This contrast made a profound impression upon me; my conscience weakened. “And why?” I asked myself, “why should the practice of virtue not result in a feeling of peace at such moments, when it seems granted to the partisans of evil?” But just then, strengthened by a heavenly voice which seemed to thunder forth from the depths of my heart, I cried out: “Is’t for me to try and fathom the will of the Almighty? What I saw only assures me all the more of the value of righteousness: Madame de Lérince’s fears are virtue’s anxiety and concern; whilst Madame de Verquin’s cruel apathy is but the final aberration of crime. Ah, if ’tis given to me to choose at my final moments, may God grant me the grace rather to be afraid like Madame de Lérince than benumbed like Madame de Verquin.”
Such, then, is the last of my adventures, Monsieur. For the past two years I have been living in the Convent of the Assumption, where my benefactor placed me. Yes, Monsieur, for two years now I have lived there, without having known a single moment’s repose, without having spent a single night without the image of poor Saint-Ange and that of the unfortunate woman who, by my testimony, was condemned in Nancy, appearing to me. ’Twas thus you found me; these are the secrets I had to reveal to you. Was it not my bounden duty to relate them to you before yielding to the sentiments wherewith you are deluded? Will you now consider whether ’tis possible for me to be worthy of you? . . . Ponder whether she whose soul is so overcome with affliction can ever bring into your life any moments of joy. Oh! Monsieur, rid yourself of your illusions; let me return to the harsh retreat which alone befits me. Were you to wrench me from it, you would only have before you the constant spectacle of remorse, pain, and misfortune.
Mademoiselle de Florville could not help finishing her story in a state of considerable agitation. By nature quick-witted, sensitive, and delicate, she could not avoid being deeply affected by the recital of her woes.
Monsieur de Courval, who saw no more plausible reason in the later events described than in the former which might alter his plans, did all in his power to reassure the woman he loved.
“I repeat to you, Mademoiselle,” he said to her, “there are indeed some singular and fateful things in what you have just told me. But I fail to see a single one which should trouble your conscience or harm your reputation. . . . An affair when you were sixteen. . . so be it, but think how excusable it was: your age; the blandishments of Madame de Verquin; a young man, perhaps quite charming, whom you have never laid eyes on again, isn’t that so, Mademoiselle?” Monsieur de Courval added with a trace of concern in his voice, “and whom you may reasonably expect never to see again?”
“Oh, never, most assuredly never!” Florville replied, suspecting the reasons for Monsieur de Courval’s anxiety.
“Well, then, Mademoiselle, let us conclude our arrangements,” Monsieur de Courval resumed. “Let us complete them, I beg of you, and let me persuade you, without wasting another moment, that there is nothing in your story which can ever diminish in the heart of an honest man either the extreme consideration due to such a paragon of virtue or the homage demanded by so many charming qualities.”
Mademoiselle de Florville asked permission to return again to Paris to consult with her protector one last time, firmly promising that, so far as she were concerned, no further obstacle would be raised in view of the proposed match. Monsieur de Courval could not very well refuse her permission to fulfill this worthy obligation.
She departed, and a week later returned with Monsieur de Saint-Prât. Monsieur de Courval showered him with courteous attentions; he made him full aware how flattered he was to ally himself with the person to whom Monsieur de Saint-Prât had vouchsafed his love and protection, and he urged him to continue to acknowledge that charming creature as his relative and ward. Saint-Prât replied to Monsieur de Courval’s attentive remarks in the manner expected of such a gentleman, and went on to add even further encomiums to his assessment of Mademoiselle de Florville’s character.
At last the day that Monsieur de Courval had so desired arrived; the ceremony was performed, and when the marriage contract was read, he was amazed to learn that Monsieur de Saint-Prât, without having told a soul, had added, in consideration of this marriage, four thousand pounds’ income to the pension of like amount which Mademoiselle de Florville was already receiving from him, and a legacy of a hundred thousand francs payable to her after his death.
