Books: Monsieur de Camors, v2
O >>
Octave Feuillet >> Monsieur de Camors, v2
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7
Passions purely animal never endure long, and his were most ephemeral;
but he thought it due to himself to pay the last honors to his victims,
and to inter them delicately under the flowers of his friendship. He had
in this way made many friends among the Parisian women--a few only of
whom detested him. As for the husbands--they were universally fond of
him.
To these elegant pleasures he sometimes added a furious debauch, when his
imagination was for the moment maddened by champagne. But low company
disgusted him, and he shunned it; he was not a man for frequent orgies,
and economized his health, his energies, and his strength. His tastes
were as thoroughly elevated as could be those of a being who strove to
repress his soul. Refined intrigues, luxury in music, paintings, books,
and horses--these constituted all the joy of his soul, of his sense, and
of his pride. He hovered over the flowers of Parisian elegance; as a bee
in the bosom of a rose, he drank in its essence and revelled in its
beauty.
It is easy to understand that M. de Camors, relishing this prosperity,
attached himself more and more to the moral and religious creed that
assured it to him; that he became each day more and more confirmed in the
belief that the testament of his father and his own reflection had
revealed to him the true evangel of men superior to their species. He
was less and less tempted to violate the rules of the game of life; but
among all the useless cards, to hold which might disturb his system, the
first he discarded was the thought of marriage. He pitied himself too
tenderly at the idea of losing the liberty of which he made such
agreeable use; at the idea of taking on himself gratuitously the
restraints, the tedium, the ridicule, and even the danger of a household.
He shuddered at the bare thought of a community of goods and interest;
and of possible paternity.
With such views he was therefore but little disposed to encourage the
natural hopes in which Madame de Tecle had entombed her love. He
determined so to conduct himself toward her as to leave no ground for the
growth of her illusion. He ceased to visit Reuilly, remaining there but
two or three weeks in each year, as such time as the session of the
Council-General summoned him to the province.
It is true that during these rare visits Camors piqued himself on
rendering Madame de Tecle and M. des Rameures all the duties of
respectful gratitude. Yet avoiding all allusion to the past, guarding
himself scrupulously from confidential converse, and observing a frigid
politeness to Mademoiselle Marie, there remained doubt in his mind that,
the fickleness of the fair sex aiding him, the young mother of the girl
would renounce her chimerical project. His error was great: and it may
be here remarked that a hard and scornful scepticism may in this world
engender as many false judgments and erroneous calculations as candor or
even inexperience can. He believed too much in what had been written of
female fickleness; in deceived lovers, who truly deserved to be such;
and in what disappointed men had judged of them.
The truth is, women are generally remarkable for the tenacity of their
ideas and for fidelity to their sentiments. Inconstancy of heart is the
special attribute of man; but he deems it his privilege as well, and when
woman disputes the palm with him on this ground, he cries aloud as if the
victim of a robber.
Rest assured this theory is no paradox; as proven by the prodigies of
patient devotion--tenacious, inviolable--every day displayed by women of
the lower classes, whose natures, if gross, retain their primitive
sincerity. Even with women of the world, depraved though they be by the
temptations that assail them, nature asserts herself; and it is no rarity
to see them devote an entire life to one idea, one thought, or one
affection! Their lives do not know the thousand distractions which at
once disturb and console men; and any idea that takes hold upon them
easily becomes fixed. They dwell upon it in the crowd and in solitude;
when they read and while they sew; in their dreams and in their prayers.
In it they live--for it they die.
It was thus that Madame de Tecle had dwelt year after year on the project
of this alliance with unalterable fervor, and had blended the two pure
affections that shared her heart in this union of her daughter with
Camors, and in thus securing the happiness of both. Ever since she had
conceived this desire--which could only have had its birth in a soul as
pure as it was tender--the education of her child had become the sweet
romance of her life. She dreamed of it always, and of nothing else.
Without knowing or even suspecting the evil traits lurking in the
character of Camors, she still understood that, like the great majority
of the young men of his day, the young Count was not overburdened with
principle. But she held that one of the privileges of woman, in our
social system, was the elevation of their husbands by connection with a
pure soul, by family affections, and by the sweet religion of the heart.
