by Eugène Sue
Then, as it always happens when all hope is for ever ruined, her precious qualities shone with a brighter lustre. I saw and recognised, one by one, all the chances of happiness that I lost. Where should I ever find so many conditions of felicity united, — beauty, tenderness, grace, elegance? And then the thought of the future without Hélène terrified me. I knew that I was neither strong enough to live a retired and solitary life, or to traverse without misfortune the thousand experiences of an aimless and adventurous existence.
I foresaw the violence of my passions, — everything would tend to lead me into excesses. I was independent, rich, and young; yet, however desirable such a life of pleasure might be for another in my position, the idea of it was distressing to me; it was a torrent which I could see rushing along, but knew not whither it would lead me. Would it plunge into a bottomless gulf? Or, later, calming the impetuosity of its waters, would it become a peaceful current?
Then, hard and defiant, as I had just found myself capable of becoming towards Hélène, who was so noble and so good, in what love would I ever have faith in the future? I should never even be able to enjoy those rare moments of effusive confidences that sometimes shine so brilliantly from out the stormy clouds of passion. In a word, isolation alarmed me, — it would crush me under its weight of coldness and dullness, — and without knowing the reason, the life of society affrighted me. Like a wretched man, seized with vertigo, I saw the abyss in all its horror, and yet a fatal and irresistible attraction dragged me towards it.
Pilled with such thoughts and such fears, I determined to make every attempt to destroy in Hélène’s heart the dreadful impression I must have left there.
The fifth day after that fatal scene I was permitted to pay a visit to my aunt. I found her very pale, very much changed. In our long conversation I confessed everything to her, my frightful doubts and what had caused them, my heartless conduct towards Hélène, her indignation and scorn upon hearing my miserably sordid suspicions. But I also told her under whose influence I had yielded in acting so cruelly; I recalled to her the soul-chilling maxims of my father; I sought an excuse by telling her of the indelible impression those precepts had made on me; I showed her what an unfortunate position Hélène would hold in the eyes of the world, should she persist in her determination to have no more to do with me. These rumours were calumnies, as we knew, but they existed; and then on my knees, and in the name of Hélène’s future, I begged her mother to intercede in my behalf.
My aunt, being kind and generous, was touched, for my grief was profound and real; she promised to speak with her daughter, to try and overcome her objections, and to induce her to accept my hand.
Hélène continued to refuse to see me.
At last, two days afterwards, my aunt came to inform me that, having at last overcome Hélène’s violent objections to seeing me, she had induced her to grant me an interview, but she was entirely ignorant as to what decision Hélène would come.
I went with her mother to her room. I was in a state of excitement impossible to describe. When I entered, I was greatly shocked at Hélène’s appearance; she seemed to have suffered greatly, but her manner was cool, calm, and dignified.
“I have sent for you, monsieur,” said she, in a firm and penetrating voice, “to inform you of the decision I have taken after much reflection. It is very humiliating to me to remind you of an avowal which was so cruelly received, but I owe it to myself and to my mother. I loved you, and believing myself sure of the nobility and truth of the sentiments you had declared to me, trusting in the elevation of your nature, more from instinct than reflection, I had placed such blind confidence in you that our affectionate relation to one another passed in the eyes of the world for a guilty love, — so that at this very hour, monsieur, my reputation has been shamefully defamed.”
“Hélène, believe me,” I cried, “that my whole life—”
But imperiously making me a sign to be silent, she continued, “I have no one in the world but my mother to protect me; and, besides, if the most unfounded calumny always leaves an indelible stain, a calumny which is based on undeniable appearances ruins a woman’s character for ever. I find, myself, then, monsieur, placed between dishonour, if I do not exact from you the only reparation public opinion ever accepts, or a miserable existence, in case I accept from you this reparation; for the doubts that you have expressed, and the words you have spoken, will remain engraved in my mind for ever and ever.”
“No, Hélène,” I cried out, “the tenderest and truest words, the most sincere repentance will chase those dreadful words from your heart, if you will only be generous to be guided by a heaven-sent inspiration!” And I threw myself at her knees.
She made me rise, and continued, with a sang-froid which chilled my blood: “You must understand, monsieur, that, being perfectly indifferent to the opinion of a man whom I no longer esteem, and clear in my conscience, I prefer to pass in your eyes as mercenary—”
“Hélène! Hélène! have pity on me!”
“Than to pass in the eyes of the world as infamous,” she added; “therefore, that reparation which you have offered me, I accept it.”
“Hélène, my dear child,” said her mother, throwing herself into Hélène’s arms, “Arthur, too, is generous and good; he has been out of his senses; have pity on him.”
“Hélène,” said I, with exaltation, “I know your character, — you would have preferred dishonour to that life with a man you despise, if your instinct had not told you that, in spite of a moment of frightful error, I was still worthy of your love!”
Hélène shook her head, and, blushing with the recollection of the indignity put upon her, added:
“Do not believe it. At such a solemn time, I neither wish to deceive you, nor ought to do so. The wound is incurable; never, no, never, shall I forget that once you suspected me of being vile.”
