by George Sand
“I respect it, madame ; that is why I wish to die. Why did you come here ? You must throw aside all religion, all scruples, and come to me and say : ‘ Live, and I will love you ; ‘ or else stay at home, forget me and let me die. Have I asked you for anything ? have I tried to embitter your life ? have I made a plaything of your happiness—of your principles ? have I so much as implored your pity? Look you, Valentine, this compassion for me which you display, this humane sentiment which brings you here, this friendship which you offer me—they are all meaningless words, which would have deceived me a month ago when I was a child and when a glance from you kept me alive for a whole day. Now, I have lived too much, I have learned too much about the passions, to be blind. I will not carry on a fruitless, insane struggle against my fate any longer. You ought to resist me, I know ; that you will do it, I have no doubt. You will toss me now and then a word of encouragement and compassion, to help me suffer, and even that you will reproach yourself for as a crime, and you will have to have absolution from a priest before you can forgive yourself for it. Your life will be made wretched, ruined by me; your heart, which has always been serene and untroubled, will be henceforth storm-tossed like mine ! God forbid ! And I, despite these sacrifices, which seem so great to you, I shall be the most miserable of men. No, no, Valentine, let us not deceive ourselves. I must die. Being the woman that you are, you cannot love me without remorse and a tormented conscience ; I do not desire a happiness which would cost you so dear. Far from blaming you, I love you so fervently and so passionately because of your very virtue and your strength of character. So remain as you are ; do not descend to a lower level to be with me. Live and deserve heaven hereafter. For myself, my heart is in hell, and I propose to go thither. Adieu, Valentine; you came to bid me adieu, and I thank you.”
This harangue, of which Valentine felt the whole force only too keenly, drove her to despair. She could think of nothing to reply, and she buried her face in the bed, weeping bitterly. Valentine’s greatest charm was her frankness in revealing her feelings, seeking to deceive neither herself nor others.
Her grief produced more effect upon Bénédict than anything she could have said. When he saw that that noble and upright heart was breaking at the thought of losing him, he reproached himself bitterly. He seized Valentine’s hands; she rested her head on his hands and drenched them with tears. At that his heart was inundated, as it were, with joy and courage and repentance.
“Forgive me, Valentine,” he cried, “I am a coward and a villain to make you cry like this. No, no, I do not deserve such regret and such love; but God is my witness that I will make myself worthy of them ! Give me nothing, promise me nothing; simply command and I will obey. Ah I yes, it is my duty; rather than cost you one tear, I must live, unhappy though I may be! But, with the memory of what you have done for me today, I shall not be unhappy, Valentine. I swear that I will endure everything, that I will never complain, that I will not seek to force sacrifices and battles upon you. Just tell me that you will pity me sometimes in the secret depths of your heart; say that you will love Bénédict in silence and on God’s bosom. But no, say nothing, have you not told me everything ? Can I not see how ungrateful and stupid I am to demand anything more than these tears and this silence ?”
Is not the language of love a strange thing ? and, to an indifferent spectator, what an inexplicable contradiction is presented by that oath of stoicism and virtue, sealed by kisses of fire, in the shadow of heavy curtains surrounding a bed of love and pain ? If we could bring to life the first man to whom God gave a mate, with a bed of moss and the solitude of the forest, perhaps we should seek in vain in that primitive heart for the power of loving. Of how much of grandeur and poesy should we find him ignorant! And what should we say if we should discover that he was inferior to the degenerate man of our civilization ? that that muscular body contained only a passionless, listless heart ?
But no, man has not changed, but his strength is exerted against different obstacles, that is all. Formerly he subdued bears and tigers ; to-day he contends against society, with all its errors and its ignorance. Therein lies his strength, his courage, and, it may be, his glory. Physical power is succeeded by moral power. As the muscular system became weaker in successive generations, the human mind increased in vigor and strength.
