shall see you no more to-day."
"Does it annoy you that I should go out so early?" asked Clémence, quickly, astonished at the tone of his voice. "If you wish it, I can put off my visit to Madame de Lucenay."
The Marquis had nearly betrayed himself, but continued, in an affectionate tone:
"Yes, my dear little sister, I am as annoyed to see you go out, as I shall be impatient to see you return, and these are faults of which I shall never be corrected."
"And you are quite right, dear; for if you did I should be very, very sorry."
The sound of a bell, announcing a visit, was now heard.
"Here is one of your guests, no doubt," said Madame d'Harville. "I leave you; but, by the way, what are you going to do in the evening? If you have no better engagement, I require you to accompany me to the Italian Opera; perhaps now you will like the music better."
"I am at your orders with the utmost pleasure."
"Are you going out by and by? Shall I see you before dinner?"
"I shall not go out; you will find me here."
"Well, then, on my return, I shall come and inquire if your bachelors' breakfast has been amusing."
"Adieu, Clémence!"
"Adieu, dear! We shall soon meet again. I leave you a clear house, and wish you may be as merry as possible. Be very gay and lively, mind."
Having cordially shaken her husband's hand, Clémence went out of one door as M. de Lucenay entered by another.
"She wished me to be as merry as possible, and bade me be gay! In the word adieu, in that last cry of my soul in its agony, in that word of complete and eternal separation, she has understood that we should meet again soon, – this evening, – and leaves me tranquilly, and with a smile! It does honour to my dissimulation. By heaven, I did not think that I was so good an actor! But here is Lucenay."