by Eugène Sue
“This very expression proves how guilty he was, and how treacherous was his conduct, if he really entertained the idea of my rejecting his hand if informed of the truth!”
“He loved you too well to incur the risk of losing you.”
“No, no, my lord; had he really loved me, he would never have sacrificed me to his selfish passion. Nay, so wretched was my position at that time, and such was my desire to quit my father’s roof, that, had he been candid and explicit with me, it is more than probable he would have moved me to pity the species of misery he was condemned to endure, and to sympathise with one so cut off from the tender ties which sweeten life. I really believe, at this moment, that, touched by his open, manly confession, as well as interested for one labouring under so severe an infliction of the Almighty’s hand, I should scarcely have had the courage to refuse him my hand; and, once aware of all I had undertaken, nothing should have deterred me from the full and conscientious discharge of every solemn duty towards him. But to compel this pity and interest, merely because he had me in his power, and to exact my consideration and sympathy, because, unhappily, I was his wife, and had sworn to obligations, the full force of which had been concealed from me, was at once the act of a coward and a wrong-judging mind. How could I hold myself bound to endure the heavy penalties of my unfortunate marriage, when my husband had trampled on every tie which binds an honourable mind? And now, my lord, you may form some little idea of my wedded life; you are now aware how shamefully I was deceived, and that, too, by the person in whose hands I unsuspectingly placed the future happiness of my whole existence. I had implicitly trusted in M. d’Harville, and he had most dishonourably and treacherously repaid my trustfulness with bitter and irremediable wrongs. The gentle, timid melancholy which had so greatly interested me in his favour, and which he attributed to pious recollections, was, in truth, only the workings of a conscience ill at ease, and the knowledge of his own incurable infirmity.”
“Still, were he a stranger or an enemy, a heart so noble and generous as yours would pity such sufferings as he endures?”
“But can I calm those sufferings? If he could distinguish my voice, or if only a look of recognition answered my sorrowing glance! But no. Oh, my lord, it is impossible for such as have never seen them to form an idea of those frightful paroxysms, in which every sense is suspended, and the unfortunate sufferer merely recovers from his frenzy to fall into a sort of sullen dejection! When my dear child experiences one of these attacks, it almost breaks my heart to see her tender frame twisted, stiffened, and distorted, by the dreadful convulsions which accompany it. Still, she is my own, my beloved infant, and, when I see her bitter agonies, my hatred and aversion to her father are increased an hundredfold. But, when my poor child becomes calmer, so does my irritation against my husband subside also; and then — ah, then — the natural tenderness of my heart makes my angry feelings give place to a species of sorrow and pity for him. Yet surely I did not marry at only seventeen years of age merely to experience the alternations of hatred and painful commiseration, and to weep over a frail and sickly infant, whom, after all, I may not be permitted to rear. And, as regards this beloved object of my incessant prayers, permit me, my lord, to anticipate a reproach I doubtless deserve, and which you would be unwilling to make. My daughter, young as she is, is capable of interesting my affections and fully occupying my heart; but the love she inspires is so cruelly mixed with present anguish and future apprehensions, that my tenderness for my child invariably ends in tears and bitter grief. When I am with her, my heart is torn with agony, a heavy, crushing weight presses on my heart at the thoughts of her hopeless, suffering state. Not all the fondest devices of a mother’s love can overcome a malady pronounced by all our faculty as incurable. Thus, then, by way of relief and refuge from the atmosphere of wretchedness which surrounded me, I had pictured to myself the possibility of finding calm and repose for my troubled spirit in an attachment, so vain, so empty, that — But I have been deceived a second time, most unworthily deceived; and there is now nothing left for me but to resign myself to the gloom and misery of the life my husband’s want of candour has entailed upon me. But tell me, my lord, is it such an existence as I was justified in expecting when I bestowed my hand on M. d’Harville? And am I alone to blame for those injuries, to avenge which my husband had this day determined to take my life? My fault was great, very great; and the more so, because the object I had selected was every way so unworthy, and leaves me the additional shame of having to blush for my choice. Happily for me, my lord, the conversation you overheard between the Countess Sarah and her brother on the subject of M. Charles Robert spares me much of the humiliation I should otherwise have experienced in making this confession. I only venture to hope that, since listening to my relation, you may be induced to consider me as much an object of pity as I admit I am of blame.”
