by Eugène Sue
Now I am certain that my insurmountable self-distrust was one of the principal causes of my doubting others; having no faith in the opinions people professed to have of me, for they seemed false and exaggerated, I consequently was always on the watch for some interested or underhand reason for their admiration of me. What confirmed me in this opinion is, that I have never found more persistent, more imperturbable believers than among foolish and vain people. The want of intelligence of the fool prevents him from observing, reflecting, or comparing, while the conceited man’s self-satisfaction never permits him to doubt as to the certain and prodigious effect he is sure of producing.
To return to my projects of a union with Hélène: from the day that doubt entered my mind, my plans were for ever changed.
I passed a sleepless and unhappy night.
The next day I was weak enough to avoid my aunt and Hélène; I mounted my horse early in the morning, and went to one of my farms, where I spent the whole day.
I returned home late in the evening, and, pretending to be excessively tired, I did not appear in the salon.
On entering my room, I saw on my study-table these words in Hélène’s handwriting (they were in a book which she had returned me): “My mother has told me all. I will be at the pavilion of the pyramid tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Meet me there. Ah, how much you must have suffered!”
Though in my state of mind such an interview would be painful and distasteful, I could not very well avoid it, therefore I resolved to go.
CHAPTER IX.
THE PAVILION.
THE PAVILION WHERE I was to meet Hélène was situated in the depths of the forest; to get there I had to traverse long, dismal paths, all choked up with dead leaves. The morning mist was so heavy and thick that I could hardly see ten steps before me, though it was nine o’clock. My meditations of the night before had confirmed me in my doubt and my decision. Having once admitted that Hélène’s conduct was the result of base cupidity, it became, unhappily, only too easy to misinterpret all her actions. Thus the involuntary avowal that had escaped her lips, that chaste cry of love which had long been withheld and hidden in her tender heart, became in my eyes nothing more than a shameless enticement.
What shall I say? That, as I walked along to the pavilion, my ideas were a frightful mixture of selfishness, wounded pride, and cruel resolutions, also of bitter regret to have dispelled so fair an illusion, to have lost all hope of consoling myself some day by the remembrance of a pure and disinterested first love. What is horrible and ridiculous to admit is, that never for a moment did the thought that I might be mistaken ever enter my mind; that, having admitted the possibility of evil, I should also be willing to admit the chances of good; that, after all, taking no account of Hélène’s character and the nobility of her mind, there were a thousand circumstances, a thousand reasons, which would prove beyond a doubt that her love was pure and without a selfish thought; and, then, my fortune being part of my condition, was not Hélène obliged to take me as she found me, and, finding me rich, love me, rich though I was?
But, no, my one idea was so fixed in my mind, and possessed me with such brutal ferocity, that I never attempted to find a single excuse in favour of the woman I so cruelly suspected.
Long years have passed since then, and now that I review my past conduct, I have the consolation of knowing that it was not to avoid the fulfilment of my duty that I forced myself into this blind faith in evil; for I knew that the stories in circulation had an appearance of truth to the eyes of the world, though they were utterly false in every respect. I knew that I owed it to Hélène to make the reparation my first impulse had shown me was the right one. She was my relative, she had been like a daughter to my father. I knew her excellent qualities, and I had been convinced that I would become the happiest man in the world, should I become her husband.
But my conduct towards her was not dictated by one of those sordid instincts which we are ashamed to admit but whose tool we allow ourselves to become. Later in life I should not have been able to deliberately deceive myself, but then I was so young, so confident in my incredulity, and I remember perfectly that what caused me the most smarting mortification was not the fact that I had been duped, but the unspeakable regret that I had not been able to inspire Hélène with a real affection.
At last I arrived at the pavilion. When I entered I found Hélène waiting for me seated near the door; she was wrapped in a black cloak, and trembling with cold. When she saw me she rose, and, holding out her hands to me, said, in a tone of the deepest sadness: “Ah, you have come at last! How much we have suffered these last two days!”
Then, no doubt struck by the stern and unkind expression of my features, she added, “Good God! What is the matter, Arthur? You frighten me” Thereupon, with that mocking and silly cruelty fit for children, or happy, selfish people, who have never suffered, I put on a gay and careless manner, and, kissing her hand, replied: “What, I frighten you! That is not the effect I hoped to have on you in such a charming rendezvous!”
The ironical way in which I uttered these words was so different from my habitual way of addressing Hélène that she opened her great eyes in astonishment, knowing not what I meant. Then, after a moment of silence, she added, “Arthur, my mother has told me all.”
“Ah, indeed!” I answered, with indifference. Then, closing the collar of her mantle, I added: “Take care, the fog is very damp and penetrating; you might catch cold.”
The poor child thought she must be dreaming.
“What!” said she, joining her hands in stupefaction, “you don’t see that it is all horrible, infamous?”
“What does it all matter, since it is all a lie?” I answered, without changing countenance.
“What does it matter? Does it make no difference to you that the woman who is to bear your name should be dishonoured before she becomes your wife?”
