‘What strange behaviour! Why did you send him away?’
‘Because I don’t like him.’
‘Ah! Madame, I think I know what it is. You are still in love with me.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You are counting on a reconciliation.’
‘Why not?’
‘And you are making sure of the moral advantage your blameless conduct would give you over me.’
‘I believe so.’
‘And if I had the fortune or the misfortune to take up with you again you would at the very least be able to take credit for the silence you would maintain over my conduct.’
‘You must believe me to be extremely delicate and very generous.’
‘My friend, after what you have done, there is no sort of heroism of which you are not capable.’
‘I’m quite happy that you should have such an opinion of me.’
‘By God, I’m in great danger from you, that I’m sure of.’
‘And so am I.’
For about the next three months things were much the same, until Mme de La Pommeraye decided that the time had come to set her great schemes in motion. One summer’s day when the weather was good and she was expecting the Marquis to lunch, she sent word to the d’Aisnon and her daughter to go to the Royal Botanical Gardens. The Marquis came. Lunch was served in good time. They dined. They dined happily. After lunch Mme de La Pommeraye suggested to the Marquis that they should go for a walk if he didn’t have anything more enjoyable to do. That day there was nothing on at the opera or the theatre, as the Marquis remarked, and so as to make up for the loss of entertainment by an instructive outing chance had it that it was the Marquis himself who invited the Marquise to go and see the Royal Collection. The invitation was not refused, as you can well imagine. The horses were harnessed and they left. When they arrived at the Royal Botanical Gardens they mingled with the crowd, looking all around them and seeing nothing, just like everybody else.
Reader, I have forgotten to describe to you the positions of the three characters we are concerned with here – Jacques, his master, and their hostess. Because of this oversight you have heard them speak but you have not been able to picture them. Better late than never. On the left Jacques’ master, in his night-cap and dressing-gown, was nonchalantly stretched out in a large tapestry work armchair, his handkerchief thrown over one of its arms and his snuff-box in his hand. At the end, opposite the door, and near the table, was their hostess, her glass in front of her. And, on her right, Jacques, without a hat, his elbows on the table, his head leaning forward between two empty bottles, and two more on the floor beside him.
HOSTESS: On leaving the Royal Collection, the Marquis and his good friend went for a walk in the garden. They followed the first path to the right as you go in near the arboretum when Mme de La Pommeraye suddenly cried out in surprise: ‘I am not mistaken. I think it’s… yes, it is, it’s them,’ and immediately left the Marquis to go over and meet our two saintly ladies. The d’Aisnon girl looked stunning in a simple dress, which, without attracting attention, made her the centre of attraction.
‘Ah! Is it you, Madame?’
‘Yes, it is I.’
‘And how have you been keeping and what has become of you after all this time?’
‘You know our misfortunes. We have had to resign ourselves to them and we lead a withdrawn life as befits our meagre fortune. When one can no longer continue to show oneself decently, one must withdraw from social life.’
‘But me, leave me? I am not of society and I have always had the wit to see how tedious it is.’
‘One of the bad things about misfortune is the suspicion it inspires. Those in misfortune are always afraid of being unwelcome.’
‘You, unwelcome to me! That suspicion is a terrible insult.’
‘Madame, I am innocent of it. I reminded Maman of you at least ten times, but she always said: “Nobody thinks of us anymore, not even Mme de La Pommeraye.” ’
‘What an injustice! Let us sit down and chat. This is M. le Marquis des Arcis. He is my friend and his presence here need not disturb us. How Mademoiselle has grown! How pretty she has become since the last time we saw each other!’
‘The good thing about our position is that it deprives us of everything which could be harmful to our health. Look at her face! Look at her arms! Look at what one gains by a frugal well-ordered life, sleep, work, and a happy conscience. It is certainly something…’
They sat down and conversed warmly. The d’Aisnon mother spoke a lot, her daughter hardly at all. The tone of each was that of devotion without being contrived or prudish. Long before nightfall our two church-goers got up. In spite of protests that it was still early, the d’Aisnon mother whispered to Mme de La Pommeraye loudly enough to be heard that they still had an office of devotion to fulfil, and that it was not possible for them to stay any longer. They were already some way off when Mme de La Pommeraye reproached herself for not having learnt where they lived and not having told them where she lived. It was a fault, she added, which she would not have committed in earlier days. The Marquis ran after them to make amends. They accepted the address of Mme de La Pommeraye but no matter how hard the Marquis insisted he could not obtain theirs. He did not dare to offer them his coach although he admitted to Mme de La Pommeraye that he had been tempted. The Marquis did not fail to ask Mme de La Pommeraye who these two women were.
‘Two people who are happier than we are. Can you not see the good health they enjoy! Their serenity of expression! The innocence, the decency which governs their every word! One does not see or hear any of that in the circles we move in. We pity the devout and they pity us, but all in all I am inclined to think that they are right.’