“I cannot express to you, madame, how deeply your narrative has touched me. What gnawing grief, what hidden sorrows have you not been called upon to endure, from the death of your mother to the birth of your child! Who would ever believe such ills could reach one so envied, so admired, and so calculated to enjoy and impart happiness to others?”
“Oh, my lord, there are some sorrows so deep, so unapproachable, that for worlds we would not even have them suspected; and the severest increase of suffering would arise from the very doubt of our being the enviable creatures we are believed to be.”
“You are right; nothing would be more painful than the question, openly expressed, ‘Is she or he as happy as they seem to be?’ Still, if there is any happiness in the knowledge, be assured you are not the only one who has to struggle with the fearful contrast between reality and that which the world believes.”
“How so, my lord?”
“Because, in the eyes of all who know you, your husband is esteemed even happier than yourself, since he possesses one so rich in every good gift; and yet is not he also much to be pitied? Can there be a more miserable existence than the one he leads? He has acted unfairly and selfishly towards you, but has he not been bitterly punished? He loves you with a passion, deep and sincere, worthy of you to have inspired, yet he knows that your only feeling towards him is insurmountable aversion and contempt. In his feeble, suffering child he beholds a constant reproach; nor is that all he is called upon to endure; jealousy also assails him with her nameless tortures.”
“And how can I help that, my lord? By giving him no occasion for jealousy, you reply. And certainly you are right. But, think you, because no other person would possess my love, it would any the more be his? He knows full well it would not. Since the fearful scene I related to you, we have lived entirely apart, while in the eyes of the world I have kept up every necessary appearance of married happiness. With the exception of yourself, my lord, I have never breathed a syllable of this fatal secret to mortal ears: thus, therefore, I venture to ask advice of you I could not solicit from any human being.”
“And I, madame, can with truth assure you that, if the trifling service I have rendered you be deemed worthy of notice, I hold myself a thousand times overpaid by the confidence you have reposed in me. But, since you deign to ask my advice, and permit me to speak candidly—”
“Oh, yes, my lord, I beseech you to use the frankness and sincerity you would show to a sister!”
“Then allow me to tell you that, for want of employing one of your most precious qualities, you lose vast enjoyments, which would not only fill up that void in your heart, but would distract you from your domestic sorrows and supply that need of stirring emotions, excitement, and,” added the prince, smiling, “I dare almost to venture to add, — pray forgive me for having so bad an opinion of your sex, — that natural love for mystery and intrigue which exercises so powerful an empire over many, if not all, females.”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“I mean that, if you would play at the game of doing good, nothing would please or interest you more.”
Madame d�
��Harville surveyed Rodolph with astonishment.
“And understand,” resumed he, “I speak not of sending large sums carelessly, almost disdainfully, to unfortunate creatures, of whom you know nothing, and who are frequently undeserving of your favour. But if you would amuse yourself, as I do, at playing, from time to time, at the game of Providence, you would acknowledge that occasionally our good deeds put on all the piquancy and charms of a romance.”
“I must confess, my lord,” said Clémence, with a smile, “it never occurred to me to class charity under the head of amusements.”