“Yes, yes! you will forget it, Hélène, and I know in the depths of my heart that the future will be as happy as the past.”
“I shall never forget it, I tell you,” said Hélène, with her habitual firmness. “So reflect upon what you are about to do. There is still time; nothing binds you, except your honour. You can still refuse me what I have required you to do; but do not believe that I shall ever change. I tell you that for all the remainder of my life my heart is separated from yours by a dreadful abyss.”
“Believe it then, be it so,” said I to Hélène, for I felt reassured by the promptings of all my former tenderness. “Believe it if you must! What does it matter to me? But your hand, — but the right to make you forget all the misery that I was the cause of, this is what I claim, this what I desire, what I accept, what I beg of you on my knees.”
“You really wish this?” said Hélène, fixing a penetrating look on me, and seeming for a moment to hesitate.
“I implore it of you as I desire my eternal salvation; I beg it of you as my life’s only destiny! Ah,” said I, with the tears in my eyes, “I beg it of you with as much religious fervour as though I were asking it of God.”
“Then it shall be so; I grant you my hand,” said Hélène, as she turned away her eyes to hide the first sign of emotion she had exhibited since the beginning of our interview.
I was the happiest of men. I knew too well Hélène’s susceptibility not to have expected all these reproaches. Her heart had been so cruelly stricken that the wound would remain for a long time open and bleeding. I knew that it would take many days, many years of tender and delicate care to heal this wound; but I felt so certain of my love, so happy in my belief in the future, that I had no doubt as to my success. Noble and loyal as I knew Hélène to be, her promise showed me that, though she still felt resentment, she had not lost all esteem for me; that she had read my secret thoughts, and was persuaded that, in expressing the horrid thought which had so grievously distressed her, I had only been the involuntary echo of my father’s pessimistic maxims.
We soon after started for the city of — , where Hélène
and her mother had always lived.
Our marriage, which was announced with certain formality, was set for a date in the near future, for I had besought Hélène to hasten the happy moment as much as the exigencies of the necessary publicity would allow.
My heart beat high with hope and love. Hélène never appeared so beautiful. Her ordinary expression of sweetness and tenderness had given place to a proud and melancholy look, which gave to her features an expression of superiority. I saw grandeur and noble self-esteem in the determination she had shown in thus braving my offensive suspicions, being conscious all the time of her own innocence. So I allowed myself to form all kinds of smiling plans for the future. I was almost pleased by the coolness with which Hélène continued to treat me, because I took it as a sign of a generous nature which suffers all the more keenly because of its more exquisite sensibility.
The cruel indecision which had so alarmed me when thinking of my future had changed into a serene and peaceful certitude. All was radiant on the horizon. It was to be a life such as I had dreamed of and already begun to experience at Serval; a calm and contented existence; and then every victory I should win over Hélène’s sad resentment would be a delight. I thought, with inexpressible joy, that I would have to begin all over again to gain Hélène’s love. With what pleasure I contemplated the means I would take to heal that sad wound! I felt in myself such a wealth of tenderness, of devotion, and of love that I felt certain of bringing back to that adorable face its old look of confiding and ingenuous goodness, of fixing for ever on those charming lips their ineffable smile of other days, in place of the serious disdain which they now expressed. I hoped to see that stern and scornful look soften little by little, — from scornful become severe, then sad, then melancholy — kindly — tender — and finally to read in its smiling azure this blessed word, Pardon!
Everything delighted me, even to the most trifling details of the preparations for our union; I was as interested in them all as a child. As I did not wish to be separated from Hélène, I had written to a friend of my mother, a woman of the most perfect taste, to send me from Paris everything she could think of that was elegant, select, and splendid for the wedding corbeille of Hélène.
I remember how all these presents were brought by my intendant from Serval, in two of my carriages. I had made a great show of this ceremony of presentation. The two carriages, the servants, and the horses were all gaily decorated, and went at a respectful walk to the door of Hélène’s house, to the great admiration of the townsfolk.
When all these marvels of taste and sumptuousness were spread out in my aunt’s salon, and Hélène came in, my heart beat with joy and excitement as I watched to see her look of surprise at the sight of such beautiful presents.
The look was indifferent, absent-minded, even ironical.
At first this caused me horrible chagrin; my eyes filled with tears; I had, alas! spent so much time, so much thought, in the selection and presentation of these first gifts. But very soon I began to think that nothing could be more natural and to be expected from Hélène, as I had always known how little she cared for useless luxury. After having accused her of mercenary motives, how could she be pleased at this foolish display of my wealth?
At last the day for signing the contract arrived. In provincial towns this is a great solemnity, and numerous friends were invited to assist at this function.
Hélène was still at her toilet, we waited for her some time in my aunt’s salon; while I was receiving all sorts of stupid congratulations with the most politeness I could summon, the notary came and asked me if nothing was to be changed in the conditions of the contract, so strange did they seem to his clerk; I replied “no,” with a great deal of impatience.
