Books: Gerfaut, v3

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This etext was produced by David Widger

[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]

GERFAUT

By CHARLES DE BERNARD

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XIII

MONSIEUR DE BERGENHEIM

Some men in society marry too soon, a great number too late, a small and
fortunate proportion at an opportune time. Young men in the country, of
good family, are usually established in marriage by their parents as
early as possible. When the family council finds an heiress who answers
all the conditions of the programme laid out, they begin by giving the
victim his cue. Provided the young lady has not a positively crooked
nose, arms too red, and too uncouth a waist--sometimes even
notwithstanding these little misfortunes--the transaction is concluded
without any difficulty.

Clemence and Christian should be placed in the first rank of privileged
couples of this kind. The most fastidious old uncle or precise old
dowager could not discover the slightest pretense for criticism. Age,
social position, wealth, physical endowments, all seemed united by a
chance as rare as fortunate. So Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who had very
high pretensions for her niece, made no objection upon receiving the
first overtures. She had not, at this time, the antipathy for her future
nephew's family which developed later. The Bergenheims were in her eyes
very well-born gentleman.

A meeting took place at the Russian Embassy. Bergenheim came in uniform;
it was etiquette to do so, as the minister of war was present; but at the
same time, of course, there was a little vanity on his part, for his
uniform showed off his tall, athletic figure to the best advantage.
Christian was certainly a very handsome soldier; his moustache and
eyebrows were of a lighter tint than his complexion, and gave him that
martial air which pleases women. Clemence could find no reason for a
refusal. The way in which she had been brought up by her aunt had not
rendered her so happy but that she often desired to change her situation.
Like the greater number of young girls, she consented to become a wife so
as not to remain a maiden; she said yes, so as not to say no.

As to Christian, he was in love with his wife as nine out of ten cavalry
officers know how to love, and he seemed perfectly satisfied with the
sentiment that he received in return for this sudden affection. A few
successes with young belles, for whom an epaulette has an irresistible
attraction, had inspired Baron de Bergenheim with a confidence in himself
the simplicity of which excused the conceit. He persuaded himself that
he pleased Clemence because she suited him exactly.

There are singers who pretend to read music at sight; give them a score
by Gluck--"I beg your pardon," they will say, "my part is written here in
the key of 'C' and I sing only in the key of 'G'!" How many men do not
know even the key of 'G' in matters of love! Unfortunately for him,
Bergenheim was one of that number. After three years of married life,
he had not divined the first note in Clemence's character. He decided
in his own mind, at the end of a few months, that she was cold, if not
heartless. This discovery, which ought to have wounded his vanity,
inspired him, on the contrary, with a deeper respect for her; insensibly
this reserve reacted upon himself, for love is a fire whose heat dies out
for want of fuel, and its cooling off is more sudden when the flame is
more on the surface than in the depths.

The revolution of 1830 stopped Christian's career, and gave further
pretexts for temporary absences which only added to the coolness which
already existed between husband and wife. After handing in his
resignation, the Baron fixed his residence at his chateau in the Vosges
mountains, for which he shared the hereditary predilection of his family.
His tastes were in perfect harmony with this dwelling, for he had quickly
become the perfect type of a country gentleman, scorning the court and
rarely leaving his ancestral acres. He was too kind-hearted to exact
that his wife should share his country tastes and retired life. The
unlimited confidence which he had in her, a loyalty which never allowed
him to suppose evil or suspect her, a nature very little inclined to
jealousy, made him allow Clemence the greatest liberty. The young woman
lived at will in Paris with her aunt, or at Bergenheim with her husband,
without a suspicious thought ever entering his head. Really,--what had
he to fear? What wrong could she reproach him with? Was he not full of
kindness and attention toward her? Did he not leave her mistress of her
own fortune, free to do as she liked, to gratify every caprice? He thus
lived upon his faith in the marriage contract, with unbounded confidence
and old-fashioned loyalty.

