Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  CHAPTER XX.

  THE PARLOUR.

  I HAVE NOW reached an event in my life that was very blissful and yet cruel. The thought of it still causes me many a sigh of pleasure and of pain.

  I found myself one day, for no reason whatever, in a singular state of hatred and distrust. I felt greatly provoked with Madame de Pënâfiel, because I began to perceive that the thought of her influenced me more than I meant it should. This irritated me, for I feared that I had as yet formed no real opinion as to her true nature, and it made me uneasy and apprehensive.

  That day, when I went to the Hôtel Pënâfiel, contrary to the usual custom of the house, which was marvellously strict, when the footman had opened the door from the vestibule, I saw no valet de chambre in the waiting-room who could announce me. Before reaching the parlour, one had to pass through three or four other rooms, which had no doors, but only portières. Not expecting me, she could scarcely hear me coming, as the carpets were so thick as to entirely prevent the sound of my footsteps.

  I had reached the portière which shut off the parlour, and could see Madame de Pënâfiel before she perceived me, unless the reflection from a mirror had betrayed my presence. I shall never forget my astonishment at the sight of her pale and woebegone countenance. She looked weary, sorry, hopeless, if a face is capable of expressing all three of these feelings at the same moment.

  I can see her still. She usually sat on a little low armchair. It was of gilt wood, covered with brown satin embroidered in little roses. It front of it was a long ermine rug, on which she placed her feet, and beside it against the wall was a little cabinet of buhl, whose upper half opened with doors like a bookcase; these doors were half open, and within them I saw, to my great astonishment, an ivory crucifix.

  She had probably slid from off her chair, for she was half kneeling, half seated on the ermine rug, her hands were clasped on her knees, and her face was turned towards the crucifix, while a ray of light that shone on her forehead showed how intense was her sadness.

  Nothing could be more beautiful or touching than the sight of this young woman, surrounded by all the prestige of luxury and elegance, and yet crushed under the burden of an untold sorrow.

  After my first sensation of astonishment I was lost in sad contemplation, and with much distress I attempted to imagine what could be the cause of her grief.

  But alas! almost immediately, by some mysterious fatality my habitual distrust, added to Madame de Pënâfiel’s reputation for duplicity, suggested that this scene was only a tableau arranged for my benefit. That hearing me approaching, she had assumed this melancholy attitude, from what motive I will explain later.

  I know that it was absurd and ridiculous to believe in such a deliberate piece of coquetry when apparently overcome by such a weight of sorrow; but whether it was the result of her habitual desire to appear charming, or was merely accidental, it would be impossible to see anything more perfect than the expression of her uplifted eyes, shining so beautifully through the limpid crystal of her tears; her slender, graceful form thus bending on the carpet, her swan-like throat with its lovely curve, and even her charming foot with its high instep, that was exposed by the disorder of her costume, as well as her ankle and the lower part of a delicate limb bound with the ribbons that fastened her black satin slippers, — the whole picture was ravishing.

  After my first astonishment and my doubt as to the reality of her grief, my only feeling was one of admiration at the sight of so much perfection.

  I hesitated for an instant, to decide whether I would enter suddenly, or whether go back to the door of the salon, and, by coughing slightly, give warning of my approach. Deciding on the latter, immediately I heard the doors of the little cabinet close suddenly, and in an alarmed voice Madame de Pënâfiel called out:

  “Who is that?”

  I advanced, giving many excuses, but saying how there had been no one to announce me. She answered:

  “I beg your pardon, but as I felt far from well, I had ordered no one to be admitted. I supposed my orders had been carried out.”

  I could only offer a thousand excuses, and turn to go away. But she said:

  “If the companionship of a poor nervous and miserable woman does not alarm you, I beg that you will stay. It would give me real pleasure.”

  When she told me to remain, and said that she had given orders to let no one in (which explained the absence of the valets in the waiting-room), I had no more hesitation in believing the scene of the crucifix was a piece of acting, and that the servant’s orders were to let no one enter but me.

  Of course this fine piece of reasoning was but the height of folly and impertinence, such a thing being quite improbable, but I preferred being conceited enough to think a woman of Madame de Pënâfiel’s position capable of deceiving me by a miserable comedy, than to believe that she was suffering one of those terrible hours of mental agony, when we can only implore the aid and protection of God.

  If for a moment I had reflected how often I, who also was young and in the enjoyment of every worldly pleasure, had been subject to just such an overpowering sense of causeless chagrin, the sad state in which I found Madame de Pënâfiel would have been quite clear to my mind. But no, my incarnate distrust and fear of deception paralysed my reason and generosity.

  So without a moment’s hesitation, instead of sympathising with such deep-felt grief, I came to the following conclusions, which, infamous as they were, seemed at the time perfectly probable. Alas! they were all the more dangerous for that very reason.

  “Being so capricious,” said I to myself, “Madame de Pënâfiel is provoked that I have not yet declared myself, not that she cares the least in the world for my devotion, but that it spoils her plans. Though seeing her constantly for the last three months, I have never spoken of love. I cannot discover any other admirer. If what the world says is true, it is not because she is virtuous, but because she delights in mystery.

