Books: Monsieur de Camors, v2
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She left her shelter, and turned her face toward the lowering sky to see
whether the storm was over.
"It has stopped raining," she said, "let us go."
She then perceived that the lower part of the nave had been transformed
into a lake of mud and water. She stopped at its brink, and uttered a
little cry:
"What shall I do?" she said, looking at her light shoes. Then, turning
toward Camors, she added, laughing:
"Monsieur, will you get me a boat?"
Camors, himself, recoiled from stepping into the greasy mud and stagnant
water which filled the whole space of the nave.
"If you will wait a little," he said, "I shall find you some boots or
sabots, no matter what."
"It will be much easier," she said abruptly, "for you to carry me to the
door;" and without waiting for the young man's reply, she tucked up her
skirts carefully, and when she had finished, she said, "Carry me!"
He looked at her with astonishment, and thought for a moment she was
jesting; but soon saw she was perfectly serious.
"Of what are you afraid?" she asked.
"I am not at all afraid," he answered.
"Is it that you are not strong enough?"
"Mon Dieu! I should think I was."
He took her in his arms, as in a cradle, while she held up her skirts
with both hands. He then descended the steps and moved toward the door
with his strange burden. He was obliged to be very careful not to slip
on the wet earth, and this absorbed him during the first few steps; but
when he found his footing more sure, he felt a natural curiosity to
observe the countenance of the Marquise.
The uncovered head of the young woman rested a little on the arm with
which he held her. Her lips were slightly parted with a half-wicked
smile that showed her fine white teeth; the same expression of
ungovernable malice burned in her dark eyes, which she riveted for some
seconds on those of Camors with persistent penetration--then suddenly
veiled them under the fringe of her dark lashes. This glance sent a
thrill like lightning to his very marrow.
"Do you wish to drive me mad?" he murmured.
"Who knows?" she replied.
The same moment she disengaged herself from his arms, and placing her
foot on the ground again, left the ruin.
They reached the chateau without exchanging a word. Just before entering
the house the young Marquise turned toward Camors and said to him:
"Be sure that at heart I am very good, really."
Notwithstanding this assertion, Camors was yet more determined to leave
the next morning, as he had previously decided. He carried away the most
painful impression of the scene of that evening.
She had wounded his pride, inflamed his hopeless passion, and disquieted
his honor.
"What is this woman, and what does she want of me? Is it love or
vengeance that inspires her with this fiendish coquetry?" he asked
himself. Whatever it was, Camors was not such a novice in similar
adventures as not to perceive clearly the yawning abyss under the broken
ice. He resolved sincerely to close it again between them, and forever.
The best way to succeed in this, avowedly, was to cease all intercourse
with the Marquise. But how could such conduct be explained to the
General, without awakening his suspicion and lowering his wife in his
esteem? That plan was impossible. He armed himself with all his
courage, and resigned himself to endure with resolute soul all the trials
which the love, real or pretended, of the Marquise reserved for him.
He had at this time a singular idea. He was a member of several of the
most aristocratic clubs. He organized a chosen group of men from the
elite of his companions, and formed with them a secret association, of
which the object was to fix and maintain among its members the principles
and points of honor in their strictest form. This society, which had
only been vaguely spoken of in public under the name of "Societe des
Raffines," and also as "The Templars" which latter was its true name--
had nothing in common with "The Devourers," illustrated by Balzac.
It had nothing in it of a romantic or dramatic character. Those who
composed this club did not, in any way, defy ordinary morals, nor set
themselves above the laws of their country. They did not bind themselves
by any vows of mutual aid in extremity. They bound themselves simply by
their word of honor to observe, in their reciprocal relations, the rules
of purest honor.
These rules were specified in their code. The text it is difficult to
give; but it was based entirely on the point of honor, and regulated the
affairs of the club, such as the card-table, the turf, duelling, and
gallantry. For example, any member was disqualified from belonging to
this association who either insulted or interfered with the wife or
relative of one of his colleagues. The only penalty was exclusion: but
the consequences of this exclusion were grave; for all the members ceased
thereafter to associate with, recognize, or even bow to the offender.
The Templars found in this secret society many advantages. It was a
great security in their intercourse with one another, and in the
different circumstances of daily life, where they met continually either
at the opera, in salons, or on the turf.