According to general opinion, Madame de Bergenheim was a very fortunate
woman, to whom virtue must be so easy that it could hardly be called a
merit. Happiness, according to society, consists in a box at the Opera,
a fine carriage, and a husband who pays the bills without frowning. Add
to the above privileges, a hundred thousand francs' worth of diamonds,
and a woman has really no right to dream or to suffer. There are,
however, poor, loving creatures who stifle under this happiness as if
under one of those leaden covers that Dante speaks of; they breathe, in
imagination, the pure, vital air that a fatal instinct has revealed to
them; they struggle between duty and desire; they gaze, like captive
doves and with a sorrowful eye, upon the forbidden region where it would
be so blissful to soar; for, in fastening a chain to their feet, the law
did not bandage their eyes, and nature gave them wings; if the wings tear
the chain asunder, shame and misfortune await them! Society will never
forgive the heart that catches a glimpse of the joys it is unacquainted
with; even a brief hour in that paradise has to be expiated by implacable
social damnation and its everlasting flames.

CHAPTER XIV

GERFAUT'S ALLEGORY

There almost always comes a moment when a woman, in her combat against
love, is obliged to call falsehood to the help of duty. Madame de
Bergenheim had entered this terrible period, in which virtue, doubting
its own strength, does not blush to resort to other resources. At the
moment when Octave, a man of experience, was seeking assistance in
exciting her jealousy, she was meditating a plan of defence founded upon
deceit. In order to take away all hope from her lover, she pretended a
sudden affection for her husband, and in spite of her secret remorse she
persisted in this role for two days; but during the night her tears
expiated her treachery. Christian greeted his wife's virtuous coquetry
with the gratitude and eagerness of a husband who has been deprived of
love more than he likes. Gerfaut was very indignant at the sight of this
perfidious manoeuvre, the intention of which he immediately divined; and
his rage wanted only provocation to break out in full force.

One evening they were all gathered in the drawing-room with the exception
of Aline, whom a reprimand from Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had exiled to
her room. The old lady, stretched out in her chair, had decided to be
unfaithful to her whist in favor of conversation. Marillac, leaning his
elbows upon a round table, was negligently sketching some political
caricatures, at that time very much the fashion, and particularly
agreeable to the Legitimist party. Christian, who was seated near his
wife, whose hand he was pressing with caressing familiarity, passed from
one subject to another, and showed in his conversation the overwhelming
conceit of a happy man who regards his happiness as a proof of
superiority.

Gerfaut, standing, gazed gloomily at Clemence, who leaned toward her
husband and seemed to listen eagerly to his slightest word. Bergenheim
was a faithful admirer of the classics, as are all country gentlemen,
who introduce a sentiment of propriety into their literary opinions and
prefer the ancient writers to the modern, for the reason that their
libraries are much richer in old works than in modern books. The Baron
unmercifully sacrificed Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas, whom he had
never read, upon the altar of Racine and Corneille, of which he possessed
two or three editions, and yet it would have embarrassed him to recite
half a dozen verses from them. Marillac boldly defended the cause of
contemporary literature, which he considered as a personal matter, and
poured out a profusion of sarcastic remarks in which there was more wit
than good taste.

"The gods fell from Olympus, why should they not also fall from
Parnassus?" said the artist, finally, with a triumphant air. "Say what
you will, Bergenheim, your feeble opposition will not prevail against the
instincts of the age. The future is ours, let me tell you, and we are
the high priests of the new religion; is it not so, Gerfaut?"

At these words, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil shook her head, gravely.

"A new religion!" said she; "if this pretension should be verified you
would only be guilty of heresy, and, without allowing myself to be taken
in, I can understand how elevated minds and enthusiastic hearts might be
attracted by the promises of a deceptive Utopia; but you, gentlemen, whom
I believe to be sincere, do you not see to what an extent you delude
yourselves? What you call religion is the most absolute negation of
religious principles; it is the most distressing impiety ornamented with
a certain sentimental hypocrisy which has not even the courage frankly to
proclaim its principles."

"I swear to you, Mademoiselle, that I am religious three days out of
four," replied Marillac; "that is something; there are some Christians
who are pious only on Sunday."

