Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Thus it was impossible, seeing the gracious smiles of the women, the obsequious bows of the men who greeted her as she left the Opéra, it was impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel should ever dream of a thousandth part of the miserable scandal of which she was the subject. As I was saying, all this was miserable, and left me in a state of overwhelming sadness. I had just passed a whole day of that life of pleasure, as it is called, that luxurious existence which is only permitted to the few to enjoy, and now I found myself at the end of it with this frightful void at my heart. Then, following this train of thought, I compared this false, hollow, sterile, and glittering life with the vivifying, expansive, and generous existence that I had led at Serval! Poor old paternal château! Peaceful and smiling horizon, towards which my heart always turned when overburdened with grief or wounded by heartlessness!

  Oh, what desperate remorse I felt as I thought of Hélène, whom I had lost by an infamous doubt; of that noble girl, so adorable in her halo of candour, and so chastely surrounded by her atmosphere of angelic purity that nothing had ever clouded, but which, for a moment only, on one memorable morning, had been obscured by her love for me! Hélène! Hélène! One of those divine natures which are born and die, like a swan on some solitary lake, pure and spotless.

  And then descending from the high sphere of thoughts that shone with such pure lustre, I tried to find some means of dulling the sad memories they awakened in my breast. I tried to hope that, at some far-off day, my heart might find consolation, and I thought of the involuntary interest I already began to feel in Madame de Pënâfiel. But I felt that, for a woman who had been so blasted by calumny, so tarnished with abuse, however undeserved, it would never be possible for me to feel the ardent, deep, and holy love of which one is as proud as of a noble action.

  When the world throws discredit on a woman’s reputation, that modest and sacred veil which even a breath can destroy, that first flower of life, so delicate and ethereal, it smirches by its vile accusations her good name, and it destroys for ever her future chances of happiness; for she is henceforth deprived of the sad consolation of inspiring a devoted, sincere, and enduring love. It forces her into the degrading caprices of shortlived attachments, in which are to be found neither respect nor faith. For what man will ever see in a woman, who has been suspected of such shameful actions, anything but a charming fantasy, the desire of yesterday, the joy of to-day, and the forgetfulness of to-morrow? Who in her presence would dare to give way to those bursts of passionate confession, during which one longs to tell the one woman he believes worthy of his confidence, the joys, the sadness, the mysteries, the ravishments of the soul that she fills with love, and that only God can understand? Who is there, that in the midst of such moments of rapture, would not dread to hear the echo, the mocking and sinister echo, of all these slanderous tales about the woman at whose feet he is about to throw himself, to whom he longs to kneel?

  What reverence can we have for the idol we have so often seen treated with disrespect, outraged and insulted?

  CHAPTER XIV.

  A FRIEND.

  ONE MORNING, FIVE or six days after the evening I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel at the Opéra, M. de Cernay entered my room. He was radiant.

  “Well,” said he, “she has gone away. She has left Paris. She went yesterday, in the very height of the season. Does not that strike you as peculiar? But it was the only thing left for her to do; the scandal was too great. Society has laws that can not be disobeyed with impunity.”

  “How is that?” said I to him. “Why has Madame de Pënâfiel quitted Paris?”

  “It is probable,” he replied, “that some of her relations, out of respect for the good name of their family, have charitably told her that, until the bad impression she has made by her ridiculous and sudden passion for Ismaël, and by De Merteuil’s death, was somewhat forgotten, it would be proper for her to go and spend some time at one of her country-seats; contrary to her usual custom, she has acceded to this advice, and gone to conquer her love in some solitude.”

  “Did you ever present Ismaël to her, as she requested you?”

  “Impossible,” replied the count, “he is as savage as a bear, capricious as a woman, and stubborn as a mule. I never could prevail on him to accompany me to the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, so I fancy it is more out of spite than from any respect of public opinion that Madame de Pënâfiel has decided to leave town.”

  I admit that this sudden departure in the middle of the gay season seemed as strange as the request to be presented to Ismaël. But while I wished to continue on a subject which interested me, I was weary of all this revolting gossip, so I said to the count:

  “What sort of a man was the Marquis de Pënâfiel?”

  “A very illustrious and powerful lord of Aragon, grandee of Spain, and ambassador to Rome; it was there he met for the first time Mlle de Blémur, now Madame de Pënâfiel, who was travelling in Italy with her uncle and aunt.”

  “Was the marquis young?”

  “He was about thirty-five years old,” said the count, “besides being very handsome and agreeable, and a grand seigneur in every way; and yet they say it was not a love match, but only a marriage of convenance. M. de Pënâfiel had a colossal fortune, but Mlle, de Blémur was enormously rich. She was an orphan and her own mistress. Why, then, did she decide to marry a man she did not love? Nobody knows. The marquis had always been extremely desirous of living in France; so as soon as they became engaged he hastened to Madrid to see the king and hand in his resignation, then he left Spain for ever, and came to Paris, where he married Mlle, de Blémur. After they had been married two years, he died of some long sickness that ends in ’is,’ whose diabolical name I don’t remember.”