“It is a discovery I owe to my horror of all tediums, all wearisome, long-protracted affairs, — a sort of horror which has been principally inspired by long political conferences and ministerial discussions. But to return to our game of amusing beneficence: I cannot, alas, aspire to possess that disinterested virtue which makes some people content to entrust others with the office of either ill or well distributing their bounty, and, if it merely required me to send one of my chamberlains to carry a few hundred louis to each of the divisions in and around Paris, I confess, to my shame, that the scheme would not interest me nearly as much as it does at present, while doing good, after my notions on the subject, is one of the most entertaining and exciting amusements you can imagine. I prefer the word ‘amusing,’ because to me it conveys the idea of all that pleases, charms, and allures us. And, really, madame, if you would only become my accomplice in a few dark intrigues of this sort, you would see that, apart from the praiseworthiness of the action, nothing is really more curious, inviting, attractive, or diverting, than these charitable adventures. And then, what mystery is requisite to conceal the benefits we render! what precautions to prevent ourselves from being discovered! what varied, yet powerful, emotions are excited at the aspect of poor but worthy people shedding tears of joy and calling down Heaven’s blessing on your head! Depend upon it, such a group is, after all, more gratifying than the pale, angry countenance of either a jealous or an unfaithful lover, and there are very few who do not class either under one head or the other. The emotions I describe are closely allied to those you experienced this morning while going to the Rue du Temple. Simply dressed, that you may escape observation, you go forth with a palpitating heart; you also ascend with a throbbing breast some modest fiacre, carefully drawing down the blinds to prevent yourself from being seen; then, looking cautiously from side to side that you are not observed, you quickly enter a mean-looking dwelling, just like this morning, you see, the only difference being that, whereas to-day you said, ‘If I am discovered I am lost!’ then you would only smile as you mentally uttered, ‘If I am discovered, they will overwhelm me with praises and blessings!’ Now, since you possess your many adorable qualities in all their pure modesty, you would employ the most artful schemes, the most complicated manœuvres, to prevent yourself from being known, and, consequently, wept over and blessed as an angel of goodness.”
“Ah, my lord,” cried Madame d’Harville, deeply moved, “you are indeed my preserver! I cannot express the new ideas, the consoling hopes, awakened within me by your words. You are quite right; to endeavour to gain the blessing and gratitude of such as are poor and in misery is almost equal to being loved even as I would wish to be; nay, it is even superior in its purity and absence of self. When I compare the existence I now venture to anticipate with the shameful and degraded lot I was preparing for myself, my own reproaches become more bitter and severe.”
“I should, indeed, be grieved,” said Rodolph, smiling, “were that to be the case, since all my desire is to make you forget the past, and to prove to you that there are various modes of recreating and distracting our minds; the means of good and evil are very frequently nearly the same: it is the end, only, which differs. In a word, if good is as attractive, as amusing, as evil, why should we prefer the latter? I am going to use a very commonplace and hackneyed simile. Why do many women take as lovers men not nearly as worthy of that distinction as their own husbands? Because the greatest charm of love consists in the difficulties which surround it; for once deprived of the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, difficulties, mysteries, and dangers, and little or nothing would remain, merely the lover, stripped of all the prestige derivable from these causes, and a very every-day object he would appear; very much after the fashion of the individual who, when asked by a friend why he did not marry his mistress, replied, ‘Why, I was thinking of it; but, if I did, where should I go to pass my evenings?’”
“Your picture is coloured after nature, my lord,” said Madame d’Harville, smiling.
“Well, then, if I can find the means of enabling you to experience the fears, the anxieties, the excitement, which seem to have such charms for you, if I can render useful your natural love for mystery and romance, your inclination for dissimulation and artifice, — you see my bad opinion of your sex will peep out in spite of me,” added Rodolph, gaily,— “shall I not change into fine and generous qualities instincts which otherwise are mere ungovernable and unmanageable impulses, excellent, if well employed, most fatal, if directed badly? Now, then, what do you say? Shall we get up all manner of benevolent plots and charitable dissipations? We will have our rendezvous, our correspondence, our secrets, and, above all, we will carefully conceal all our doings from the marquis, for your visit of to-day to the Morels has, in all probability, excited his suspicions. There, you see, it only requires your consent to commence a regular intrigue.”