Camors was an exception among his companions and rivals in Parisian life
by the systematic decision of his doctrine. It was not so much an
embodiment of absolute scepticism and practical materialism; but the want
of a moral law is so natural to man, and obedience to higher laws so
sweet to him, that the chosen adepts to whom the project of Camors was
submitted accepted it with enthusiasm. They were happy in being able to
substitute a sort of positive and formal religion for restraints so
limited as their own confused and floating notions of honor. For Camors
himself, as is easily understood, it was a new barrier which he wished to
erect between himself and the passion which fascinated him. He attached
himself to this with redoubled force, as the only moral bond yet left
him. He completed his work by making the General accept the title of
President of the Association. The General, to whom Honor was a sort of
mysterious but real goddess, was delighted to preside over the worship of
his idol. He felt flattered by his young friend's selection, and
esteemed him the more.
It was the middle of winter. The Marquise Campvallon had resumed for
some time her usual course of life, which was at the same time strict but
elegant. Punctual at church every morning, at the Bois and at charity
bazaars during the day, at the opera or the theatres in the evening, she
had received M. de Camors without the shadow of apparent emotion. She
even treated him more simply and more naturally than ever, with no
recurrence to the past, no allusion to the scene in the park during the
storm; as if she had, on that day, disclosed everything that had lain
hidden in her heart. This conduct so much resembled indifference, that
Camors should have been delighted; but he was not--on the contrary he was
annoyed by it. A cruel but powerful interest, already too dear to his
blase soul, was disappearing thus from his life. He was inclined to
believe that Madame de Campvallon possessed a much less complicated
character than he had fancied; and that little by little absorbed in
daily trifles, she had become in reality what she pretended to be--a good
woman, inoffensive, and contented with her lot.
He was one evening in his orchestra-stall at the opera. They were
singing The Huguenots. The Marquise occupied her box between the
columns. The numerous acquaintances Camors met in the passages during
the first entr'acte prevented his going as soon as usual to pay his
respects to his cousin. At last, after the fourth act, he went to visit
her in her box, where he found her alone, the General having descended to
the parterre for a few moments. He was astonished, on entering, to find
traces of tears on the young woman's cheeks. Her eyes were even moist.
She seemed displeased at being surprised in the very act of
sentimentality.
"Music always excites my nerves," she said.
"Indeed!" said Camors. "You, who always reproach me with hiding my
merits, why do you hide yours? If you are still capable of weeping, so
much the better."
"No! I claim no merit for that. Oh, heavens! If you only knew! It is
quite the contrary."
"What a mystery you are!"
"Are you very curious to fathom this mystery? Only that? Very well--be
happy! It is time to put an end to this."
She drew her chair from the front of the box out of public view, and,
turning toward Camors, continued: "You wish to know what I am, what I
feel, and what I think; or rather, you wish to know simply whether I
dream of love? Very well, I dream only of that! Have I lovers, or have
I not? I have none, and never shall have, but that will not be because
of my virtue. I believe in nothing, except my own self-esteem and my
contempt of others. The little intrigues, the petty passions, which I
see in the world, make me indignant to the bottom of my soul. It seems
to me that women who give themselves for so little must be base
creatures. As for myself, I remember having said to you one day--it is a
million years since then!--that my person is sacred to me; and to commit
a sacrilege I should wish, like the vestals of Rome, a love as great as
my crime, and as terrible as death. I wept just now during that
magnificent fourth act. It was not because I listened to the most
marvellous music ever heard on this earth; it was because I admire and
envy passionately the superb and profound love of that time. And it is
ever thus--when I read the history of the glorious sixteenth century, I
am in ecstacies. How well those people knew how to love and how to die!
One night of love--then death. That is delightful. Now, cousin, you
must leave me. We are observed. They will believe we love each other,
and as we have not that pleasure, it is useless to incur the penalties.
Since I am still in the midst of the court of Charles Tenth, I pity you,
with your black coat and round hat. Good-night."
"I thank you very much," replied Camors, taking the hand she extended to
him coldly, and left the box. He met M. de Campvallon in the passage.
"Parbleu! my dear friend," said the General, seizing him by the arm.