  “And before her marriage, what did people say about Mlle, de Blémur?”

  “Well, although she was as beautiful as the graces themselves, she had already made herself unpopular by her coquetry and her affectations, but above all by her pretensions to scholarship, which were worthy of one of the femmes savantes of Molière; for she had made her uncle, who did whatever his niece desired, give her masters in astronomy, chemistry, mathematics, and I know not what all besides! So, thanks to the fine education she had received, Mlle, de Blémur thought she had the right to behave with great contempt, and ridicule the men of her acquaintance who had not studied all those wonderful things. Now you easily see how many friends she made by her airs of superiority; but all this did not prevent her being flattered and surrounded with admirers, for, after all, one is willing to put up with a great deal from an heiress who has four hundred thousand francs a year in her own right, and who is of such a disposition that she will marry anybody she may take a fancy to; so that when she married a foreigner she made enemies of all the young men who had aspired to her hand.”

  “That I can readily believe, so many hours and so many sighs were all thrown away. But, at least, this enmity was patriotic,” said I, with a smile. “Then this marriage was only one of convenience, you say, although M. de Pënâfiel was very agreeable.”

  “It seemed to be so,” replied M. de Cernay. “They were never very demonstrative to each other; but when the marquis became ill, Madame de Pënâfiel showed great devotion to him; that means nothing, however, as you very well know.”

  “It means a great deal of devotion or a great deal of hypocrisy, for she probably had as many lovers before her widowhood as afterwards.”

  “People believe she had, at least, and people are not often mistaken,” said the count; “but she is clever, and so careful! She never writes any but most trifling and insignificant little notes to any one. As for Ismaël, her conduct towards him has been an incomprehensible folly, which is quite unlike her usual behaviour, and can only be explained by the violence of the sudden passion he inspired; there is a story, too, of her having disguised herself, and gone to some little house, in a distant, lonely part of town. In a word, it is very evident to sensible people that, if Madame de Pënâfiel was in love with any honourabl
e man, she would not hide it; but as, on the contrary, she permits every sort of contradictory rumour to be spread abroad concerning her, in order to mislead investigation, there can be no doubt that she gives herself up to the wildest fancies, and carries on the worst intrigues in secrecy. Then, why is she such a coquette? Why does she always take such pains to make herself agreeable? If you ever go to her house you will see how it is. Now when a woman has such a passion for being fascinating, she is never contented with disinterested admiration.”

  “But,” said I to M. de Cernay, “what has become of the winning man in that extraordinary race, which, by its publicity, must have greatly upset the mysterious ways of Madame de Pënâfiel? M. de Senneterre, what has become of him?”

  “Oh,” said the count, “Senneterre was sacrificed, shamefully sacrificed; for, to say nothing about her crazy passion for Ismaël, she is capable, merely in a spirit of contradiction, of weeping for the dead lover, and hating the living one. A proof of this is that Senneterre has now the tact and good sense to insist upon it that Madame de Pënâfiel had nothing whatever to do with the race, which, he now tells every one who will listen to him, came about by a wager he made with that unfortunate De Merteuil, when they were both in high spirits.

  “He says they had both been dining with Lord — , and as they left, each one had begun to boast of the rare accomplishments of his horse, each one praising his own. They talked until they became excited, and the fatal challenge was the result of their boasting. The next day, when their enthusiasm had somewhat cooled down, they recognised the danger of their proposition; but neither wished to appear to shrink from it, and so from pure bravado they carried out their plan. That is all a very plausible tale, but it is not true, at least I do not believe it, for I know the real cause of their duel, and you must admit that De Senneterre’s story is probable. After all, though, after hearing what rumours have connected Madame de Pënâfiel with their race, he is only behaving like a gallant gentleman in denying it all as he does.”

  Many years have passed since all this happened, and I still wonder how such puerile gossip should yet be so distinctly remembered.

  It is because they formed a part of a very painful experience in my life, and because they were the exact type of certain sorts of conversations, and an example of the discussions, the praises, the attacks, and the malicious falsehoods that interest and occupy the minds of idle society people. If this statement of mine seems overdrawn or exaggerated, you have only to remember the last piece of gossip you heard yesterday, or your conversation of this morning, to find that I am right.

  But to return to M. de Cernay. As there was, after all, an appearance of logic in the absurd propositions of which he was the cause, as well as the echo, — in fact, quite enough logic to appease the conscience of slander, — I did not attempt to defend Madame de Pënâfiel to the count. What was more, I fancied that I saw the cause of his persistent attacks on her; for all these rumours, that had been holding the best society in Paris spellbound for the last five or six days, had evidently no other author than he.

  As for the other long conversation on the antecedents and character of Madame de Pënâfiel, I only repeated it because it exactly coincided with all that I had heard said, and it might be taken as the general opinion of the world as to Madame de Pënâfiel.