Valentine’s recovery was rapid; Bénédict’s was slower, but miraculous none the less to those who did not know the secret of it. Madame de Raimbault, having won her suit—a triumph of which she claimed all the honor—returned to the château and passed a few days with Valentine. She was no sooner assured of her recovery than she started for Paris. It seemed to her that she was twenty years younger when she felt that she was rid of the duties of maternity. Valentine, thenceforth entirely free, and sovereign mistress of her château of Raimbault, was left alone with her grandmother, who was not, as we know, a troublesome guardian.
Then it was that Valentine determined to be really united to her sister. It required only Monsieur de Lansac’s consent, for the marchioness would certainly be overjoyed to see her granddaughter. But Monsieur de Lansac had never committed himself definitely enough on the subject to inspire Louise with confidence, and Valentine, too, was beginning to have serious doubts of her husband’s sincerity.
Nevertheless, she determined at any risk to offer her a home in her house, and to display her affection openly, as a sort of reparation for all that she had suffered from her family; but Louise positively refused.
“No, dear Valentine,” she said, “I will never allow you to run the risk of displeasing your husband for my sake. My pride would be wounded by the thought that I was in a house from which I might be driven out. It is much better that we should live as we are living. We are at liberty now to see each other, and what more do we want ? In any event, I could not stay long at Raimbault. My son’s education is far from being finished, and I must stay in Paris to superintend it a few years more. There we can meet even more freely; but let our intimacy remain a pleasant mystery between us. The world would certainly blame you for giving me your hand—your mother would almost curse you. Those two are the unjust masters of whom we must stand in awe, and whose laws we could not openly defy with impunity. Let us stay as we are ; Bénédict still needs my care. In a month at most I shall have to go away; meanwhile, I will try to see you every day.”
They did, in fact, have frequent interviews. There was a pretty little pavilion in the park, which Monsieur de Lansac had occupied during his stay at Raimbault; Valentine had it fitted up as a sort of study. She carried her books thither and her easel; she passed a part of every day there, and in the evening Louise would join her there and talk with her two or three hours. Despite these precautions, Louise’s identity was now well understood in the neighborhood, and the report had finally reached the ears of the old marchioness. At first she had felt a thrill of joy as keen as it was possible for her to feel, and had made up her mind to send for her granddaughter and embrace her, for Louise had been for a long time dearer to the marchioness than anything else in the world; but her companion, who was a staid and prudent person and held her mistress in complete subjection, had reminded her that Madame de Raimbault would surely learn sooner or later what she had done, and might wreak vengeance on her for it.
“But what have I to fear from her now ?” the marchioness had replied. “Isn’t my pension to be paid henceforth by Valentine ? Am I not in Valentine’s house ? and if Valentine sees her sister in secret, as we are told, wouldn’t she be delighted to have me share her pleasure ?”
“Madame de Lansac,” replied the old lady’s maid, “ is dependent on her husband, and you know very well that you and Monsieur de Lansac do not always get on together. Look out, madame la marquise, that you don’t imperil the comfort of your old age by a rash act. Your granddaughter can’t be very eager to see you, as she hasn’t sent you word of her arrival in the province ; Madame de Lansac herself has not thought it best to entrust her secret to you. My advice, therefore, i
s that you do just as you have done heretofore; that is to say, pretend not to see the danger to which others are exposing themselves, and try to ensure your own tranquillity at any price.”
This advice was too powerfully seconded by the marchioness’s own nature to be disregarded; so she closed her eyes to everything that was going on about her, and matters remained where they were.
Athénaïs had been very cruel to Pierre Blutty at first, and yet it had afforded her a certain pleasure to observe the obstinacy with which he fought against her disdain. A man like Monsieur de Lansac would have retired offended at the first refusal, but Pierre Blutty had a diplomacy of his own which was no less effective than some others. He saw that his ardent endeavor to earn his wife’s forgiveness, the humility with which he implored her, and the somewhat ridiculous account of his martyrdom, with which he regaled some thirty auditors, flattered the young country maiden’s vanity. When his friends left him on his wedding-night, although he had not been restored to favor ostensibly, a significant smile which he bestowed upon them gave them to understand that he was not in such a despairing frame of mind as he chose to make it appear. The fact was that he had conceived the scheme of allowing Athénaïs to barricade the door of her bedroom, and then climbing in the window. It would be difficult to avoid being touched by the determination of a man who runs the risk of breaking his neck to obtain you; and, on the following day, when the news of Bénédict’s death was brought to the farm in the middle of breakfast, Athénaïs’s hand was in her husband’s, and every resolute glance from the farmer brought a flush to the lovely cheek of the farmer’s wife.
But the story of the catastrophe aroused the expiring tempest anew. Athénaïs gave vent to piercing shrieks, and had to be taken from the room. The next day, as soon as she learned that Bénédict was not dead, she insisted on going to see him. Blutty realized that that was not the moment to thwart her, especially as her father and mother set her the example and hastened to the dying man’s cottage. He thought that he would do well to go there himself, and thus show his new family that he was disposed to defer to their wishes. This mark of submission could not imperil his pride so far as Bénédict was concerned, as he was not in a condition to recognize him.
So he escorted Athénaïs, and, although his interest was not very sincere, he behaved decently enough to deserve honorable mention from her. That evening, despite the remonstrances of her daughter, who wished to pass the night in attendance on the sick man, Madame Lhéry ordered her to start for home with her husband. Tête-à-téte in the carriole, the husband and wife sulked at first, and then Pierre Blutty changed his tactics. Instead of seeming offended by the tears which his wife shed over her cousin, he began to deplore Bénédict’s misfortune with her and to pronounce the dying man’s funeral oration. Athénaïs, did not expect such generosity; she offered her husband her hand and said, moving closer to him:
“You have a good heart, Pierre; I will try to love you as you deserve.”
When Blutty found that Bénédict did not die, he was a little more disturbed by his wife’s visits to the cottage in the ravine. However, he gave no sign; but, when Bénédict was sufficiently recovered to get up and walk, he was conscious that his hatred of him came to life again, and he decided that it was time to exert his authority. He was in his right, as the peasants say so slyly when they can add the support of the laws to that of their consciences. Bénédict no longer needed his cousin’s attentions, and the interest in him which she displayed could not fail to compromise her. When he placed these arguments before his wife, there was in his voice and his expression a flavor of determination with which she was not familiar, and which served admirably to convince her that the time had come to obey.
She was depressed for a few days, then she made the best of it; for, although Pierre Blutty was beginning to play the husband in certain directions, in all others he had remained the passionate lover ; and his conduct was an excellent example of the difference in the prejudices of different classes of society. A man of quality and a bourgeois would both have considered themselves compromised by their wife’s love for another man. The fact being established before marriage, they would not have married her, or public opinion would have branded them; if they had been betrayed after marriage, they would have been pursued by ridicule. On the other hand, the bold and shrewd manner in which Blutty managed the whole affair was most creditable to him in the eyes of his equals.
“Look at Pierre Blutty,” they would say to one another when they wished to cite an example of determination. “He married a very coquettish, very headstrong little woman, who hardly took the trouble to conceal her love for another man, and who, on her wedding-day, kicked up a row in order to have an excuse for leaving him. Well, he wasn’t frightened off; he has succeeded not only in making her obey him, but in making her love him. There’s a fellow who knows what he’s about. There’s no danger of anyone making sport of him.”
And, taking pattern by Pierre Blutty, every young fellow in the neighborhood vowed inwardly that he would not take his wife’s initial cruelty too seriously.
XXVII
Valentine had paid more than one visit to the cottage in the ravine. At first, her presence had allayed Bénédict’s irritation; but as soon as he had recovered his strength, as she then ceased to visit him, his love became bitter and intensely painful to him ; his position seemed to him intolerable. Louise was forced to consent to take him to the pavilion in the park now and then, in the evening. Poor, weak-minded Louise, being absolutely under his domination, felt profound remorse, and could invent no excuses to offer Valentine for her imprudence. Valentine, for her part, made no attempt to avoid perils in which she was not sorry to have her sister for a confederate. She allowed herself to be swept along by her destiny, refusing to look forward, and found in Louise’s lack of foresight excuses for her own weakness.
Valentine was not naturally passionate, but fate seemed to take pleasure in forcing her into exceptional situations and surrounding her with perils which were beyond her strength. Love has caused many suicides, but it is doubtful whether many women ever saw at their feet the man who had tried to blow out his brains for love of them. If we could bring the dead to life, doubtless feminine generosity would pardon such vehement devotion in many instances; and, while nothing touches a woman’s heart more keenly than the suicide of a lover, nothing is more flattering to the secret vanity which finds its place in all human passions. And that was Valentine’s situation. Bénédict’s forehead, still furrowed by a broad scar, was always before her eyes, like the seal of a terrible oath, the sincerity of which she could not question. Valentine could not use against Bénédict those refusals to believe, that distrustful raillery to which all women resort to avoid the necessity of pitying and comforting us. He had proved his sincerity; his was not one of those indefinite threats by which women are so often imposed upon. Although the broad, deep wound was closed, Bénédict would bear all his life its indelible scar. A score of times during his illness he had tried to reopen it; he had torn away the bandages and parted the edges. That firm determination to die no one but Valentine had been able to shake. It was at her command, in answer to her prayers, that he had abandoned it. But had Valentine herself clearly understood to what extent she had pledged herself to him by demanding that sacrifice ?
Bénédict could not shut his eyes to the fact that, when he was apart from her, he formed a thousand audacious schemes; he persisted in grasping at new hopes. He said to himself that Valentine no longer had the right to refuse him anything; but as soon as he found himself once more under the influence of her pure glance, of her dignified and gentle manners, he stopped short, completely subjugated, and deemed himself fortunate to obtain the faintest indications of friendship.
Meanwhile, their situation became constantly more hazardous. To throw their real feelings off the scent, they treated each other like intimate friends; this was an additional imprudence, for even the chaste Valentine could not deceive herself. In ord
er to make their interviews less stormy, Louise, who tortured her brain to devise some means, conceived the idea of music. She was something of an accompanist, and Bénédict sang beautifully. This put the finishing touch to the perils by which they were encompassed. To placid and untroubled minds music may seem a pleasing art, a frivolous and innocent amusement; to impassioned souls it is the source of all poetic feeling, the expression of every strong passion. It was thus that Bénédict understood it. He knew that the human voice, modulated by the heart, is the swiftest, the most forcible instrument of the feelings ; that it appeals to the intelligence of others more powerfully than when it is cooled by the developments of ordinary speech. Thought, in the guise of melody, is noble, poetic and beautiful.
Valentine, recently subjected to the trial of a very violent attack of hysteria, was still subject at certain hours to a sort of feverish excitement. Those hours Bénédict passed in her company, and he frequently sang to her. Valentine would shiver from head to foot; all her blood collected in her heart and her brain ; she alternated between devouring heat and deadly cold. She pressed her hands against her heart to keep it from bursting through its walls, for it throbbed so fiercely at certain tones from Bénédict’s chest and his heart. When he sang, he was handsome, in spite of, or rather because of, the mutilation of his forehead. He loved Valentine passionately, and had proved it beyond question. Was not that enough to embellish him a little in her eyes. And, then, his eyes were marvellously brilliant. When he sat at the piano, in the semi-darkness, she could see them gleaming like two stars. When, in the uncertain glimmer of twilight, she looked upon that broad, white forehead, heightened in effect by the abundant masses of black hair, that flashing eye and that long, pale face, whose features, seen indistinctly in the shadow, appeared in a thousand strange aspects, Valentine was frightened: it seemed to her that she saw in him the bleeding spectre of the man who had loved her; and if he sang in a hollow, melancholy voice some fragment of Zingarelli’s Romeo, she felt so moved by superstitious fear that she shuddered and drew closer to her sister.