Upon seeing these newest proofs of her protector’s generosity, this interesting girl could not restrain her tears, which flowed abundantly, and, in her heart of hearts, was delighted to be able to offer the man who had deigned to marry her, a fortune at least the equal of his own.
Sentiments of cordiality and unfettered joy, and assurances of mutual esteem and attachment marked the celebration of this marriage . . . this fateful marriage whose torches the Furies secretly extinguished.
Monsieur de Saint-Prât, as well as the bridegroom’s friends, spent a week with Courval, but the newlyweds did not return to Paris with them. They decided to remain in the country until the onset of winter, to put some necessary order into their affairs and thus start off on the right foot when they set up housekeeping in Paris. Monsieur de Saint-Prât was entrusted with the task of finding them a pleasant house not far from his own, in order that they might see each other often.
With the pleasing prospect of these arrangements before them, Monsieur and Madame de Courval had already been at their country residence for three months, and had already good reason to believe a child was on the way—a piece of news they lost no time in communicating to kindly Monsieur de Saint-Prât—when an unexpected event cruelly occurred to dash the couple’s happiness, turning the tender roses of hymen into the frightful cypresses of mourning.
Here my pen pauses. . . . I should spare the reader, ask him to proceed no further. . . . Yes, let him break off the story at this point, if he prefers not to shudder with horror. . . . Sad condition of man here on earth . . . cruel twists of unpredictable fate. . . . Why must Florville, the most virtuous, charming, and sensitive creature alive, find herself, through a most incredible chain of circumstances, the most abominable monster Nature has ever conceived?
One evening, this tender and loving wife was sitting next to her husband reading an unbelievably gloomy English novel which at the time was being much discussed.
“I must confess,” she said, dropping her book, “here is a creature almost as miserable as I.”
“As miserable as you,” quoth Monsieur de Courval, clasping his beloved wife in his arms, “O Florville, I thought I had helped you to put all your tribulations behind you. . . . I see now I was mistaken. . . . But did you have to tell me in such brutal terms? . . .”
But Madame de Courval seemed oblivious to his entreaties; nor did she respond to his caresses with a single word, but mechanically pushed him away from her in terror and threw herself down upon the sofa on the far side of the room, where she burst into tears. In vain did her worthy husband come and cast himself at her feet, in vain did he beg this woman whom he adored to calm herself, or at least apprise him of the cause of such a fit of despair. Madame de Courval continued to push him away, to turn aside when he essayed to dry her tears, to such a degree that Monsieur de Courval, by then being thoroughly persuaded that some distressing memory of Florville’s earlier passion had returned to inflame her heart anew, could not refrain from chiding her about it.
Madame de Courval listened to his reproaches, but when he was finished she rose to her feet.
“No, Monsieur,” she said to her husband, “you are wrong in judging in this way the fit of depression wherewith I have just been overwhelmed. ’Tis not memory that alarms me, but forebodings which terrify me. . . . I see myself happy with you, Monsieur . . . yes, very happy . . . and I was not born to be happy. ’Tis impossible that I remain so very long, for it is ordained that the dawn of my happiness will never be aught but the lightning which precedes the thunderbolt. ’Tis this thought which caused me to tremble: I fear we are not destined
to live together. Today your wife, perhaps tomorrow I shall no longer be. Deep in my heart, a secret voice cries out, saying that for me all this happiness is but a shadow, which will vanish like the flower which blooms and withers in the space of a single day. Therefore, do not accuse me of being capricious, nor say that I am growing cold or indifferent, Monsieur. My own guilt is an excess of sensibility, an unfortunate tendency to see things in the most sinister light possible, the cruel result of my reverses of fortune. . . .”
Monsieur de Courval was still at his wife’s feet, trying unsuccessfully by his words and caresses to allay her fears, when suddenly—it was just before seven o’clock of an October evening—a servant entered to say that a man he had never seen before most urgently requested to have a word with Monsieur de Courval. . . . Florville shuddered. . . in spite of herself, tears streamed down her cheeks, she stumbled and almost fell; she tried to say something, but the words died on her lips.