Seeking, therefore, by making her daughter an amiable and lovable woman,
to prepare her for the high mission for which she was destined, she
omitted nothing which could improve her. What success rewarded her care
the sequel of this narrative will show. It will suffice, for the
present, to inform the reader that Mademoiselle de Tecle was a young girl
of pleasing countenance, whose short neck was placed on shoulders a
little too high. She was not beautiful, but extremely pretty, well
educated, and much more vivacious than her mother.
Mademoiselle Marie was so quick-witted that her mother often suspected
she knew the secret which concerned herself. Sometimes she talked too
much of M. de Camors; sometimes she talked too little, and assumed a
mysterious air when others spoke of him.
Madame de Tecle was a little disturbed by these eccentricities. The
conduct of M. de Camors, and his more than reserved bearing, annoyed her
occasionally; but when we love any one we are likely to interpret
favorably all that he does, or all that he omits to do. Madame de Tecle
readily attributed the equivocal conduct of the Count to the inspiration
of a chivalric loyalty. As she believed she knew him thoroughly, she
thought he wished to avoid committing himself, or awakening public
observation, before he had made up his mind.
He acted thus to avoid disturbing the repose of both mother and daughter.
Perhaps also the large fortune which seemed destined for Mademoiselle de
Tecle might add to his scruples by rousing his pride.
His not marrying was in itself a good augury, and his little fiancee was
reaching a marriageable age. She therefore did not despair that some day
M. de Camors would throw himself at her feet, and say, "Give her to met!"
If God did not intend that this delicious page should ever be written in
the book of her destiny, and she was forced to marry her daughter to
another, the poor woman consoled herself with the thought that all the
cares she lavished upon her would not be lost, and that her dear child
would thus be rendered better and happier.
The long months which intervened between the annual apparition of Camors
at Reuilly, filled up by Madame de Tecle with a single idea and by the
sweet monotony of a regular life, passed more rapidly than the Count
could have imagined. His own life, so active and so occupied, placed
ages and abysses between each of his periodical voyages. But Madame de
Tecle, after five years, was always only a day removed from the cherished
and fatal night on which her dream had begun. Since that period there
had been no break in her thoughts, no void in her heart, no wrinkle on
her forehead. Her dream continued young, like herself. But in spite of
the peaceful and rapid succession of her days, it was not without anxiety
that she saw the approach of the season which always heralded the return
of Camors.
As her daughter matured, she preoccupied herself with the impression she
would make on the mind of the Count, and felt more sensibly the solemnity
of the matter.
Mademoiselle Marie, as we have already stated, was a cunning little puss,
and had not failed to perceive that her tender mother chose habitually
the season of the convocation of the Councils-General to try a new style
of hair-dressing for her. The same year on which we have resumed our
recital there passed, on one occasion, a little scene which rather
annoyed Madame de Tecle. She was trying a new coiffure on Mademoiselle
Marie, whose hair was very pretty and very black; some stray and
rebellious portions had frustrated her mother's efforts.
There was one lock in particular, which in spite of all combing and
brushing would break away from the rest, and fall in careless curls.
Madame de Tecle finally, by the aid of some ribbons, fastened down the
rebellious curl:
"Now I think it will do," she said sighing, and stepping back to admire
the effect of her work.
"Don't believe it," said Marie, who was laughing and mocking. "I do not
think so. I see exactly what will happen: the bell rings--I run out--
my net gives way--Monsieur de Camors walks in--my mother is annoyed--
tableau!"
"I should like to know what Monsieur de Camors has to do with it?" said
Madame de Tecle.
Her daughter threw her arms around her neck--"Nothing!" she said.
Another time Madame de Tecle detected her speaking of M. de Camors in a
tone of bitter irony. He was "the great man"--"the mysterious
personage"--"the star of the neighborhood"--"the phoenix of guests in
their woods"--or simply "the Prince!"
Such symptoms were of so serious a nature as not to escape Madame de
Tecle.
In presence of "the Prince," it is true, the young girl lost her gayety;
but this was another cross. Her mother found her cold, awkward, and
silent--brief, and slightly caustic in her replies. She feared M. de
Camors would misjudge her from such appearances.
But Camors formed no judgment, good or bad; Mademoiselle de Tecle was for
him only an insignificant little girl, whom he never thought of for a
moment in the year.
