“What can I say, Monsieur? You know as well as I that when you are young you have little choice but to follow the dictates of your heart.”
“But you can still refuse your hand to this wretched fellow. Give us time to get to know each other better and if everything works out to our mutual satisfaction why couldn’t we come to some sort of understanding? I, thank God, don’t have to ask anyone for permission. Although I’m only twenty, I’m the master of my own fortune, and if you could talk to your parents on my behalf, I see no reason why we could not be united in holy wedlock before the week is out!”
As they talked, they had left the ballroom, and the clever Augustine, who was not leading her prey there to spend their time on idle chatter, had been careful to take her into one of those isolated rooms which she, through her prior arrangements with those who organized these affairs, always managed to have at her disposal.
“Oh, God!” said Franville as soon as he saw Augustine close the door behind her and try to take him in her arms. “What in heaven’s name are you trying to do? What do you mean, bringing me here alone with you, Monsieur, to such an out-of-the-way spot? Let me go, let me go this minute or, I swear to you, I’ll call for help.”
“I’m going to prevent you from calling anyone, my sweet angel,” said Augustine, planting her lovely lips squarely on Franville’s. “Now cry for help, cry for help if you can, but I warn you that the fragrance of your rose-scented breath will only be more prompt to inflame my heart.”
Franville made a half-hearted effort to defend himself: it’s difficult to be very angry when you are in the throes of receiving, as tenderly as he was, the first kiss of the person you adore. Encouraged, Augustine pressed on her attack with renewed vigor, with the kind of vehemence particular only to those delightful women compelled by this fantasy. It was not long before her hands began to wander, Franville meanwhile playing the role of the woman who is yielding and whose hands, almost unconsciously, respond by groping in turn. Clothes are pushed aside, and almost at the same moment their fingers reach the spot where each expects to find what he or she is expectantly looking for… At which point Franville suddenly switched roles:
“What in the name of…” he cried out. “You mean to tell me you’re only a woman!…”
“You horrible creature,” Augustine retorted, her hand enveloping things the very condition of which destroyed her every illusion, “you mean to tell me I’ve gone to all this trouble over a poor miserable man … I must be the most unlucky woman alive.”
“No more than me, if you want to know the truth,” said Franville, straightening his clothes and making a show of the most profound disdain. “I use this disguise for cruising, it is men I am looking for and men alone I love. And all I find is a twopenny whore …”
“Whore indeed!” said Augustine bitterly. “I have never been a whore in my life, and the mere fact that I loathe men is no reason to treat me this way …”
“What! You’re a woman and you hate men?”
“Yes, and for the exact same reason that you’re a man and hate women.”
“A rather unique meeting, at least I can say that much for it.”
“And a sad one for me, too,” said Augustine, displaying all the symptoms of ill humor.
“The truth is, Mademoiselle, that this is far more irksome for me than it is for you,” Franville said bitterly. “Here I am contaminated for three weeks. Do you know that in our order we take a vow never to touch a woman?”
“It seems to be that one could touch someone like me without disgracing oneself.”
“Upon my word, my dear girl,” Franville went on, “I can’t see any great reason why you should be an exception, and I fail to see how a vice should give you any special merit.”
“A vice! … Who do you think you are, talking to me about my vice when you admit to such an unspeakable one yourself!”
“There’s no point in arguing, is there?” said Franville. “Two can play at that game. The simplest thing would be to go our own ways and never see each other again.”
And so saying Franville reached over to open the door.
“Not so fast,” said Augustine, “not so fast,” preventing him from opening the doors. “I gather you intend to broadcast our little adventure to the entire world.”
“I may, if it amuses me.”
“What do I care, for that matter. Thank God I’m above such gossip. Go ahead, Monsieur, leave and say anything you like …” But once again she stopped him from leaving. “Do you know what,” she said with a smile, “this is quite a remarkable tale. It was not just one of us, but both of us who made a mistake.”
“Ah! But the error is far more painful to people such as me than it is to your kind … You have no idea how revolting we find this … this emptiness.”
“You don’t say! You can take my word for it, my dear fellow, that what you offer us in its place is no less repugnant to us, the disgust is mutual. But you have to admit, this adventure is rather amusing… Are you going back to the ball?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Augustine. “I’m far too upset— disagreeably, thanks to you. I’m going home.”
“Good for you!”
“But I wonder whether the gentleman might be civil enough to escort me there. I live but a stone’s throw away, and don’t have my carriage. He can leave me at my doorstep.”
“Of course he will. I’ll be happy to take you,” Franville said. “Our different tastes shouldn’t keep us from being polite. May I offer you my arm? … There.”