‘But, Marquise, are you tempted to become devout?’
‘Why not?’
‘Take care, I would not want the end of our relationship – if that is what it is – to drive you to that.’
‘Would you rather I reopened my doors to the little count?’
‘Much rather.’
‘Would you advise me to do that?’
‘Without hesitation.’
Madame de La Pommeraye told the Marquis what she knew of the name, the origins, the earlier status and the court case of our two devout ladies, making the story as interesting and as touching as possible.
‘They are two women of rare merit – the daughter above all. You must admit that with looks like hers one would lack for nothing if one wished to exploit them. But they have preferred honest poverty to shameful luxury. What they have left is so little that in all honesty, I cannot imagine how they can live on it. They work night and day. Plenty of people know how to put up with poverty when they are born into it, but to fall from opulence into the direst necessity and somehow find contentment and happiness is something which I cannot understand. That is what religion does. No matter what our philosophers say, religion is a good thing.’
‘Especially for the unfortunate.’
‘And who isn’t more or less?’
‘I’m damned if you’re not turning devout.’
‘What’s so tragic about that? This life is so insignificant when one compares the eternity to come!’
‘But you sound like a missionary already.’
‘I speak like a convinced woman. Now, Marquis, give me an honest answer. Would not all our riches appear to us to be mere baubles if we were more affected by the anticipation of future reward and fear of future punishment? If someone were to seduce a young girl or a woman devoted to her husband, while believing that if he should die in her arms he would be plunged immediately into endless tortures, you must admit that would be the height of folly.’
‘However, it happens every day.’
‘Because people have no faith, because they allow themselves to be distracted.’
‘It’s because our religious opinions have very little influence over our morals. But, my friend, I tell you that you are going the quickest route to the confessional.’
>
‘That would be the best thing for me.’
‘Come on, you are mad. You’ve got another twenty or so years of happy sinning ahead of you. Don’t miss out on it. After that you will be able to repent, and you can go and parade your repentance at the feet of a priest if that is what you want… But this is a very serious conversation. Your imagination is becoming terribly morbid and it is because of this dreadful solitude you have driven yourself into. Believe me, call back the little count as soon as possible and you will see no more devil or hell and you will be as charming as you were before. You are afraid that I will reproach you for it if ever we take up again. But in the first place, we may never be reconciled, and because of your apprehension which may or may not be well founded you are depriving yourself of the most delightful of pleasures. In all honesty, the merit of being morally superior to me is not worth the sacrifice.’
‘What you say is true, but that is not what is holding me back…’
They also said many other things which I cannot remember.
JACQUES: Madame, let’s have a drink. That refreshes the memory.
HOSTESS: Let’s have a drink… After a few turns around the gardens, Mme de La Pommeraye and the Marquis got back into the carriage and Mme de La Pommeraye said: ‘How she ages me! When she first came to Paris she was no higher than a cabbage!’
‘You are speaking of the daughter of the lady we met on our walk?’
‘Yes, it is just like a garden where the faded roses make place for the new ones. Did you look at her?’
‘I could not fail to.’
‘How did you find her?’
‘The face of a Raphael virgin on the body of his Galatea, and such softness of voice!’
‘Such a modest look!’
‘Such propriety in her bearing!’
‘And a refinement in what she says such as I have seen in no other young woman. That is what education does.’
‘When there is good material there to start with.’
The Marquis left Mme de La Pommeraye at her door. Madame de La Pommeraye hastened to tell our two devout ladies how satisfied she was with the way they had played their roles.
JACQUES: If they carry on the way they’ve started, M. le Marquis des Arcis, even if you were the devil himself you’d never get out of it.
MASTER: I would very much like to know what their scheme is.
JACQUES: I wouldn’t. It would spoil everything.
HOSTESS: From that day the Marquis became more assiduous in his visits to Mme de La Pommeraye, who noticed this without asking the reason. She never spoke first on the subject of the two devout ladies, but waited for him to bring it up, which the Marquis always did with impatience, and with badly simulated indifference.
MARQUIS: Have you seen your friends?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: No.
MARQUIS: Do you know that is not very nice? You are rich and they are badly off. Do you not even invite them to eat with you occasionally?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: I thought Monsieur le Marquis knew me a little better than that. Your love used to see good points in me. Today your friendship only sees my faults. I have invited them ten times, without once getting them to accept. They refuse to come to my house because of the most singular objections. And when I visit them I have to leave my carriage at the end of their road and go practically undressed, without rouge or diamonds. But you must not be surprised by their reserve. One false rumour would be enough to alienate the good will of a certain number of benevolent people and deprive them of their assistance. Marquis, it would appear that the price of doing good is great.
MARQUIS: Especially to church-goers.