More concerned about his wife’s condition than with what he had just learned, Monsieur de Courval replied somewhat testily that the stranger should wait, and turned back to aid his wife. But Madame de Courval, fearing to succumb to the secret emotion wherewith she was gripped, and desiring to conceal her deepest feelings in the presence of the stranger who had just been announced, found the strength to struggle to her feet, and said:
“’Tis nothing, Monsieur, nothing. Show the gentleman in.”
The servant left, to return a moment later with a man about thirty-seven or thirty-eight, whose charming countenance bore the telltale signs of some deep-rooted sorrow.
“Father! . . .” cried the stranger, casting himself at Monsieur de Courval’s feet. “Will you recognize a miserable son who has been separated from you for twenty-two years, a son more than punished for his cruel sins by the reverses of fortune he has suffered constantly since then?”
“What! You, my son! . . . Great God! . . . What circumstance . . . thankless creature . . . caused you to recall my existence?”
“My heart . . . this heart which, though guilty, has none the less never ceased to love you.. . . Listen to me, Father. . . pray do. I have greater misfortunes than my own to discover to you; please sit down and hear me out. Pray forgive me, Madame,” continued young Courval, turning to his father’s wife, “if I am obliged, though ’tis the first time in my life I have had the opportunity to pay you my respects, to reveal in your presence some terrible family misfortunes, which I can no longer conceal from my father.”
“Speak then, Monsieur, speak,” Madame de Courval managed to stammer, casting a wild glance at this young man. “Misfortune’s language is not new to me; I have known it since childhood.”
Then our traveler, in a state of uncontrollable uneasiness, stared fixedly at Madame de Courval, and said to her:
“You, unhappy, Madame! . . . Oh, Merciful Heaven, can you be as unhappy as we?”
They sat down. Madame de Courval’s state would be difficult to describe. . . . She glanced at the visitor . . . quickly she lowered her eyes to the floor. . . . She gave a deep, racking sigh. Monsieur de Courval was weeping, and his son tried to calm him, beseeching him to listen closely to what he had to say. Finally the conversation became somewhat more orderly.
“I have so many things to tell you, Monsieur,” said young Courval, “that I trust you will allow me to gloss over the details and go straight to the heart of the matter. And I ask that both you and Madame give your word not to interrupt me before I have reached the end of my tale.
“I left you when I was fifteen, Monsieur; my first impulse was to follow my mother, whom I was blind enough to prefer to you. You and she had been separated for many years. I rejoined her in Lyon, where her riotous living so frightened me that I found myself obliged to leave her, were I to preserve whatever sentiments I had left for her. I went to Strasbourg, where the Normandy regiment was stationed. . . .”
Madame de Courval gave a start, but kept control of herself.
“The colonel seemed interested in me,” young Courval went on. “I made myself known to him, and he gave me a commission as a second lieutenant. The following year, I accompanied the regiment to Nancy, where it was transferred, and there I fell in love with a young relative of Madame de Verquin. I seduced this young girl, had a son by her, and cruelly abandoned her.”
At these words, Madame de Courval trembled, a low sigh welled from her breast, but she otherwise managed to maintain her composure.
“This unhappy affair was the cause of all my misfortunes. I placed the poor girl’s child with a woman near Metz, who promised to take care of him, and a short while later rejoined my regiment. I was condemned for my conduct: since the girl had not been able to return to Nancy, I was accused of having been the cause of her ruin. Too charming and likable a creature not to have caught the fancy of the entire town, she did not lack for defenders, who were bent upon avenging her honor. I fought a duel and killed my opponent. I then fled to Torino with my son, whom I had returned to fetch near Metz.