“The only reason I’m accepting your offer is that I haven’t found a better one.”
“And you may rest assured that the only reason I’m offering you my arm is out of a basic sense of decency.”
They reached the door to Augustine’s house, and Franville prepared to take his leave.
“I must say, you are quite charming,” said Mademoiselle de Villeblanche. “What? You’re going to leave me here in the street?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Franville mumbled. “I didn’t dare …”
“Ah, how churlish, you men who don’t like women!”
“It’s only that,” said Franville by way of explanation, nonetheless offering his arm to Mademoiselle de Villeblanche and accompanying her to her door, “it’s only that I was in a hurry to get back to the ball, Mademoiselle, to try to make amends for my stupid mistake.”
“Your stupid mistake! You mean you’re all that angry at having met me?”
“I didn’t say that, Mademoiselle, but given who we are, don’t you agree we could both have found infinitely better partners?”
“Yes, you’re right,” Augustine said, as she finally opened her door and went in, “you’re right, Monsieur, especially where I’m concerned … Because I’m very much afraid that this fatal encounter may cost me my happiness.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t you absolutely certain of your feelings?”
“I was yesterday.”
“Ah! You’re not bound by your principles.”
“I’m bound by nothing … You’re beginning to weary me.”
“Then let me take my leave, Mademoiselle, by all means let me be on my way. God forbid I should disturb you another moment.”
“No, stay. I order you to stay. Can’t you for once in your life accept to obey a woman?”
“There’s nothing I can’t do,” Franville responded, promptly obliging by sitting down. “As I told you, I’m a decent sort.”
“Do you realize how terrible it is for someone like you to have such perverse tastes?”
“And do you think it’s any more respectable for you to have the bizarre tastes that are yours?”
“Ah, for us it’s quite different. It’s a question of modesty, of caution … or of pride if you prefer, the fear of having to submit to your sex, whose only purpose in seducing us is to dominate … Still, our carnal urges cannot be denied and we manage to arrange things quite easily among ourselves
. Assuming we are discreet, no one is one whit the wiser: we display a veneer of respectability to the world, which most people accept. Thus the demands of Nature are satisfied, decency is observed, and modesty is not outraged.”
“Now there’s as fine a set of good, solid sophisms as I’ve ever heard. Applying them to whatever purpose, one could justify anything. What’s more, what have you said that could not also be cited in our favor?”
“Not in the least! Your prejudices are quite different from ours, our fears are something quite foreign to you. What is victory for you is defeat for us. The more conquests you make, the greater your glory. And the only way you can control the feelings we arouse in you are through vice and depravity.”
“Truly, I do believe you are going to convert me.”
“Would that I could.”
“But pray, what would you gain by so doing, as long as you’re mired in the error of your own ways?”
“My sex would be grateful to me. And since I love women, I’m only too happy to work on their behalf.”
“If by chance the miracle were to happen, its effects would not be as general as you seem to think. I would like to be converted for only one woman at the very most… as a kind of test case.”
“‘Tis an honorable desire.”
“What is certain beyond all doubt is that to take a stance without having actually undergone the experience smacks of prejudice.”
“What? You’ve never been with a woman?”
“Never! And you … would you by chance be as pure on your end as I am in mine?”
“Oh, pure … I’m not sure that’s the right word … The women we are involved with are so clever and so jealous that they leave nothing undiscovered … But as for men, no, I’ve never had a man in my life.”
“You swear to that?”
“Nor do I ever want to see, or ever to know, a man with tastes as bizarre as mine.”
“I’m only sorry I didn’t make the same vow myself.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anything more impertinent in my life!”
Saying which, Mademoiselle de Villeblanche got to her feet and informed Franville he was free to leave. Our young lover, utterly cool, calm, and collected, bowed deeply and prepared to depart.
“I suppose you’re going back to the ball,” Mademoiselle de Villeblanche said dryly, casting a glance in his direction that was a mixture of utter disdain and hopeless ardent love.
“Why, yes. As I believe Fve already mentioned.”
“In other words, you’re incapable of making the sacrifice for me that I have made for you?”
“I beg your pardon. Just what sacrifice would you be referring to?”
“I came home only because I had no desire to stay at the ball after I had the misfortune of meeting you.”
“The misfortune?”
“You’re the one who forces me to use that expression. And it’s you and you alone who have the power to make me use another.”
“And how are you going to reconcile that with your own tastes?”
“When love o’ertakes, tastes relegate.”
“That may well be, but you could never possibly love me.”
“I agree, not so long as you practice those frightful habits I learned were yours.”
“And what if I forswore them?”