There was, however, at this time in society a person who did interest him
very much, and the more because against his will. This was the Marquise
de Campvallon, nee de Luc d'Estrelles.
The General, after making the tour of Europe with his young wife, had
taken possession of his hotel in the Rue Vanneau, where he lived in great
splendor. They resided at Paris during the winter and spring, but in
July returned to their chateau at Campvallon, where they entertained in
great state until the autumn. The General invited Madame de Tecle and
her daughter, every year, to pass some weeks at Campvallon, rightly
judging that he could not give his young wife better companions. Madame
de Tecle accepted these invitations cheerfully, because it gave her an
opportunity of seeing the elite of the Parisian world, from whom the
whims of her uncle had always isolated her. For her own part, she did
not much enjoy it; but her daughter, by moving in the midst of such
fashion and elegance could thus efface some provincialisms of toilet or
of language; perfect her taste in the delicate and fleeting changes of
the prevailing modes, and acquire some additional graces. The young
Marquise, who reigned and scintillated like a bright star in these high
regions of social life, lent herself to the designs of her neighbor.
She seemed to take a kind of maternal interest in Mademoiselle de Tecle,
and frequently added her advice to her example. She assisted at her
toilet and gave the final touches with her own dainty hands; and the
young girl, in return, loved, admired, and confided in her.
Camors also enjoyed the hospitalities of the General once every season,
but was not his guest as often as he wished. He seldom remained at
Campvallon longer than a week. Since the return of the Marquise to
France he had resumed the relations of a kinsman and friend with her
husband and herself; but, while trying to adopt the most natural manner,
he treated them both with a certain reserve, which astonished the
General. It will not surprise the reader, who recollects the secret and
powerful reasons which justified this circumspection.
For Camors, in renouncing the greater part of the restraints which
control and bind men in their relations with one another, had religiously
intended to preserve one--the sentiment of honor. Many times, in the
course of this life, he had felt himself embarrassed to limit and fix
with certainty the boundaries of the only moral law he wished to respect.
It is easy to know exactly what is in the Bible; it is not easy to know
exactly what the code of honor commands.
CHAPTER XII
CIRCE
But there exists, nevertheless, in this code one article, as to which M.
de Camors could not deceive himself, and it was that which forbade his
attempting to assail the honor of the General under penalty of being in
his own eyes, as a gentleman, a felon and foresworn. He had accepted
from this old man confidence, affection, services, benefits--everything
which could bind one man inviolably to another man--if there be beneath
the heavens anything called honor. He felt this profoundly.
His conduct toward Madame de Campvallon had been irreproachable; and all
the more so, because the only woman he was interdicted from loving was
the only woman in Paris, or in the universe, who naturally pleased him
most. He entertained for her, at once, the interest which attaches to
forbidden fruit, to the attraction of strange beauty, and to the mystery
of an impenetrable sphinx. She was, at this time, more goddess-like than
ever. The immense fortune of her husband, and the adulation which it
brought her, had placed her on a golden car. On this she seated herself
with a gracious and native majesty, as if in her proper place.
The luxury of her toilet, of her jewels, of her house and of her
equipages, was of regal magnificence. She blended the taste of an artist
with that of a patrician. Her person appeared really to be made divine
by the rays of this splendor. Large, blonde, graceful, the eyes blue and
unfathomable, the forehead grave, the mouth pure and proud it was
impossible to see her enter a salon with her light, gliding step, or to
see her reclining in her carriage, her hands folded serenely, without
dreaming of the young immortals whose love brought death.
She had even those traits of physiognomy, stern and wild, which the
antique sculptors doubtless had surprised in supernatural visitations,
and which they have stamped on the eyes and the lips of their marble
gods. Her arms and shoulders, perfect in form, seemed models, in the
midst of the rosy and virgin snow which covered the neighboring
mountains. She was truly superb and bewitching. The Parisian world
respected as much as it admired her, for she played her difficult part of
young bride to an old man so perfectly as to avoid scandal. Without any
pretence of extraordinary devotion, she knew how to join to her worldly
pomps the exercise of charity, and all the other practices of an elegant
piety. Madame de la Roche-Jugan, who watched her closely, as one
watching a prey, testified, herself, in her favor; and judged her more
and more worthy of her son. And Camors, who observed her, in spite of
himself, with an eager curiosity, was finally induced to believe, as did
his aunt and all the world, that she conscientiously performed her
difficult duties, and that she found in the eclat of her life and the
gratification of her pride a sufficient compensation for the sacrifice of
her youth, her heart, and her beauty; but certain souvenirs of the past,
joined to certain peculiarities, which he fancied he remarked in the
Marquise, induced him to distrust.