"I must communicate to you an idea which has been in my brain all the
evening."
"What idea, General?"
"Well, there are here this evening a number of charming young girls.
This set me to thinking of you, and I even said to my wife that we must
marry you to one of these young women!"
"Oh, General!"
"Well, why not?"
"That is a very serious thing--if one makes a mistake in his choice--that
is everything."
"Bah! it is not so difficult a thing. Take a wife like mine, who has a
great deal of religion, not much imagination, and no fancies. That is
the whole secret. I tell you this in confidence, my dear fellow!"
"Well, General, I will think of it."
"Do think of it," said the General, in a serious tone; and went to join
his young wife, whom he understood so well.
As to her, she thoroughly understood herself, and analyzed her own
character with surprising truth.
Madame de Campvallon was just as little what her manner indicated as was
M. de Camors on his side. Both were altogether exceptional in French
society. Equally endowed by nature with energetic souls and enlightened
minds, both carried innate depravity to a high degree. The artificial
atmosphere of high Parisian civilization destroys in women the sentiment
and the taste for duty, and leaves them, nothing but the sentiment and
the taste for pleasure. They lose in the midst of this enchanted and
false life, like theatrical fairyland, the true idea of life in general,
and Christian life in particular. And we can confidently affirm that all
those who do not make for themselves, apart from the crowd, a kind of
Thebaid--and there are such--are pagans. They are pagans, because the
pleasures of the senses and of the mind alone interest them, and they
have not once, during the year, an impression of the moral law, unless
the sentiment, which some of them detest, recalls it to them. They are
pagans, like the beautiful, worldly Catholics of the fifteenth century--
loving luxury, rich stuffs, precious furniture, literature, art,
themselves, and love. They were charming pagans, like Marie Stuart,
and capable, like her, of remaining true Catholics even under the axe.
We are speaking, let it be understood, of the best of the elite--of those
that read, and of those that dream. As to the rest, those who
participate in the Parisian life on its lighter side, in its childish
whirl, and the trifling follies it entails, who make rendezvous, waste
their time, who dress and are busy day and night doing nothing, who dance
frantically in the rays of the Parisian sun, without thought, without
passion, without virtue, and even without vice--we must own it is
impossible to imagine anything more contemptible.
The Marquise de Campvallon was then--as she truly said to the man she
resembled--a great pagan; and, as she also said to herself in one of her
serious moments when a woman's destiny is decided by the influence of
those they love, Camors had sown in her heart a seed which had
marvellously fructified.
Camors dreamed little of reproaching himself for it, but struck with all
the harmony that surrounded the Marquise, he regretted more bitterly than
ever the fatality which separated them.
He felt, however, more sure of himself, since he had bound himself by the
strictest obligations of honor. He abandoned himself from this moment
with less scruple to the emotions, and to the danger against which he
believed himself invincibly protected. He did not fear to seek often the
society of his beautiful cousin, and even contracted the habit of
repairing to her house two or three times a week, after leaving the
Chamber of Deputies. Whenever he found her alone, their conversation
invariably assumed a tone of irony and of raillery, in which both
excelled. He had not forgotten her reckless confidences at the opera,
and recalled it to her, asking her whether she had yet discovered that
hero of love for whom she was looking, who should be, according to her
ideas, a villain like Bothwell, or a musician like Rizzio.
"There are," she replied, "villains who are also musicians; but that is
imagination. Sing me, then, something apropos."
It was near the close of winter. The Marquise gave a ball. Her fetes
were justly renowned for their magnificence and good taste. She did the
honors with the grace of a queen. This evening she wore a very simple
costume, as was becoming in the courteous hostess. It was a gown of dark
velvet, with a train; her arms were bare, without jewels; a necklace of
large pearls lay on her rose-tinted bosom, and the heraldic coronet
sparkled on her fair hair.
Camors caught her eye as he entered, as if she were watching for him.
He had seen her the previous evening, and they had had a more lively
skirmish than usual. He was struck by her brilliancy--her beauty
heightened, without doubt, by the secret ardor of the quarrel, as if
illuminated by an interior flame, with all the clear, soft splendor of a
transparent alabaster vase.