“Then I would immediately reciprocate by sacrificing my own on the altar of love … Oh, you faithless creature. Do you realize what that confession does to my pride? Do you have the faintest notion what you have just forced me to say?” she said, collapsing into a chair, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“The confession I heard, from the most beautiful lips in the world, is the most flattering any man could ever hope to hear,” said Franville, casting himself at Augustine’s feet. “Oh, my love, my dear, sweet love. I have to confess this was all a ploy on my part. Do not punish me for it, I beg of you on bended knee, do forgive me. I shall stay here until you do! You see before you, Mademoiselle, the most steadfast, the most passionate of lovers. I felt I had to resort to this ruse to win over a heart I knew to be hard and unyielding. Have I succeeded, dear Augustine? Will you spurn the untainted love that you deigned to accept for a guilty lover, for one as guilty as I… guilty at least in your own mind. Oh! Did you for a minute think that any impure passion could dwell in the soul of one who loves only you?”
“Of all the dirty, lowdown tricks! You were leading me on the whole time! But yes, I do forgive you! … And yes, now that I think about it, you’re not giving up anything for me, which is a blow to my pride, while I’m ready to give up everything for you. Well, so be it… I’m only too happy to renounce the error of my ways for you—errors into which vanity leads us almost as often as does our own tastes. I feel that Nature is winning out, that same Nature I suppressed through my own foibles and failings, which I hereby abhor and renounce with all my heart. Her power is irresistible. She has created us for you and you alone, as she has created you men for us. Let us yield to her laws. It is through love itself that Nature inspires me to obey them today and it is love, too, that will etch them more deeply in my heart.
“Here, Sir, is my hand. I believe you to be a man of honor, and true worthy as a suitor. If for a moment I fell low in your esteem, know that I shall do everything in my power, through affection and loving care, to make amends for whatever wrongs I may have done, as I shall oblige you to acknowledge that such wrongs, emanating from too ardent an imagination, do not necessarily debase a well-born soul.”
Franville, having achieved his cherished goal, let loose a torrent of tears of joy onto the fair hands that he was covering with a thousand kisses. Then he rose and threw himself into Augustine’s open arms. “This is the happiest day of my life,” he cried. “There is nothing to compare to my victory. I have brought back to the path of virtue a straying heart wherein I shall reign forever.”
Franville showered a thousand kisses upon the divine object of his love, then departed. The following day he informed all his friends of his good fortune. Mademoiselle de Villeblanche was far too good a match for his parents to refuse their consent, and within a week they were married.
Affection, trust, utter devotion, and extreme modesty were the marks of their marriage, and by making himself the happiest of men he was sufficiently astute to turn the most libertine of young women into the most chaste and virtuous of wives.
THE FORTUNATE RUSE
There are any number of wives so foolish as to think that, just as long as their husband does not surprise them flagrante delicto with a lover, they can at least indulge in a fair amount of amorous dalliance without offending their lawful-wedded spouse. As it turns out, that point of view often has consequences more dangerous than if the betrayal had actually been consummated. What happened to the Marquise de Guissac, a lady of quality from Nîmes in the Languedoc region of southern France, offers a concrete example of that general truth.
A bit on the giddy side, a happy-go-lucky person who sometimes acted first and thought later, she was as full of wit as her heart was kind. Madame de Guissac believed that a handful of love letters exchanged between her and the Baron d’Aumelas would have no serious consequences; first because no one would ever be the wiser about them and second because, in the unlikely event they ever did come to light, she would have no trouble explaining them to her husband, thus exonerating her, since in fact she was blameless in her husband’s eyes. But she was badly mistaken.
Monsieur de Guissac, who was excessively jealous, suspected that something was going on between these two. He questioned a chambermaid, and fell upon one of their letters. At first glance, there was nothing in that letter to incriminate her outright, but more than enough to feed his suspicions. “Doubt, doubt, damnable doubt,” he muttered to himself. And armed with a goblet of lemonade in one hand and a loaded pistol in another, he burst into his wife’s bedroom.
“I am betrayed!” he shouted, clearly beside himself with anger. “Read this letter. It tells me more th
an I need to know. Enough of this shilly-shallying. I leave it up to you: you can choose the way you want to die.”
The marquise spoke up in her own defense, swearing to her husband that he was making a terrible mistake, that she may well have been guilty of acting imprudently but certainly not of any crime.
“You’ve betrayed me for the last time,” he said, still livid, “and you can be sure you will never betray me again. I repeat: you can choose how you want to die or this pistol will end your days here and now.” And he pushed the goblet toward her.
The Mystified Magistrate Page 14