"Materialism is the source from which modern literature takes its
inspiration," continued the old lady; "and this poisonous stream not only
dries up the thoughts which would expand toward heaven, but also withers
all that is noble in human sentiment. To-day, people are not content to
deny God, because they are not pure enough to comprehend Him; they disown
even the weakness of the heart, provided they have an exalted and
dignified character. They believe no longer in love. All the women that
your fashionable writers tell us about are vulgar and sometimes unchaste
creatures, to whom formerly a gentleman would have blushed to give one
glance or to offer a supper. I say this for your benefit, Monsieur
de Gerfaut, for in this respect you are far from being irreproachable;
and I could bring forth your books to support my theory. If I accuse you
of atheism, in love, what have you to say in reply?"

Carried away by one of those impulsive emotions which men of imagination
can not resist, Octave arose and said:

"I should not deny such an accusation. Yes, it is a sad thing, but true,
and only weak minds recoil from the truth: reality exists only in
material objects; all the rest is merely deception and fancy. All poetry
is a dream, all spiritualism a fraud! Why not apply to love the
accommodating philosophy which takes the world as it is, and does not
throw a savory fruit into the press under the pretext of extracting I
know not what imaginary essence? Two beautiful eyes, a satin skin, white
teeth, and a shapely foot and hand are of such positive and inestimable
value! Is it not unreasonable, then, to place elsewhere than in them all
the wealth of love? Intellect sustains its owner, they say; no,
intelligence kills. It is thought that corrupts sensation and causes
suffering where, but for that, joy would reign supreme.

"Thought! accursed gift! Do we give or ask a thought of the rose whose
perfume we breathe? Why not love as we breathe? Would not woman,
considered simply as a perfectly organized vegetation, be the queen of
creation? Why not enjoy her perfume as we bend before her, leaving her
clinging to the ground where she was born and lives? Why tear her from
the earth, this flower so fresh, and have her wither in our hands as we
raise her up like an offering? Why make of so weak and fragile a
creature a being above all others, for whom our enthusiasm can find no
name, and then discover her to be but an unworthy angel?

"Angel! yes, of course, but an angel of the Earth, not of Heaven;
an angel of flesh, not of light! By dint of loving, we love wrongly.
We place our mistress too high and ourselves too low; there is never a
pedestal lofty enough for her, according to our ideas. Fools! Oh!
reflection is always wise, but desire is foolish, and our conduct is
regulated by our desire. We, above all, with our active, restless minds,
blase in many respects, unbelieving in others and disrespectful in the
remainder, soar over life as over an impure lake, and look at everything
with contempt, seeking in love an altar before which we can humble our
pride and soften our disdain.

"For there is in every man an insurmountable need to fall on his knees
before no matter what idol, if it remains standing and allows itself to
be adored. At certain hours, a prayerbell rings in the depth of the
heart, the sound of which throws him upon his knees as it cries: 'Kneel!'
And then the very being who ignores God in His churches and scorns kings
upon their thrones, the being who has already exhausted the hollow idols
of glory and fame, not having a temple to pray in, makes a fetich for
himself in order to have a divinity to adore, so as not to be alone in
his impiety, and to see, above his head when he arises, something that
shall not be empty and vacant space. This man seeks a woman, takes all
that he has, talent passion, youth, enthusiasm, all the wealth of his
heart, and throws them at her feet like the mantle that Raleigh spread
out before Elizabeth, and he says to this woman: 'Walk, O my queen;
trample under your blessed feet the heart of your adoring slave!' This
man is a fool, is he not? For when the queen has passed, what remains
upon the mantle? Mud!"

Gerfaut accompanied these words with such a withering glance that the one
for whom they were intended felt her blood freeze in her veins, and
withdrew the hand her husband had kept till then in his; she soon arose
and seated herself at the other side of the table, under the pretext of
getting nearer the lamp to work, but in reality in order to withdraw from
Christian's vicinity. Clemence had expected her lover's anger, but not
his scorn; she had not strength to endure this torture, and the conjugal
love which had, not without difficulty, inflamed her heart for the last
few days, fell to ashes at the first breath of Octave's indignation.

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil greeted the Vicomte's words indulgently; for,
from consummate pride, she separated herself from other women.

"So then," said she, "you pretend that if to-day love is painted under
false and vulgar colors, the fault is the model's, not the artist's."

"You express my thought much better than I could have done it myself,"
said Gerfaut, in an ironical tone; "where are the angels whose portraits
are called for?"