At these words, which seemed to me the height of effrontery and the flagrant proof of the truth of my suspicions, I was seized with an uncontrollable desire for revenge, all my scruples vanished, and to-day I bless the hazard that retained on my lips the horrible words that came into my mind. Fortunately for me, I was disposed to be ironical, and I contained myself.
“Hélène,” said I, “our conversation should be grave and serious; be so good as to listen to me. You who are candour, loyalty, and disinterestedness personified,” said I, with an accent of disgusting insolence, — which she never even noticed, so far above all suspicion was she conscious of being, “I beg of you, answer me with perfect loyalty; our whole future is in the balance.”
With that instinctive divination which rarely is mistaken, Hélène guessed at my treachery, for she cried out in anguish: “Stop, Arthur, something extraordinary is passing in your mind. I have never seen you with such an icy, defiant look; you alarm me! In heaven’s name, what have I done to you?”
“You have done me no harm; but since you mean to bear my name, since you expect to be my wife, — and I am infinitely obliged to you for the confidence you have in the future, it does honour to both of us,” I continued, with a smile which terrified her, “you must reply to my questions.”
“Good God, with what a look you say that, Arthur! I don’t understand; what does it all mean? What must I answer?”
“Hélène, when for the first time you began to interest yourself in my presence, or my future, when you began to love me, what was your object, your motive?”
“My object, my motive? I tell you again that I don’t understand you,” said she, shaking her head; then overcome with astonishment: “Stop, Arthur, you are torturing me; in the name of your mother, explain yourself clearly. What do you want of me? What is the meaning of all these questions?”
“Very well, then! I will follow your example, and speak with equal frankness, liberality, and clearness; like you I give free rein to my sudden impulses, without the least arrière-pensée, without the slightest calculation; and as there is no doubt about your becomin
g my wife, and when that delightful hour arrives we will wish to be in each other’s confidence, I will tell you how and why I have loved you, but before doing be I mean to exact from you a similar confession. It will be a mutual exchange of generous and tender sentiments which will be a consolation to my poor troubled heart, do you not think so?” I said all this with a cold, cruel, and ironical manner which wounded the poor child to the quick, and distressed her greatly, though she could not understand the withering allusions with which I blighted her pure and unselfish love.
Now that I can calmly reflect on this scene, I shudder to think how much Hélène must have suffered in hearing me speak to her thus for the first time. I can see her yet, standing pale, cold, and trembling with anxiety in the middle of that pavilion, with its rustic furniture and its open windows where the thick fog was drifting in; I blush with shame when I remember that it was to an acknowledged enemy, defiant and determined to interpret everything to his own justification, she was summoned to reveal all those chaste and tender feelings which had preceded her avowal, — those treasures unknown to the lover which disclose the joys, alarms, and pains that he has unwittingly caused.
At last, Hélène, overcoming her agitation, said:
“Arthur, I cannot conceive of what is passing in your mind; you wish me to tell you how and why I have loved you. Ah!” said she, her eyes filled with tears, “it is very simple. Mon Dieu! When I was still a very little child, I heard my mother constantly speaking about you, of the solitary life your father made you live, without any of the amusements suited to your age, without any young friends, occupied almost all the time with serious study, and deprived of almost every joy and pleasure of youth. The first impressions of you were that you were very unhappy and much to be pitied, and I pitied you because, in knowing how much I possessed, I thought of all that you missed: I had young companions whom I loved; my mother, always tender and good, entered into all our childish pleasures. So that sometimes, without knowing wherefore, I felt ashamed of myself for being so happy while you were living a life that seemed to me so forlorn and isolated.
“I think that was the beginning of my dislike of playing with the other children, their games displeased me because I knew you to be deprived of companionship; in a word, Arthur, it is because you seemed to me so much to be pitied that I was so much interested in you. Later, when you started off on your first voyage, the dangers you encountered, and which I, no doubt, exaggerated, made me tremble for your life and redoubled my affection. That was the time Sophie told you of, when at the convent school I was childish enough to celebrate your birthday, and when every day I would pray to God for your safety. Still later, when your poor mother died, it seemed as though that fearful loss was to bind you to me all the nearer, for then I believed you were entirely alone, unhappy, and deprived of the only person you could confide in. It was then that we came to live here, to dwell with your father. My mother had often told me that, though excessively good to us, your father was cold and severe. In fact, he seemed to be so grave, so sad, and you were always so timid and so uneasy in his presence, so gloomy after the conversations you had with him every morning, that I pitied you more bitterly than ever, and my love for you increased as I thought of all the trials you had to suffer.
“However, as much as I dreaded your father I could not prevent myself from loving him; he suffered so much! And besides, in showing myself always attentive and thoughtful to him, I meant to prove my love to you.