There were times, when recalling all that he had once witnessed--the
abysses and the flame at the bottom of that heart--he was tempted to
suspect the existence of many storms under all this calm exterior, and
perhaps some wickedness. It is true she never was with him precisely as
she was before the world. The character of their relations was marked by
a peculiar tone. It was precisely that tone of covert irony adopted by
two persons who desired neither to remember nor to forget. This tone,
softened in the language of Camors by his worldly tact and his respect,
was much more pointed, and had much more of bitterness on the side of the
young woman.
He even fancied, at times, that he discovered a shade of coquetry under
this treatment; and this provocation, vague as it was, coming from this
beautiful, cold, and inscrutable creature, seemed to him a game fearfully
mysterious, that at once attracted and disturbed him.
This was the state of things when the Count came, according to custom,
to pass the first days of September at the chateau of Campvallon, and met
there Madame de Tecle and her daughter. The visit was a painful one,
this year, for Madame de Tecle. Her confidence deserted her, and serious
concern took its place. She had, it is true, fixed in her mind, as the
last point of her hopes, the moment when her daughter should have reached
twenty years of age; and Marie was only eighteen.
But she already had had several offers, and several times public rumor
had already declared her to be betrothed.
Now, Camors could not have been ignorant of the rumors circulating in the
neighborhood, and yet he did not speak. His countenance did not change.
He was coldly affectionate to Madame de Tecle, but toward Marie, in spite
of her beautiful blue eyes, like her mother's, and her curly hair,
he preserved a frozen indifference. For Camors had other anxieties,
of which Madame de Tecle knew nothing. The manner of Madame Campvallon
toward him had assumed a more marked character of aggressive raillery.
A defensive attitude is never agreeable to a man, and Camors felt it more
disagreeable than most men--being so little accustomed to it.
He resolved promptly to shorten his visit at Campvallon.
On the eve of his departure, about five o'clock in the afternoon, he was
standing at his window, looking beyond the trees at the great black
clouds sailing over the valley, when he heard the sound of a voice that
had power to move him deeply--"Monsieur de Camors!" He saw the Marquise
standing under his window.
"Will you walk with me?" she added.
He bowed and descended immediately. At the moment he reached her:
"It is suffocating," she said. "I wish to walk round the park and will
take you with me."
He muttered a few polite phrases, and they began walking, side by side,
through the alleys of the park.
She moved at a rapid pace, with her majestic motion, her body swaying,
her head erect. One would have looked for a page behind her, but she had
none, and her long blue robe--she rarely wore short skirts--trailed on
the sand and over the dry leaves with the soft rustle of silk.
"I have disturbed you, probably?" she said, after a moment's pause.
"What were you dreaming of up there?"
"Nothing--only watching the coming storm."
"Are you becoming poetical, cousin?"
"There is no necessity for becoming, for I already am infinitely so!"
"I do not think so. Shall you leave to-morrow?"
"I shall."
"Why so soon?"
"I have business elsewhere."
"Very well. But Vau--Vautrot--is he not there?"
Vautrot was the secretary of M. de Camors.
"Vautrot can not do everything," he replied.
"By the way, I do not like your Vautrot."
"Nor I. But he was recommended to me by my old friend, Madame d'Oilly,
as a freethinker, and at the same time by my aunt, Madame de la Roche-
Jugan, as a religious man!"
"How amusing!"
"Nevertheless," said Camors, "he is intelligent and witty, and writes a
fine hand."
"And you?"
"How? What of me?"
"Do you also write a good hand?"
"I will show you, whenever you wish!"
"Ah! and will you write to me?"
It is difficult to imagine the tone of supreme indifference and haughty
persiflage with which the Marquise sustained this dialogue, without once
slackening her pace, or glancing at her companion, or changing the proud
and erect pose of her head.
"I will write you either prose or verse, as you wish," said Camors.
"Ah! you know how to compose verses?"
"When I am inspired!"
"And when are you inspired?"
"Usually in the morning."