"They are in our poetical dreams," said Marillac, raising his eyes to the
ceiling with an inspired air.

"Very well! tell us your dreams then, instead of copying a reality which
it is impossible for you to render poetic, since you yourselves see it
without illusions."

Gerfaut smiled bitterly at this suggestion, artlessly uttered by the
Baron.

"My dreams," he replied, "I should tell them to you poorly indeed, for
the first blessing of the awakening is forgetfulness, and to-day I am
awake. However, I remember how I allowed myself to be once overcome by a
dream that has now vanished, but still emits its luminous trail in my
eyes. I thought I had discovered, under a beautiful and attractive
appearance, the richest treasure that the earth can bestow upon the heart
of man; I thought I had discovered a soul, that divine mystery, deep as
the ocean, ardent as a flame, pure as air, glorious as heaven itself,
infinite as space, immortal as eternity! It was another universe, where
I should be king. With what ardent and holy love I attempted the
conquest of this new world, but, less fortunate than Columbus, I met with
shipwreck instead of triumph."

Clemence, at this avowal of her lover's defeat, threw him a glance of
intense contradiction, then lowered her eyes, for she felt her face
suffused with burning blushes.

When he entered his room that night, Gerfaut went straight to the window.
He could see in the darkness the light which gleamed in Clemence's room.

"She is alone," said he to himself; "certainly heaven protects us, for in
the state of exasperation I am in, I should have killed them both."

CHAPTER XV

DECLARATION OF WAR

Far from rejoicing at this moment in the triumph he had just obtained,
Gerfaut fell into one of those attacks of disenchantment, during which,
urged on by some unknown demon, he unmercifully administered to himself
his own dreaded sarcasm. Being unable to sleep, he arose and opened his
window again, and remained with his elbows resting upon the sill for some
time. The night was calm, numberless stars twinkled in the heavens, the
moon bathed with its silvery light the tops of the trees, through which a
monotonous breeze softly rustled. After gazing at this melancholy
picture of sleeping nature, the poet smiled disdainfully, and said to
himself "This comedy must end. I can not waste my life thus. Doubtless,
glory is a dream as well as love; to pass the night idiotically gazing at
the moon and stars is, after all, as reasonable as to grow pale over a
work destined to live a day, a year, or a century! for what renown lasts
longer than that? If I were really loved, I should not regret those
wasted hours; but is it true that I am loved? There are moments when I
recover my coolness and clearness of mind, a degree of self possession
incompatible with the enthusiasm of genuine passion; at other times, it
is true, a sudden agitation renders me powerless and leaves me as weak as
a child. Oh, yes, I love her in a strange manner; the sentiment that I
feel for her has become a study of the mind as well as an emotion of the
heart, and that is what gives it its despotic tenacity; for a material
impression weakens and gradually dies out, but when an energetic
intelligence is brought to bear upon it, it becomes desperate. I should
be wrong to complain. Passion, a passive sentiment! This word has a
contradictory meaning for me. I am a lover as Napoleon was an emperor:
nobody forced the crown upon him, he took it and crowned himself with his
own hand. If my crown happens to be a thorny one, whom can I accuse?
Did not my brow crave it?

"I have loved this woman of my own choosing, above all others; the choice
made, I have worked at my love as I would at a cherished poem; it has
been the subject of all my meditations, the fairy of all my dreams, for
more than a year. I have not had a thought in which I have not paid her
homage. I have devoted my talents to her; it seemed to me that by loving
and perpetually contemplating her image, I might at last become worthy of
painting it. I was conscious of a grand future, if only she had
understood me; I often thought of Raphael and his own Fornarina. There
is a throne vacant in poetry; I had dreamed of this throne in order to
lay it at Clemence's feet. Oh! although this may never be more than a
dream, this dream has given me hours of incomparable happiness! I should
be ungrateful to deny it.

"And yet this love is only a fictitious sentiment; I realize it today.
It is not with her that I am in love, it is with a woman created by my
imagination, and whom I see clearly within this unfeeling marble shape.
When we have meditated for a long time, our thoughts end by taking life
and walking by our side. I can now understand the allegory of Adam
taking Eve from his own substance; but flesh forms a palpitating flesh
akin to itself; the mind creates only a shadow, and a shadow can not
animate a dead body. Two dead bodies can not make a living one; a body
without a soul is only a cadaver--and she has no soul."