“I accept with joy and gratitude the mysterious associations you propose, my lord,” said Clémence; “and, by way of beginning our romance, I will return to-morrow to visit those poor creatures to whom, unfortunately, this morning I could only utter a few words of consolation; for, taking advantage of my terror and alarm, the purse you so thoughtfully supplied me with was stolen from me by a lame boy as I ascended the stairs. Ah, my lord,” added Clémence (and her countenance lost the expression of gentle gaiety by which a few minutes before it was animated), “if you only knew what misery, what a picture of wretchedness — no! oh, no! I never could have believed so horrid a scene, or that such want existed; and yet I bewail my condition and complain of my severe destiny.”
Rodolph, wishing to conceal from Madame d’Harville how deeply he was touched at this application of the woes of others, as teaching patience and resignation, yet fully recognising in the meek and subdued spirit the fine and noble qualities of her mind, said, gaily:
“With your permission, I shall except the Morels from your jurisdiction; you shall resign them to my care, and, above all things, promise me not again to enter that miserable place, for, to tell you the truth, I live there.”
“You, my lord? What an idea!”
“Nay, but you really must believe me when I say I live there, for it is actually true. I confess mine is somewhat a humble lodging, a mere matter of eight pounds a year, in addition to which I pay the large and liberal sum of six francs a month to the porteress, Madame Pipelet, that ugly old woman you saw; but, to make up for all this, I have as my next neighbour, Mlle. Rigolette, the prettiest grisette in the Quartier du Temple. And you must allow that, for a merchant’s clerk, with a salary of only seventy-two pounds a year (I pass as a clerk), such a domicile is well suited to my means.”
“Your unhoped-for presence in that fatal house proves to me that you are speaking seriously, my lord; some generous action leads you there, no doubt! But what good action do you reserve for me? What part do you propose for me to sustain?”
“That of an angel of consolation, and — pray excuse and allow me the word — a very demon of cunning and manœuvres! For there are some wounds so painful, as well as delicate, that the hand of a woman only can watch over and heal them. There are, also, unfortunate beings so proud, so reserved, and so hidden from observation, that it requires uncommon penetration to discover them, and an irresistible charm to win their confidence.”
“And when shall I have an opportunity of displaying the penetration and skill for which you give me credit
?” asked Madame d’Harville, impatiently.
“Soon, I hope, you will have to make a conquest worthy of you; but, to succeed, you must employ all your most ingenious resources.”
“And when, my lord, will you confide this great secret to me?”
“Let me see! You perceive, we have already got as far as arranging our rendezvous. Could you do me the favour to grant me an audience in four days’ time?”
“Dear me! so long first?” said Clémence, innocently.
“But what would become of the mystery of the affair, and all the strict forms and appearances necessary to be kept up, if we were to meet sooner? Just imagine! If our partnership were suspected, people would be on their guard, and we should seldom achieve our purpose. I may very probably have to write to you. Who was that aged female who brought me your note?”
“An old servant of my mother’s, the very personification of prudence and discretion.”
“I will then address my letters under cover to her, and she will deliver them into your hands. If you are kind enough to return any answer, address ‘To M. Rodolph, Rue Plumet,’ and let your maid put your letters in the post.”
“I will do that myself, my lord, when taking my usual morning’s walk.”
“Do you often walk out alone?”
“In fine weather nearly every day.”
“That’s right! It is a custom all young women should observe from the very earliest period of their marriage, — either from a good or an improper provision against future evil. The habit once established, it becomes what the lawyers style a precedent; and, in subsequent days, these habitual promenades excite no dangerous interpretations. If I had been a woman, — and, between ourselves, I fear I should have been very charitable, but equally flighty, — the very day after my marriage I should, in all possible innocence, have taken the most mysterious steps, and, with perfect simplicity, have involved myself in all manner of suspicious and compromising proceedings, for the purpose of establishing the precedent I spoke of, in order to be at liberty either to visit my poor pensioners or to meet my lover.”