When he advanced to join her and salute her, yielding, against his will,
to an involuntary movement of passionate admiration, he said:
"You are truly beautiful this evening. Enough so to make one commit a
crime."
She looked fixedly in his eyes, and replied:
"I should like to see that," and then left him, with superb nonchalance.
The General approached, and tapping the Count on the shoulder, said:
"Camors! you do not dance, as usual. Let us play a game of piquet."
"Willingly, General;" and traversing two or three salons they reached the
private boudoir of the Marquise. It was a small oval room, very lofty,
hung with thick red silk tapestry, covered with black and white flowers.
As the doors were removed, two heavy curtains isolated the room
completely from the neighboring gallery. It was there that the General
usually played cards and slept during his fetes. A small card-table was
placed before a divan. Except this addition, the boudoir preserved its
every-day aspect. Woman's work, half finished, books, journals, and
reviews were strewn upon the furniture. They played two or three games,
which the General won, as Camors was very abstracted.
"I reproach myself, young man," said the former, "in having kept you so
long away from the ladies. I give you back your liberty--I shall cast my
eye on the journals."
"There is nothing new in them, I think," said Camors, rising. He took up
a newspaper himself, and placing his back against the mantelpiece, warmed
his feet, one after the other. The General threw himself on the divan,
ran his eye over the 'Moniteur de l'Armee', approving of some military
promotions, and criticising others; and, little by little, he fell into a
doze, his head resting on his chest.
But Camors was not reading. He listened vaguely to the music of the
orchestra, and fell into a reverie. Through these harmonies, through the
murmurs and warm perfume of the ball, he followed, in thought, all the
evolutions of her who was mistress and queen of all. He saw her proud
and supple step--he heard her grave and musical voice--he felt her
breath.
This young man had exhausted everything. Love and pleasure had no longer
for him secrets or temptations; but his imagination, cold and blase, had
arisen all inflamed before this beautiful, living, palpitating statue.
She was really for him more than a woman--more than a mortal.
The antique fables of amorous goddesses and drunken Bacchantes--the
superhuman voluptuousness unknown in terrestrial pleasures--were in reach
of his hand, separated from him only by the shadow of this sleeping old
man. But a shadow was ever between them--it was honor.
His eyes, as if lost in thought, were fixed straight before him on the
curtain opposite the chimney. Suddenly this curtain was noiselessly
raised, and the young Marquise appeared, her brow surmounted by her
coronet. She threw a rapid glance over the boudoir, and after a moment's
pause, let the curtain fall gently, and advanced directly toward Camors,
who stood dazzled and immovable. She took both his hands, without
speaking, looked at his steadily--throwing a rapid glance at her husband,
who still slept--and, standing on tiptoe, offered her lips to the young
man.
Bewildered, and forgetting all else, he bent, and imprinted a kiss on her
lips.
At that very moment, the General made a sudden movement and woke up; but
the same instant the Marquise was standing before him, her hands resting
on the card-table; and smiling upon him, she said, "Good-morning, my
General!"
The General murmured a few words of apology, but she laughingly pushed
him back on his divan.
"Continue your nap," she said; "I have come in search of my cousin, for
the last cotillon." The General obeyed.
She passed out by the gallery. The young man; pale as a spectre,
followed her.
Passing under the curtain, she turned toward him with a wild light
burning in her eyes. Then, before she was lost in the throng, she
whispered, in a low, thrilling voice:
"There is the crime!"
CHAPTER XIII
THE FIRST ACT OF THE TRAGEDY
Camors did not attempt to rejoin the Marquise, and it seemed to him that
she also avoided him. A quarter of an hour later, he left the Hotel
Campvallon.
He returned immediately home. A lamp was burning in his chamber. When
he saw himself in the mirror, his own face terrified him. This exciting
scene had shaken his nerves.
He could no longer control himself. His pupil had become his master.
The fact itself did not surprise him. Woman is more exalted than man in
morality. There is no virtue, no devotion, no heroism in which she does
not surpass him; but once impelled to the verge of the abyss, she falls
faster and lower than man. This is attributable to two causes: she has
more passion, and she has no honor. For honor is a reality and must not
be underrated. It is a noble, delicate, and salutary quality. It
elevates manly attributes; in fact, it constitutes the modesty of man.