  “She wishes to utilise me, and to be revenged for my pretended indifference, by using me as a cloak to hide her real love affair from the eyes of the world. It is a very easy thing, — finding her alone, overwhelmed with sorrow, the least I can do is to ask the cause of her distress, to offer what consolation I can, and thus to be led on to a declaration which would suit her plans, and make me her plaything.

  “Or else, having discovered my sadness, and the spells of melancholy I often succumb to and of which I never speak, she simulates this fit of despair, so that from sympathy, I will be led to some misanthropic confessions about my lost illusions, my sad soul, etc., perhaps other things more ridiculous still, and then she means to deride my sentimental maunderings.”

  Now when I was once firmly convinced of such suppositions) I declared that nothing I could say would be too outrageous. I would show her that I would not submit to be used as her tool.

  All these reasons were completely absurd, these cowardly, underhand motives. Now that I can calmly think it over, I wonder why I never thought that, to have arranged such a scene, she needed to be sure of the day and the hour of my visit, and that to take me as a cloak to hide another affection would compromise her as surely as the liaison she endeavoured to hide, finally, that the mere pleasure of forcing a confession of my trials, which I had the good sense to keep to myself, would certainly not be worth such a clever piece of dissimulation.

  But when it is a question of monomania (and I think that my intense distrust amounted to monomania), wise and sensible ideas are the last that ever come into our minds.

  It was all in vain, then, that I had laughed at those wicked stories that had been constructed from the most ordinary occurrences. Without for a moment reflecting on my inconsequence, I was about to do what was a thousand times worse than forge a slander. I was about to calumniate that sacred thing, grief; to profit by what I had accidentally discovered. Involuntary witness of one of those hours of extreme sadness, in which noble souls give vent to their sorrow in the solitude of their chamber, I was about
to question the truth of this sorrow which in secret had prayed to God for what he alone could give, — consolation and hope.

  It was with such a spirit of doubt and sarcasm, and with the wicked brutality of those enemies of hers, whom I far surpassed in both of these qualities, that I seated myself, with a scornful air, on a chair that stood opposite to Madame de Pënâfiel, who had risen and resumed her seat. I remember almost every word we said.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  THE AVOWAL.

  MADAME DE PËNAFIEL remained very pensive for a few moments, and seemed gazing into vacancy; then, as though she had come to a sudden determination, she said with a familiarity that our three months of intimacy would excuse:

  “I believe that you are my friend?”

  “A most devoted one, and a very happy one to be able to tell you so, madame,” I replied in a mocking way, to which she paid no attention.

  “By the word friend I do not mean an acquaintance, a person who really cares nothing for us, a friend in the usual sense of the word; no, I think better of you than that. In the first place you have never uttered a word of gallantry to me, and for that I thank you sincerely; you have spared me that insulting species of courtship, which, I know not why, some persons think they have the right, or, perhaps, the permission, to honour me with.” She said this with a sad smile. “You have enough tact, sense, and generosity to understand that a woman who has been the victim of odious calumnies finds nothing more offensive than such idle compliments, which only add fresh insult, because they are apparently authorised by the injurious reports that preceded them.

  “I believe your mind is sadly precocious through bitter experiences. I know that, though you are much in the world, you have none of the world’s petty hates and jealousies. I think you are neither conceited nor even vain, and that you are one of those honest men who never try to discover any hidden motive for a confession; also that you will take no thought of my behaviour should it seem strange. Besides,” she continued, with an air of mournful dignity that impressed me deeply, “as to be taken into a woman’s confidence is one of the ways in which an honest man is most honoured, I have no fear of speaking freely to you.

  “You are kind and generous; I know that you have often defended me bravely and loyally, and, alas! I am unaccustomed to be so defended. I know how one evening at the Opéra — Oh, yes, I overheard what you said,” she continued, as she saw how astonished I was. “That was the reason I took the initiative in having you presented to me, and your reserved manner of accepting my hospitality gave me a high opinion of your dignity. Thus I have every confidence in you, and will consider you a true friend; for I must speak, — I must tell some one,” she said, with an accent of despair, “I must tell you — yes, you — why I am the most unfortunate of women.”

  She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.

  There was that in her words, and in the pitiful look that accompanied them, something so touching, that in spite of my ill temper I was moved to compassion. Instantly, though, returned the evil thought that this was only the rôle she was playing to force me to a declaration. I hastened to say, in a very supercilious manner, that I hoped I was worthy of her confidence, and if my devotion or my advice could be of the least use to her, I was entirely at her service, and other such commonplace and glacial speeches.

  As she did not appear to notice the chilly way I received her complaint, I saw only another reason for thinking she was deceiving me, and had scornfully resolved not to be interrupted in her rôle, but to play it to the end, and I was excessively irritated.

  Now that I know all, I can understand her inadvertence, but at the time it was a positive and aggravating proof of her duplicity.

  She was inattentive, because the relief caused by the disclosure of a long hidden trouble is so exquisite that, overcome by the blessed effusion, we neither know nor care for the impression we produce.