"And we are now in the evening. That is not complimentary to me."
"But you, Madame, had no desire to inspire me, I think."
"Why not, then? I should be happy and proud to do so. Do you know what
I should like to put there?" and she stopped suddenly before a rustic
bridge, which spanned a murmuring rivulet.
"I do not know!"
"You can not even guess? I should like to put an artificial rock there."
"Why not a natural one? In your place I should put a natural one!"
"That is an idea," said the Marquise, and walking on she crossed the
bridge.
"But it really thunders. I like to hear thunder in the country. Do
you?"
"I prefer to hear it thunder at Paris."
"Why?"
"Because then I should not hear it."
"You have no imagination."
"I have; but I smother it."
"Possibly. I have suspected you of hiding your merits, and particularly
from me."
"Why should I conceal my merits from you?"
"'Why should I conceal my merits' is good!" said the Marquise,
ironically. "Why? Out of charity, Monsieur, not to dazzle me, and in
regard for my repose! You are really too good, I assure you. Here comes
the rain."
Large drops of rain began to fall on the dry leaves, and on the yellow
sand of the alley. The day was dying, and the sudden shower bent the
boughs of the trees.
"We must return," said the young woman; "this begins to get serious."
She took, in haste, the path which led to the chateau; but after a few
steps a bright flash broke over her head, the noise of the thunder
resounded, and a deluge of rain fell upon the fields.
There was fortunately, near by, a shelter in which the Marquise and her
companion could take refuge. It was a ruin, preserved as an ornament to
the park, which had formerly been the chapel of the ancient chateau.
It was almost as large as the village chapel--the broken walls half
concealed under a thick mantle of ivy. Its branches had pushed through
the roof and mingled with the boughs of the old trees which surrounded
and shaded it. The timbers had disappeared. The extremity of the choir,
and the spot formerly occupied by the altar, were alone covered by the
remains of the roof. Wheelbarrows, rakes, spades, and other garden tools
were piled there.
The Marquise had to take refuge in the midst of this rubbish, in the
narrow space, and her companion followed her.
The storm, in the mean time, increased in violence. The rain fell in
torrents through the old walls, inundating the soil in the ancient nave.
The lightning flashed incessantly. Every now and then fragments of earth
and stone detached themselves from the roof, and fell into the choir.
"I find this magnificent!" said Madame de Campvallon.
"I also," said Camors, raising his eyes to the crumbling roof which half
protected them; "but I do not know whether we are safe here!"
"If you fear, you would better go!" said the Marquise.
"I fear for you."
"You are too good, I assure you."
She took off her cap and brushed it with her glove, to remove the drops
of rain which had fallen upon it. After a slight pause, she suddenly
raised her uncovered head and cast on Camors one of those searching looks
which prepares a man for an important question.
"Cousin!" she said, "if you were sure that one of these flashes of
lightning would kill you in a quarter of an hour, what would you do?"
"Why, cousin, naturally I should take a last farewell of you."
"How?"
He regarded her steadily, in his turn. "Do you know," he said, "there
are moments when I am tempted to think you a devil?"
"Truly! Well, there are times when I am tempted to think so myself--for
example, at this moment. Do you know what I should wish? I wish I could
control the lightning, and in two seconds you would cease to exist."
"For what reason?"
"Because I recollect there was a man to whom I offered myself, and who
refused me, and that this man still lives. And this displeases me a
little--a great deal--passionately."
"Are you serious, Madame?" replied Camors.
She laughed.
"I hope you did not think so. I am not so wicked. It was a joke--and in
bad taste, I admit. But seriously now, cousin, what is your opinion of
me? What kind of woman has time made me?"
"I swear to you I am entirely ignorant."
"Admitting I had become, as you did me the honor to suppose, a diabolical
person, do you think you had nothing to do with it? Tell me! Do you not
believe that there is in the life of a woman a decisive hour, when the
evil seed which is cast upon her soul may produce a terrible harvest?
Do you not believe this? Answer me! And should I not be excusable if I
entertained toward you the sentiment of an exterminating angel; and have
I not some merit in being what I am--a good woman, who loves you well--
with a little rancor, but not much--and who wishes you all sorts of
prosperity in this world and the next? Do not answer me: it might
embarrass you, and it would be useless."
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6 |
7