It is sometimes a force, and always a grace. But to think that honor is
all-sufficient; that in the face of great interests, great passions,
great trials in life, it is a support and an infallible defence; that it
can enforce the precepts which come from God--in fact that it can replace
God--this is a terrible mistake. It exposes one in a fatal moment to the
loss of one's self-esteem, and to fall suddenly and forever into that
dismal ocean of bitterness where Camors at that instant was struggling in
despair, like a drowning man in the darkness of midnight.
He abandoned himself, on this evil night, to a final conflict full of
agony; and he was beaten.
The next evening at six o'clock he was at the house of the Marquise. He
found her in her boudoir, surrounded by all her regal luxury. She was
half buried in a fauteuil in the chimney-corner, looking a little pale
and fatigued. She received him with her usual coldness and self-
possession.
"Good-day," she said. "How are you?"
"Not very well," replied Camors.
"What is the matter?"
"I fancy that you know."
She opened her large eyes wide with surprise, but did not reply.
"I entreat you, Madame," continued Camors, smiling--" no more music, the
curtain is raised, and the drama has begun."
"Ah! we shall see."
"Do you love me?" he continued; "or were you simply acting, to try me,
last night? Can you, or will you, tell me?"
"I certainly could, but I do not wish to do so."
"I had thought you more frank."
"I have my hours."
"Well, then," said Camors, "if your hours of frankness have passed, mine
have begun."
"That would be compensation," she replied.
"And I will prove it to you," continued Camors.
"I shall make a fete of it," said the Marquise, throwing herself back on
the sofa, as if to make herself comfortable in order to enjoy an
agreeable conversation.
"I love you, Madame; and as you wish to be loved. I love you devotedly
and unto death--enough to kill myself, or you!"
"That is well," said the Marquise, softly.
"But," he continued in a hoarse and constrained tone, "in loving you, in
telling you of it, in trying to make you share my love, I violate basely
the obligations of honor of which you know, and others of which you know
not. It is a crime, as you have said. I do not try to extenuate my
offence. I see it, I judge it, and I accept it. I break the last moral
tie that is left me; I leave the ranks of men of honor, and I leave also
the ranks of humanity. I have nothing human left except my love, nothing
sacred but you; but my crime elevates itself by its magnitude. Well, I
interpret it thus: I imagine two beings, equally free and strong, loving
and valuing each other beyond all else, having no affection, no loyalty,
no devotion, no honor, except toward each other--but possessing all for
each other in a supreme degree.
"I give and consecrate absolutely to you, my person, all that I can be,
or may become, on condition of an equal return, still preserving the same
social conventionalities, without which we should both be miserable.
"Secretly united, and secretly isolated; though in the midst of the human
herd, governing and despising it; uniting our gifts, our faculties, and
our powers, our two Parisian royalties--yours, which can not be greater,
and mine, which shall become greater if you love me and living thus, one
for the other, until death. You have dreamed, you told me, of strange
and almost sacrilegious love. Here it is; only before accepting it,
reflect well, for I assure you it is a serious thing. My love for you is
boundless. I love you enough to disdain and trample under foot that
which the meanest human being still respects. I love you enough to find
in you alone, in your single esteem, and in your sole tenderness, in the
pride and madness of being yours, oblivion and consolation for friendship
outraged, faith betrayed, and honor lost. But, Madame, this is a
sentiment which you will do well not to trifle with. You should
thoroughly understand this. If you desire my love, if you consent to
this alliance, opposed to all human laws, but grand and singular also,
deign to tell me so, and I shall fall at your feet. If you do not wish
it, if it terrifies you, if you are not prepared for the double
obligation it involves, tell me so, and fear not a word of reproach.
Whatever it might cost me--I would ruin my life, I would leave you
forever, and that which passed yesterday should be eternally forgotten."
He ceased, and remained with his eyes fixed on the young woman with a
burning anxiety. As he went on speaking her air became more grave; she
listened to him, her head a little inclined toward him in an attitude of
overpowering interest, throwing upon him at intervals a glance full of
gloomy fire. A slight but rapid palpitation of the bosom, a scarcely
perceptible quivering of the nostrils, alone betrayed the storm raging
within her.
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