“For twelve years I served the King of Sardinia. I shall spare you the detailed description of my tribulations during this period. Suffice it to say they were infinite. ’Tis upon leaving France that one learns to miss it. Still, my son was growing into manhood, and a most promising young man he was too. In Torino I had met a French woman who had accompanied that Princess of France who had married into the Court of Sardinia, and that worthy person having taken a sympathetic interest in my misfortunes, I dared ask her to take my son with her to France, in order to complete his education. I promised to put my affairs sufficiently in order that I would be able to come and reclaim the boy from her care within six years. She consented, took my poor child to Paris with her, spared no effort to bring him up properly, and kept me fully and regularly informed of his progress.
“I appeared a year earlier than I had promised. I arrived at the lady’s house, full of the sweet expectation of embracing my son, of clasping in my arms this token of a love betrayed . . . but which still burned in my heart. ‘Your son is dead,’ quoth the worthy friend, her eyes overbrimming with tears. ‘He was the victim of the same passion which was the cause of his father’s misfortunes. We had taken him to the country with us; there he fell in love with a charming girl whose name I have promised not to divulge. Carried away by the violence of his passion, he tried to ravish by force what had been denied him by virtue. . . . A blow, struck solely with the intention of frightening him off, went straight into his heart, and killed him outright.’”
At this point, Madame de Courval fell into a sort of trance, which for a moment made them fear she had suddenly been struck dead: her eyes were wide and staring fixedly; the blood had frozen in her veins. Monsieur de Courval, who had realized all too clearly the fatal connections binding together these adventures, interrupted his son and hastened to his wife’s side. She came back to her senses and, with an heroic display of courage, managed to say:
“Let your son continue, Monsieur. Perhaps I have not yet reached the end of my trials.”
All the while, young Courval, though he failed to understand why this lady was so disturbed about events which seemed to relate to her but indirectly, but discerning something incomprehensible for him in the features of his father’s wife, looked at her intently, deeply moved.
Monsieur de Courval took his son’s hand and, distracting his attention from Florville, commanded him to continue, but to concentrate on essentials and eliminate the details, because his tales were the repository of mysterious circumstances which were of the gravest import.
“In a state of utter despair over the death of my son,” the traveler continued, “and having no further reason to remain in France—save for you, Father, whom I did not dare to face and whose wrath I greatly feared—I resolved to travel in Germany. . . . Ill-starred author of my days, I now come to the cruelest part of my story,” said young Courval, bathing his father’s hands with his tears. “Summon your courage, I beseech you.
“When I arrived a
t Nancy, I learned that a Madame Desbarres—that was the name which my mother, as soon as she had led you to believe she was dead, had assumed in her disorderly life—I learned, I say, that this same Madame Desbarres had just been cast into prison for having stabbed her rival, and that she was perhaps going to be executed the following day.”
“Oh, Monsieur,” poor Florville cried out at this point, burying herself in her husband’s breast, her body racked with sobs, “Oh, Monsieur, do you now see the full measure of my miseries?”
“Yes, Madame, I do indeed,” said Monsieur de Courval. “I see everything, Madame, but I beg you to let my son finish.”
Florville contained herself, but she was scarcely breathing, her every feeling was impaired, her nerves were stretched to the breaking point.
“Go on, my son, go on,” quoth the unhappy father. “In a moment I shall explain everything to you.”
“Very well, Monsieur,” young Courval went on. “I inquired whether there were not some mistake in names, but unfortunately it was only too true that the criminal was my mother. I asked permission to see her, the request was granted. I threw myself in her arms. . . . ‘I am guilty of the crime for which I am going to die,’ this unhappy creature said to me, ‘but there is a terrible quirk of fate in the affair which is responsible for my death. There was another person under suspicion; all evidence pointed to him. But a woman and her two servants who, as chance would have it, were residing in the inn, witnessed my crime, though I was so distraught that I failed to notice them. Their testimony alone is responsible for my death. No matter, let us not waste our last moments together in useless regrets. I have some secrets of great consequence to divulge: now listen closely to what I have to say, my boy.
The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings Page 20