  “Let us hope,” said I to the count, “that Paris will not be very long deprived of the society of a woman who furnishes such a wonderful subject for conversation. We certainly will give her the credit of having entertained everybody for the last five or six days, for no one else has been spoken of.”

  “I would lay a wager that you wanted to see her back again,” said M. de Cernay, as he gave me an inquisitive look.

  “Without wanting to see her very badly, I am willing to admit that she inspired me, if not with interest, at least with curiosity.”

  “From curiosity to interest there is but a single step, and from interest to love there is but one more, and so I am sure that you will become at last wildly in love with Madame de Pënâfiel. But take care!”

  “In spite of all the dangers I might encounter, I should be delighted to think that your prediction could be fulfilled; for there is nothing in the world so happy as a man who is in love, even if he is hopelessly in love.”

  “That is just the reason why I have thought it right to let you know the real character of Madame de Pënâfiel, so that you might be on your guard if you ever were presented to her. Really, I should have been sorry to see you fall a victim to her fascinations,” said the count to me, with such an expression of kindliness that I could hardly believe it to be feigned. “Between gentlemen,” said he, “there are certain services one should render one another; but really, it must have been the great interest I take in you, or the desire I have to be useful to you, that made me warn you so frankly; because really—” and the count hesitated for a moment, and then began again in a serious way, in which there seemed to be a real tone of affectionate solicitude:

  “Come now, would you like to know just what I think?”

  “Certainly I would,” said I, quite surprised at this sudden transition.

  “Well, then, you know that between men there can be nothing more stupid than complimentary speeches; in spite of which I mean to tell you that there is something about you which attracts one from the very first, but after that charming first impression there seems to be something in your manner, something that is either stiffness, coolness, or a haughty reserve, that repels people. You are young, but you have neither the enthusiasm nor the trustfulness of youth. There is a contrast in your nature that I have not yet been able to explain. When you take part in a conversation of young men who are jovial, careless, and free, your face brightens up, you say things that are wilder and gayer than the gayest and the wildest; and then, when you have said the last words, you put on an air of coldness, of weariness, and seem as though you were bored to death, so that no one knows what to think of gaiety which is so closely followed by such gloomy sadness. So I will frankly tell you that it is devilish hard to take you into one’s confidence, no matter how much one would like to.”

  You can be sure that I did not believe a word that the count said about my wonderful powers of attraction, and as I could not understand why he should want to flatter me, except for some purpose of his own, and as these compliments seemed stupid and vulgar, I decided to show him how I felt about it, and to show myself in such a light that he would spare me any such confidences in the future.

  “You are right,” said I to the count. “I know that it is not easy to be confidential with me, for I am by nature very hypocritical, and, knowing myself, put very little faith in others. Consequently, it is quite impossible that any one should ever feel attracted towards me, or that I should ever desire such sympathy.”

  The count looked as though he were seriously astonished; then he said, in an injured tone:

  “Your dissimulation is not very dangerous, since you acknowledge it.”

  “But I have never wanted to be dangerous,” said I, smiling.

  “Ah, so; and where do you suppose you are going to find any friends if you talk like that?”

  “Friends? And pray, what would I do with them?” There probably was, in the expression of my features, in the tone of my voice, such an appearance of truthfulness, that the count was really surprised.

  “Are you speaking seriously?” said he.

  “Very seriously, I assure you; what is there to astonish you in such a question?”

  “And you are not afraid to confess such an opinion?”

  “Why should I be afraid?”

  “Why?” replied the count, with a bewildered look. “Come, it is a paradox that amuses you. It is very amusing and original, no doubt, but I am certain that in your heart you do not believe a word you are saying.”

  “Very well; let us talk about something else.”

  “No, but seriously,” he replied, “can you really mean to say, ‘Of what use are frien
ds?’”

  “Certainly I do. For example, what good am I to you? What good are you to me? Suppose we were never to meet after to-day, what would you lose? What would I? When I say you and I, I generalise. I mean, so far, at least, as I am concerned, those commonplace, trite affections for people we really care nothing about, to which the world gives the name of friendships.”

  “I grant you that one can easily get along without any such friendships as those, or, rather, that they are so easy to find that nobody takes the trouble to seek for them. What I mean is real, true, deep, devoted friendship.”

  “Nisus and Euryalus, Castor and Pollux?”

  “Yes. Would you say ‘what to do with them’ if you were ever fortunate enough to meet with such friends?”

  “I should surely say, ‘What shall I do with them?’

  For, suppose I should ever find a Nisus, I know I never could become an Euryalus, and I hope I am too honest a man to accept what I never could return.

  “But, suppose I should really find that true, deep, sincere friendship that you spoke of just now. It would be perfectly useless and even a dead weight while I was happy, for then I hate confidences; so it would only be of any use to me when I was miserable. Now it is mathematically impossible that I shall ever be miserable.”