In this contract, which I had kept secret, I had left to Hélène the whole disposition of my fortune. The only thing that surprised me was that Hélène should have allowed me to make such an arrangement, but I attributed this to the extreme repugnance she must feel to enter into any business details. At last Hélène appeared in the salon: she was rather pale and seemed somewhat moved. I can see her still as she entered, wearing a simple white dress, with a pale blue sash. Her splendid hair fell on each side of her face in soft fair curls, and was simply twisted up at the back of her head, Nothing could have been more enchanting, fresher, or more charming than this apparition, which seemed to suddenly change the aspect of everything in the salon.
Hélène sat down beside her mother and I seated myself at her side.
The notary made a gesture recommending silence, and began the reading of the contract.
When he came to the clause in which I willed all my fortune to Hélène, my heart beat fearfully, and covered with confusion, almost shame, I cast down my eyes, fearing to meet her glance. At last that clause was read.
Every one was aware of the mediocrity of my aunt’s fortune, and therefore my generosity was received with a murmur of approbation. It was only then that I at last dared to raise my eyes and glance at Hélène; she saw me, and the look she gave me caused me to shudder, so cold was it, so disdainful, almost malicious.
The reading of the contract was over.
Just when the notary arose to present Hélène with the pen in order that she might affix her signature, she arose, and, standing erect and imposing, said these words:
“I wish now to say that, for a reason which does not reflect on the honour of M. le Comte Arthur, my cousin, it is impossible for me to bestow upon him my hand.” Then, turning towards me, she handed me a letter, saying: “This letter will explain to you the motive of my conduct, monsieur, for we need never meet each other again.” And bowing with modest confidence, she left the room, accompanied by her mother, who shared in the general amazement.
Every one left the room.
You can imagine what commotion and scandal such an adventure as this would make in the little town and in the whole province.
I found myself alone in the salon, — I was completely crushed. It was not until some moments afterwards that I remembered Hélène’s letter and concluded to read it.
This letter, which I have kept ever since, was as follows. Eight years have passed since then. I have experienced very varied and distressing emotions; but I yet feel an aggrieved and vindictive glow when I read these lines so filled with an uncontrollable and overwhelming scorn.
“After the calumnious reports which had attainted my reputation, and which were brought about by the levity of your conduct towards me, it was needful that I should have public and notorious reparation; I have had it, — I am satisfied. In seeing me thus renounce, voluntarily, a union which, so far as money was concerned, would have been so advantageous to me, the world will easily believe that marriage was not necessary for my rehabilitation, since I have openly declined it.
“You have been very blind, very presumptuous, or else devoid of all generous resentment, since you have been able to believe for a moment that I did not altogether and for ever despise you from the time you said to me, — to me, Hélène, who had loved you from childhood, and who had just made you an avowal in all confidence and loyalty: ‘Hélène, you planned it all; your vows, your affection, your souvenirs, were all falsehoods and deceptions; it is only an infamous speculation, for all you care for is my fortune.’ Such suspicion kills the most intense affection. I would have pardoned you for anything else, deception, inconstancy, abandon, because, no matter how culpable or criminal a passion may be, the very word passion serves as an excuse for it; but that cold, hostile, and hideously selfish distrust, which, brooding over its treasure, can suspect the most generous feelings to be caused by base cupidity or a sordid nature, is unpardonable. You lie and blaspheme, when you dare to invoke the memory of your father. Your father was unfortunate enough to believe in evil, but he was generous enough to do good. Do not speak to me of repentance. Your first thought was a vile one. All the rest came on reflection, from shame of your own baseness. I think all the worse of you on this account, for you have not even
energy enough to persist in evil; you are ashamed of it, but not sorry for it.”
I can never give an idea of the confusion, the rage, the hate, the despair, that took possession of me after I had read this letter, and found myself so mocked at and unjustly accused; for, after all, this doubt had entered my mind from some superhuman influence, I did not feel that I was vile. My regret, my resolve to marry Hélène in spite of her disdain, the disposition I had made of my fortune, proved to me that I was capable of noble and generous inspirations.
Nevertheless, on remembering how tenderly I had been loved, and beholding myself so deeply despised, I understood that all hope was lost; and then I felt, as before, a sort of vertigo come upon me as I saw such a sudden change come over my life; it was as though from that moment I resolutely abandoned myself to destruction, and, with a heartbroken cry of regret, I exclaimed:
“Hélène, you have been pitiless to me; perhaps one day you will have to answer for my ruined life.”
That same night I set forth for Paris, wishing to arrive there in midwinter and in the heart of the season, when I could benumb my griefs by the distractions of its exciting and dissipating life.
MADAME LA MARQUISE DE PÊNFIEL
CHAPTER XI.
PORTRAITS.
A TEAR AFTER my arrival in Paris, the peaceful days that I had passed with Hélène at Serval seemed like a beautiful dream, so much in contrast with my new sensations that I hardly cared to recall it. From that time I was convinced that the pretended “pleasures of memory” are all falsehoods, for from the moment we begin to regret the past, memory is only a bitterness, and, by comparison, the present becomes distasteful.