“Finally, Arthur, when you had the misfortune of losing him, seeing you quite alone in the world, I fancied that from thenceforth my fate was allied to yours, that the destiny of my life had always been and should always be to love you, to make you happy, that henceforth my heart was to become your only refuge. You had never told me that you loved me, but I thought that you did, that it must be so, that such a thing was inevitable, seeing that my vocation was the consecration of my life to your service; so each day I confidently awaited an avowal on your part, and when, despairing of ever hearing that avowal, I exclaimed unintentionally, ‘Ah, you will never love any one! You will never be happy!’ it was because I had an involuntary presentiment that you would be unhappy all your life, if you would not love me, — love me who loved you so dearly, who believed myself necessary to your happiness! Since then you have declared to me that you love me. I have been happy, — happy beyond expression; but that has been no surprise to me.
“Yesterday my mother caused me the greatest pain by repeating to me all those frightful calumnies. Not seeing you all day, I believed that you were as much distressed as I, that you shared my grief in this matter. This is all I have to tell you, Arthur, this is how I came to love you, the way I love you now; but be merciful and cease to torment me thus, become what you have always been to me! Why are you so changed? I beseech you to tell me — what have I done?”
While Hélène was telling me all this with such naive and truthful simplicity, I had never taken my eyes off her; instead of being touched by her tender recital, I had been watching her with all the cruel and wary suspicion of a hostile and prejudiced judge; however, when she raised her beautiful eyes, so gentle and moist under their long lashes, she looked into mine with such candid assurance and so much serenity, that I must have been blind indeed, not to have read in them the noblest and deepest love.
But, alas! when one is possessed by stubborn doubt, everything that tends to destroy that doubt irritates you beyond measure, and appears to be dictated by perfidy and falsehood; you persist all the more in your conviction, because you believe you would be tricked if you gave it up. The most undeniable truths become adroit lies, and the noblest and most sudden inspirations become so many snares deliberately set for you. It was thus with me, so I continued to play the unworthy part I had imposed on myself.
“That is all very perfectly and cleverly thought out,” I replied. “The causes and effects follow each other in the most perfect and logical succession; the fable is very plausible, and a stupider man than I would believe the whole story.”
“The fable! What fable?” said Hélène, who could not conceive my suspicions.
But without answering her, I continued:
“Since you can reason so wisely, how was it that you never reflected that, in permitting me to show you such assiduous preference, it was possible for you to be gravely compromised?”
“I never thought of it, I never reflected, because I loved you; besides, how could I think that anything we did was wrong, when I was certain of your affection?”
“Then from the very beginning you meant to marry me?”
Hélène scarcely seemed to hear me, and said:
“What did you say, Arthur?”
“I said this,” said I, impatiently, “that you felt perfectly sure that I meant to marry you?”
“But,” replied Hélène, more and more surprised, “I don’t understand the meaning of the questions you ask me, Arthur. Think of what you are telling me! Heavens! after our vows of love! Have I ever had any doubts of you — of — ?”
Then interrupting herself, she cried out:
“Ah, don’t vilify yourself like that!”
Her perfect assurance, or rather the blind confidence she had in my loyalty, so shocked my stupid pride that I had the horrible courage to add (’tis true that I spoke slowly and that my lips became dry as I uttered the words):
“And in those fine projects of our union, which will probably never amount to anything more than projects, did you never think of my fortune?”
When I had once uttered these hateful words, I would have given my whole life to recall them, for so long as I had only thought them, I had not perceived the whole of their ignoble significance; but when I heard myself answer in this way the ingenuous, noble, and touching avowal just made by Hélène, who when yet a child had only loved me because she thought me unhappy, — when I realised the incurable wound I had given this generous girl who was so proud, so shy, and so sensitive, I was seized with horrible and vain re
morse.
Alas! I had plenty of time to realise the horror of my position, for Hélène was a long time in understanding my words, and still longer in recovering from her stupefaction when she had at last understood them.
But when I saw depicted on her beautiful face those expressions of grief, of indignation, and of utter contempt which gave it a majestic and even a threatening look, I felt in my heart such violent emotion that, joining my hands together, I fell on my knees before Hélène, and cried out:
“Pardon! Pardon!”
But she, still seated there with cheeks aflame and sparkling eyes, leaned towards me; then, taking my two hands, she shook them violently as she fixed on me a look of implacable disdain which I shall never forget, then she said, slowly:
“I had designs on your fortune, — I — Hélène!”
She gave to those two words, “I — Hélène!” such an accent of scorn and wounded pride, that, overcome with shame, I bowed my head before her and broke into sobbing.
Then she, without adding another word, arose quickly and went out from the pavilion with firm and steady step.
I remained where I was, utterly annihilated. It seemed to me that from henceforth my life was irreparably devoted to evil and misfortune.
In spite of which I was resolved to see Hélène once more.
CHAPTER X.
THE CONTRACT.
FOR FOUR DAYS after the scene in the pavilion, it was impossible for me to see either Hélène or my aunt; I knew only from their women servants that they were both extremely ill.
Those days were frightful ones for me. Since the fatal moment when I had so brutally crushed the tender and delicate affections of Hélène, my eyes had been opened. I had repeated word for word her innocent recital wherein she had told the history of her life, that is to say, the story of her love for me; the more I analysed each phrase, each expression, the more I became convinced of the purity of her sentiments, for I remembered many occasions when she had manifested the rarest delicacy.