Gerfaut sat motionless for some time with his face buried in his hands;
suddenly he raised his head and burst into harsh laughter.

"Enough of this soaring in the clouds!" he exclaimed; "let us come down
to earth again. It is permissible to think in verse, but one must act in
prose, and that is what I shall do tomorrow. This woman's caprices,
which she takes for efforts of virtue, have made of me a cruel and
inexorable man; I have begged in vain for peace; if she wishes war, very
well, so be it, she shall have war."

CHAPTER XVI

GERFAUT WINS A POINT

For several days, Gerfaut followed, with unrelenting perseverance, the
plan which he had mapped out in that eventful night. The most exacting
woman could but appear satisfied with the politeness he displayed toward
Madame de Bergenheim, but nothing in his conduct showed the slightest
desire for an explanation. He was so careful of every look, gesture, and
word of his, that it would have been impossible to discover the slightest
difference in his actions toward Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, and the
manner in which he treated Clemence. His choicest attentions and most
particular efforts at amiability were bestowed upon Aline. He used as
much caution as cunning, in his little game, for he knew that in spite of
her inclination to be jealous, Madame de Bergenheim would never believe
in a sudden desertion, and that she would surely discover the object of
his ruse, if he made the mistake of exaggerating it in the least.

While renouncing the idea of a direct attack, he did not work with any
less care to fortify his position. He redoubled his activity in widening
the breach between the old aunt and the husband, following the principles
of military art, that one should become master of the exterior works of a
stronghold before seriously attacking its ramparts.

It was, in a way, by reflection that Octave's passion reached Clemence.
Every few moments she learned some detail of this indirect attack, to
which it was impossible for her to raise any objections.

"Monsieur de Gerfaut has promised to spend a fortnight longer with us,"
said her aunt to her, in a jeering tone.

"Really, Gerfaut is very obliging," said her husband, in his turn; "he
thinks it very strange that we have not had a genealogical tree made to
put in the drawing-room. He pretends that it is an indispensable
complement to my collection of family portraits, and he offers to do me
the favor of assuming charge of it. It seems, from what your aunt tells
me, that he is very learned in heraldry. Would you believe it, he spent
the whole morning in the library looking over files of old manuscripts?
I am delighted, for this will prolong his stay here. He is a very
charming fellow; a Liberal in politics, but a gentleman at heart.
Marillac, who is a superb penman, undertakes to make a fair copy of the
genealogy and to illuminate the crests. Do you know, we can not find my
great-grandmother Cantelescar's coat-of-arms? But, my darling, it seems
to me that you are not very kindly disposed toward your cousin Gerfaut."

Madame de Bergenheim, when these remarks and various others of a similar
nature came up, tried to change the conversation, but she felt an
antipathy for her husband bordering upon aversion. For lack of
intelligence is one of the faults women can pardon the least; they look
upon a confidence which is lulled into security by faith in their honor,
and a blindness which does not suspect the possibility of a fall, as
positive crimes.

"Look at these pretty verses Monsieur de Gerfaut has written in my album,
Clemence," said Aline, in her turn. During vacation, among her other
pleasures forbidden her at the Sacred Heart, the young girl had purchased
a superbly bound album, containing so far but two ugly sketches in sepia,
one very bad attempt in water-colors, and the verses in question. She
called this "my album!" as she called a certain little blank book, "my
diary!" To the latter she confided every night the important events of
the day. This book had assumed such proportions, during the last few
days, that it threatened to reach the dimensions of the Duchesse
d'Abrantes' memoires, but if the album was free to public admiration,
nobody ever saw the diary, and Justine herself never had been able to
discover the sanctuary that concealed this mysterious manuscript.

Aline was not so pleasantly received as the others, and Madame de
Bergenheim hardly concealed the ill-humor her pretty sister-in-law's
beaming face caused her every time Octave's name was mentioned.

The latter's diplomatic conduct was bearing fruit, and his expectations
were being fulfilled with a precision which proved the correctness of his
calculations.

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