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Since the smallest pretext suffices for it to be withdrawn. If people knew that I was taking any interest they would soon say: ‘Madame de La Pommeraye is their protector. They have need of nothing.’ And that would be the end of their charity.
MARQUIS: Charity?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Yes, Monsieur, charity!
MARQUIS: You know them and they depend on charity?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Yet again, Marquis, I see that you do not love me any more and that a large part of your esteem has vanished with your love. Who told you that if these women depend on the charity of the parish it is my fault?
MARQUIS: Pardon, a thousand pardons, Madame, I am wrong. But what reason could they have for refusing the benevolence of a friend?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Ah! Marquis, we people of the world are a long way from understanding the delicate scruples of such timorous souls. They believe themselves unable to accept help from anyone indiscriminately.
MARQUIS: But that deprives us of the best way of making amends for our follies and dissipation.
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Not at all. If I were to suppose that Monsieur le Marquis des Arcis were touched with compassion for them, what would there be to prevent him from offering his help through hands more worthy than his?
MARQUIS: And less sure.
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Perhaps.
MARQUIS: Tell me, if I sent them twenty louis, do you think they would refuse it?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: I am sure of it. And would their refusal be inappropriate, coming from a mother with such a charming daughter?
MARQUIS: Do you know that I have been tempted to go and see them?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: I can well believe it. Marquis! Marquis! Be careful. Your compassion is rather sudden and rather suspect.
MARQUIS: Whatever it is, would they have received me?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Certainly not! With the brilliance of your carriage, your clothes, your servants and the charms of the young lady, it would not need more than that to set the neighbours gossiping and lead to the two women’s downfall.
MARQUIS: I am upset, because that was certainly not my intention. Must I give up any hope of helping them or seeing them?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: I think so.
MARQUIS: But if my help came to them through you?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: I do not think that kind of help is disinterested enough for me to take responsibility.
MARQUIS: That is harsh.
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Yes, harsh, that is the word.
MARQUIS: What an idea! Marquise, you are making fun of me. A young girl whom I have only seen once…
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: But one of the small number of girls that are once seen and never forgotten.
MARQUIS: It is true that faces like that stay with you.
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: Marquis, take great care for yourself, you are heading for great sorrows and I would prefer preserving you from them to having to console you. Do not confuse these women with the women you have known. You cannot tempt them, cannot seduce them, cannot go near them, they will not listen to you and you will never get what you want.
After this conversation the Marquis suddenly remembered that he had urgent business, got up quickly and left, looking very preoccupied. For quite a long period of time the Marquis hardly went a day without seeing Mme de La Pommeraye, but when he arrived he would sit down and stay silent. Madame de La Pommeraye would speak alone, and after a quarter of an hour or so the Marquis would get up and leave. After that he disappeared for maybe a month, at the end of which time he reappeared, but how sad, how melancholic, how dejected he looked. On seeing him like this, the Marquise said: ‘What are you doing here! Where have you come from? Have you been all this time in a bawdy-house, or what?’
MARQUIS: My God, almost. My despair flung me into the most frightful debauchery.
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: What! Despair?
MARQUIS: Yes, despair!…
At this point he started pacing up and down without saying a word. He went to the windows, looked out at the sky, stopped in front of Mme de La Pommeraye, went to the door, called his servants to whom he had nothing to say, sent them away again, came back in and came back to Mme de La Pommeraye, who was working and appeared not to notice. He wanted to say something but didn’t dare. At last Mme de La Pommeraye t
ook pity on him and asked him: ‘What is the matter with you? We go a whole month without seeing you, and then you reappear with a face like a corpse and prowl around like a soul in torment.’
MARQUIS: I cannot stand it any longer. I must tell you everything. I am struck to the quick by your friend’s daughter. I have tried everything, everything, to forget her, and the more I have tried the more I have remembered her. I am obsessed by this angelic creature. You must do me a great favour.
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: What?
MARQUIS: I have to see her again and it must be through you. All my agents are in the field. The only thing the two women do is to go from their house to the church and from the church to their house. I have intercepted them on foot at least ten times and they have not even noticed me. I have waited at their door without success. At first their snubs made me debauched as a monk and then as devout as an angel. I haven’t missed Mass for a fortnight. Ah! My friend! What a face! She is so beautiful!
Madame de La Pommeraye already knew all this.
‘What you are telling me’, she replied to the Marquis, ‘is that, after you tried everything to get over it, you then tried everything likely to drive you wild with desire and succeeded in this.’
MARQUIS: Succeeded! I could not begin to tell you quite how much. Will you not take pity on me? Shall I not be indebted to you for the joy of seeing her again?
MME DE LA POMMERAYE: That will be difficult, but I will take care of it on one condition. That is that you leave these poor ladies in peace and stop tormenting them. I will not hide from you that they have written bitterly to me of your persecution. Here is their letter…
Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master Page 16