  It is only later, when the heart, already lighter, feels refreshed by this divine outpouring, that we look up hopefully, expecting to see in our friend’s eyes some sympathetic tears, or some expression of commiseration.

  Thus, when two friends meet after a long and painful separation, in the rapture of the first embrace neither thinks of noticing if the other is changed.

  Having thus, as it were, broken the ice, Madame de Pënâfiel continued, after passing her hand over her tearful eyes:

  “It would be very easy for me to explain the extraordinary confidence I have in you. I know that, although you have often defended me from slander, you have never attempted to reap any advantage from your loyal conduct; then the isolation in which you live, although moving in the gay world, your reserve, your superiority of mind, which is unlike others, and entirely your own, virtues and defects, — everything tends to my accepting you as a sincere and generous friend, to whom I can tell all my sorrows and all I suffer.”

  Without showing the least feeling, I replied that she could count on my discretion, which was trustworthy, and besides, as I had no one to talk to, it was all the more safe. “For,” said I, “we are only indiscreet with our intimate friends, and I cannot reproach myself with having a single one.”

  “That,” said she, “is the very reason why I am encouraged to speak to you as I do. I fancied that you also were alone, that you also had some secret chagrin that you dared not speak of, suffering from your isolated position as I do from mine, for, like you, I have no friends; people hate me, they say wicked things about me, and why? Mon Dim! have I deserved such treatment? Why is the world so unjust and cruel towards me? Whom have I injured? Oh, if you only knew! If I could tell you all!”

  Her complaining seemed so childish and weak, her reticence so ill calculated to excite my curiosity, that, assuming a cheerful manner, I began an apology for the world in general.

  “Since you give me permission to speak as a friend, madame, allow me to say that we must not be too fierce in our attacks on society. Ask yourself what we exact from society. Fêtes, excitement, smiles, homage, flowers, and gilded salons. With all these, the greatest possible latitude in regard to morals, and all the liberty we desire. Now, if society gives us all these, and you must admit that it does, has it not done its entire duty? Then why this constant complaining and railing at the poor world, when all we can reproach it with is its prodigality?”

  “But you know very well that they are all false. Those smiles, that homage, those attentions, are all lies, you know it! If you receive at home, when the last visitor leaves, you say, ‘Well, that is over!’ If you go to a brilliant reception, as soon as your foot touches the sill of your own home you say again, ‘Well, that is over!’”

  “Thank Heaven, madame,” I answered, pretending not to understand her, for she appeared surprised at my sudden conversion to mundane pleasures, “I assure you I am never so miserable as to be glad that a fête is over. If I ever say, ‘Well, it is over!’ on my return, it is because I am fatigued with enjoyment, of which, as I said, the world is only too prodigal. As to what you call its deceit and falsehood, it is perfectly right in not being willing to exchange its graceful and pleasing exterior for one that would be horribly disagreeable. Besides, it does not really lie, it but speaks its own language, a language that we perfectly understand. Society is not selfish and exacting, but you are. Why should you wish to insist upon its changing its charming manners, and adopting your romantic ideas of friendship, of endless love, which would make it stupid, and which it does not care for? Trust yourself to it, enter gaily into its giddy whirl, and it will lighten your burdens, and make your life bright and joyful.

  “If it lies about you to-day, what matter? To-morrow’s falsehood will obliterate the story of to-day. Do you fancy it even believes its own stories? Does it not worship you? Is it not always at your feet? Why should you attach more importance to its words than it expects you to? ‘Please and be pleased’ is the world’s motto. A very convenient one, and easy to follow. What more can you want?”

  Madame de Pënâfiel
sat staring at me in amazement, remembering, no doubt, the many serious conversations we had on this subject, and, surprised at the sudden levity I affected, she said:

  “But when calm reflection succeeds to the bewildering pleasures of society, and we analyse these delights, how vain and unsatisfying they are. What are we then to do?”

  “I am quite in despair, madame, at not being able to answer that question. I enjoy these pleasures that you apparently despise, and hope to enjoy them for a long time yet, and more than any one, for it is in the lightness and the ease with which the world’s fetters are broken that their charm consists. ‘Pardon the outrageous stupidity of the comparison,’ as Lord Falmouth says, but if ever the used-up expression, ‘a chain of flowers,’ was justified, it was in applying it to the obligations of society, which are as bright, as gay, as frail, and as easy to wear. But it is what the world calls love that charms me most, madame. It is the story of the phoenix who is constantly reincarnated, always more golden, more empurpled, and beautiful than before. Is not everything about this love charming, even its ashes, poor remains of love-letters that give out a perfume even as they are consumed? Is anything more delightful than the fact that in this adorable world love follows the divine law of metempsychosis? For, if to-day it dies of old age, after a month’s duration, to-morrow it is born again more exquisite than ever, under another form, or for another form.”

  Madame de Pënâfiel could not yet understand why I should affect such gaiety, when she had just made me the confidant of her sorrows. I could see by her expression that my heedless and unkind words made a painful impression. At first she supposed I was joking, but, as I continued my speech with such an impertinent air of conviction, she knew not what to think, and, looking me in the face, she said, in a voice that was almost a reproach: