The Deserted Woman, Honoré de Balzac [classic books for 12 year olds TXT] 📗

acquainted with good society. At the sound of the name, at the sight of its owner, Mme. de Beauseant let her book fall from her hands; her surprise gave him time to come close to her, and to say in tones that sounded like music in her ears:

"What a joy it was to me to take the horses that brought you on this journey!"

To have the inmost desires of the heart so fulfilled! Where is the woman who could resist such happiness as this? An Italian woman, one of those divine creatures who, psychologically, are as far removed from the Parisian as if they lived at the Antipodes, a being who would be regarded as profoundly immoral on this side of the Alps, an Italian (to resume) made the following comment on some French novels which she had been reading. "I cannot see," she remarked, "why these poor lovers take such a time over coming to an arrangement which ought to be the affair of a single morning." Why should not the novelist take a hint from this worthy lady, and refrain from exhausting the theme and the reader? Some few passages of coquetry it would certainly be pleasant to give in outline; the story of Mme. de Beauseant's demurs and sweet delayings, that, like the vestal virgins of antiquity, she might fall gracefully, and by lingering over the innocent raptures of first love draw from it its utmost strength and sweetness. M. de Nueil was at an age when a man is the dupe of these caprices, of the fence which women delight to prolong; either to dictate their own terms, or to enjoy the sense of their power yet longer, knowing instinctively as they do that it must soon grow less. But, after all, these little boudoir protocols, less numerous than those of the Congress of London, are too small to be worth mention in the history of this passion.

For three years Mme. de Beauseant and M. de Nueil lived in the villa on the lake of Geneva. They lived quite alone, received no visitors, caused no talk, rose late, went out together upon the lake, knew, in short, the happiness of which we all of us dream. It was a simple little house, with green shutters, and broad balconies shaded with awnings, a house contrived of set purpose for lovers, with its white couches, soundless carpets, and fresh hangings, everything within it reflecting their joy. Every window looked out on some new view of the lake; in the far distance lay the mountains, fantastic visions of changing color and evanescent cloud; above them spread the sunny sky, before them stretched the broad sheet of water, never the same in its fitful changes. All their surroundings seemed to dream for them, all things smiled upon them.

Then weighty matters recalled M. de Nueil to France. His father and brother died, and he was obliged to leave Geneva. The lovers bought the house; and if they could have had their way, they would have removed the hills piecemeal, drawn off the lake with a siphon, and taken everything away with them.

Mme. de Beauseant followed M. de Nueil. She realized her property, and bought a considerable estate near Manerville, adjoining Gaston's lands, and here they lived together; Gaston very graciously giving up Manerville to his mother for the present in consideration of the bachelor freedom in which she left him.

Mme. de Beauseant's estate was close to a little town in one of the most picturesque spots in the valley of the Auge. Here the lovers raised barriers between themselves and social intercourse, barriers which no creature could overleap, and here the happy days of Switzerland were lived over again. For nine whole years they knew happiness which it serves no purpose to describe; happiness which may be divined from the outcome of the story by those whose souls can comprehend poetry and prayer in their infinite manifestations.

All this time Mme. de Beauseant's husband, the present Marquis (his father and elder brother having died), enjoyed the soundest health. There is no better aid to life than a certain knowledge that our demise would confer a benefit on some fellow-creature. M. de Beauseant was one of those ironical and wayward beings who, like holders of life-annuities, wake with an additional sense of relish every morning to a consciousness of good health. For the rest, he was a man of the world, somewhat methodical and ceremonious, and a calculator of consequences, who could make a declaration of love as quietly as a lackey announces that "Madame is served."

This brief biographical notice of his lordship the Marquis de Beauseant is given to explain the reasons why it was impossible for the Marquise to marry M. de Nueil.

So, after a nine years' lease of happiness, the sweetest agreement to which a woman ever put her hand, M. de Nueil and Mme. de Beauseant were still in a position quite as natural and quite as false as at the beginning of their adventure. And yet they had reached a fatal crisis, which may be stated as clearly as any problem in mathematics.

Mme. la Comtesse de Nueil, Gaston's mother, a strait-laced and virtuous person, who had made the late Baron happy in strictly legal fashion would never consent to meet Mme. de Beauseant. Mme. de Beauseant quite understood that the worthy dowager must of necessity be her enemy, and that she would try to draw Gaston from his unhallowed and immoral way of life. The Marquise de Beauseant would willingly have sold her property and gone back to Geneva, but she could not bring herself to do it; it would mean that she distrusted M. de Nueil. Moreover, he had taken a great fancy to this very Valleroy estate, where he was making plantations and improvements. She would not deprive him of a piece of pleasurable routine-work, such as women always wish for their husbands, and even for their lovers.

A Mlle. de la Rodiere, twenty-two years of age, an heiress with a rent-roll of forty thousand livres, had come to live in the neighborhood. Gaston always met her at Manerville whenever he was obliged to go thither. These various personages being to each other as the terms of a proportion sum, the following letter will throw light on the appalling problem which Mme. de Beauseant had been trying for the past month to solve:--

"My beloved angel, it seems like nonsense, does it not, to write
to you when there is nothing to keep us apart, when a caress so
often takes the place of words, and words too are caresses? Ah,
well, no, love. There are some things that a woman cannot say when
she is face to face with the man she loves; at the bare thought of
them her voice fails her, and the blood goes back to her heart;
she has no strength, no intelligence left. It hurts me to feel
like this when you are near me, and it happens often. I feel that
my heart should be wholly sincere for you; that I should disguise
no thought, however transient, in my heart; and I love the sweet
carelessness, which suits me so well, too much to endure this
embarrassment and constraint any longer. So I will tell you about
my anguish--yes, it is anguish. Listen to me! do not begin with
the little 'Tut, tut, tut,' that you use to silence me, an
impertinence that I love, because anything from you pleases me.
Dear soul from heaven, wedded to mine, let me first tell you that
you have effaced all memory of the pain that once was crushing the
life out of me. I did not know what love was before I knew you.
Only the candor of your beautiful young life, only the purity of
that great soul of yours, could satisfy the requirements of an
exacting woman's heart. Dear love, how very often I have thrilled
with joy to think that in these nine long, swift years, my
jealousy has not been once awakened. All the flowers of your soul
have been mine, all your thoughts. There has not been the faintest
cloud in our heaven; we have not known what sacrifice is; we have
always acted on the impulses of our hearts. I have known
happiness, infinite for a woman. Will the tears that drench this
sheet tell you all my gratitude? I could wish that I had knelt to
write the words!--Well, out of this felicity has arisen torture
more terrible than the pain of desertion. Dear, there are very
deep recesses in a woman's heart; how deep in my own heart, I did
not know myself until to-day, as I did not know the whole extent
of love. The greatest misery which could overwhelm us is a light
burden compared with the mere thought of harm for him whom we
love. And how if we cause the harm, is it not enough to make one
die?... This is the thought that is weighing upon me. But
it brings in its train another thought that is heavier far, a
thought that tarnishes the glory of love, and slays it, and turns
it into a humiliation which sullies life as long as it lasts. You
are thirty years old; I am forty. What dread this difference in
age calls up in a woman who loves! It is possible that, first of
all unconsciously, afterwards in earnest, you have felt the
sacrifices that you have made by renouncing all in the world for
me. Perhaps you have thought of your future from the social point
of view, of the marriage which would, of course, increase your
fortune, and give you avowed happiness and children who would
inherit your wealth; perhaps you have thought of reappearing in
the world, and filling your place there honorably. And then, if
so, you must have repressed those thoughts, and felt glad to
sacrifice heiress and fortune and a fair future to me without my
knowledge. In your young man's generosity, you must have resolved
to be faithful to the vows which bind us each to each in the sight
of God. My past pain has risen up before your mind, and the misery
from which you rescued me has been my protection. To owe your love
to your pity! The thought is even more painful to me than the fear
of spoiling your life for you. The man who can bring himself to
stab his mistress is very charitable if he gives her her deathblow
while she is happy and ignorant of evil, while illusions are in
full blossom.... Yes, death is preferable to the two thoughts
which have secretly saddened the hours for several days. To-day,
when you asked 'What ails you?' so tenderly, the sound of your
voice made me shiver. I thought that, after your wont, you were
reading my very soul, and I waited for your confidence to come,
thinking that my presentiments had come true, and that I had
guessed all that was going on