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CHAPTER IV
THE CONFESSION

THE maid had no sooner quitted the apartment than Madame d'Infreville said to her friend:

"You proposed I should spend the rest of the day here, my dear Florence, and I accept your offer, so as to give a semblance of truth to my falsehood in case there should be any trouble."

"But my letter?"

"It will be supposed that the letter and I passed each other on the way, and that I reached here after the missive was sent."

"True."

"And now, my dear friend, grant me your indulgence, and perhaps, too, your compassion, while I tell you the rest of my sad story."

"Compassion, indulgence! Surely you feel that you can count upon both, my poor Valentine! But go on. I am listening."

"I have never told you that the windows of my bedroom, which is in the second story of M. d'Infreville's house, overlook a small garden which belongs to the ground floor of the adjoining house. About three months before I discovered that my husband had a mistress, and while he was still in a precarious state of health, the garden, as well as the apartments I speak of, – which had been vacant for a long time, – underwent numerous changes. I spent most of my time at home, my husband's ill health preventing me from going out at all. It was the beginning of summer. In order that I might enjoy more privacy when M. d'Infreville did not need my care, I often retired to my own room, and sewed or embroidered by the open window. The weather was delightful, and I began to notice with great interest the extensive improvements that were being made in the neighbouring garden. As I said a moment ago, they were peculiar changes, but they indicated so much originality, as well as good taste, that my curiosity gradually became much excited, especially as I saw all these changes effected without ever catching a glimpse of the new inmate of the neighbouring rez-de-chaussée. It was interesting to watch the transformation of this rather neglected, commonplace garden into a place of ravishing beauty. A conservatory filled with rare plants, and communicating with one of the rooms, was built along the south wall; the opposite wall was concealed from view by a grotto built of large rocks intermingled with shrubbery. A tiny waterfall trickled down one side of this rocky grotto into a big basin below, diffusing a refreshing coolness around; and finally, a sort of rustic summer-house, roofed with thatch and divided into arches, was constructed against the other side of the wall which enclosed this garden, which was soon so filled with flowers that, seen from my window, it resembled one gigantic bouquet. You will understand presently why I enter into these details."

"But this ravishing spot in the heart of Paris was a veritable paradise!"

"It was, indeed, a charming spot. A gilded aviary, filled with magnificent birds, was placed in the middle of the grass plot, and a sort of veranda or broad covered gallery was built in front of the windows, and furnished with rattan couches, Turkish divans, and costly rugs. A piano, too, was placed there, and this broad piazza, protected by Venetian blinds during the day, if necessary, made a delightfully cool and shady retreat in summer."

"Really, it seems to be a tale from the Arabian Nights that I am listening to! What a clever person it must have been who could gather together so many marvels of good taste and comfort in so small a space. But did the originator never show himself?"

"He did not appear until after all these arrangements had been completed."

"But hadn't you endeavoured to find out who this mysterious neighbour was? I confess that I couldn't have resisted the temptation to do so."

Valentine smiled sadly as she replied:

"It so happened that the sister of M. d'Infreville's steward was my mysterious neighbour's only servant. Informed by her brother, this woman had told her employer of this apartment and garden. One day, my curiosity so far got the better of me that I asked our steward if he knew who had just leased the ground floor in the next house, and he told me several things that excited my curiosity still more."

"Indeed, and what were these things, my dear Valentine?"

"He said that this new neighbour was the best and most generous-hearted man in the world, – for instance, when, after the death of an uncle who left him quite a handsome fortune, he wanted to hire several servants, and live in a rather more luxurious fashion, this same old woman whom I have spoken of, and who used to be his nurse, told him, with tears in her eyes, that she could not endure the thought of seeing other servants in his house. In vain he promised her that she should have authority over them all, act as a sort of confidential servant or housekeeper in short, but she would not listen to him. In his kindness of heart, he did not insist, so, in spite of his newly acquired wealth, he kept in his service only this old servant. This may seem a trivial incident to you, my dear Florence, but – "

"On the contrary, I think the delicate consideration he displayed extremely touching, and not unfrequently these apparent trifles enable one to judge very accurately of a person's character."

"I think so, too. In fact, from that time, I felt sure that my neighbour was both kind-hearted and generous. I soon discovered, too, that his name was Michel Renaud."

"Michel Renaud? Good Heavens!" exclaimed Madame de Luceval.

"Yes; but what is the matter, Florence?"

"How strange, how passing strange that – "

"Pray go on."

"Is he the son of General Renaud, who was killed in the last war of the Empire?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"He is M. de Luceval's cousin."

"Michel, M. de Luceval's cousin?"

"And hardly a day passes that my husband does not speak of him."

"Of Michel?"

"Yes, but I have never seen him. Possibly he took offence on account of M. de Luceval's marriage, like nearly all the members of the family, for he has never called to see us. That doesn't surprise me much, however, for my husband has never been on particularly friendly terms with any of his relatives."

"What you say amazes me! Michel, your husband's cousin? But how does M. de Luceval happen to speak of Michel so often?"

"Alas! my poor Valentine, it is on account of a grievous fault of which M. Michel Renaud and I are both guilty, it seems, – a fault which is my chief happiness, and, to speak plainly, my husband's greatest safeguard; but men are so blind!"

"Explain, I beg of you."

"You know I was considered incorrigibly indolent at the convent. How many remonstrances, how many punishments I received on account of that fault!"

"True."

"Well, this fault seems to increase with age, – it has attained truly colossal proportions now, so colossal, in fact, that it has become almost a virtue."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that, far from experiencing any desire to imitate them, I feel only the greatest pity and compassion for those unfortunate women whom a mad love of society plunges into a whirlpool of gaiety and dissipation. The mere thought of the tiresome, unsatisfactory, wearing manner in which they enjoy themselves makes me shudder. Think of attending three or four balls or receptions every evening, to say nothing of the play; of rushing madly from one's dressmaker to one's milliner, and from there to one's florist; of dressing and undressing oneself, and of trying on gowns, and having one's hair arranged; of making three toilets a day, and dancing and riding and waltzing from morning till night. One must have nerves of steel, and the constitution of a prize-fighter to stand such a fatiguing life. How different all this is from the delightful rest I enjoy on this armchair, finding inexpressible enjoyment in my languid contemplation of earth and sky. When winter comes, I find myself equally happy half dozing in my armchair, or nestling under my eider-down quilt while the hail dashes against the window-panes. I thus enjoy all the varying charms of dolce far niente at all seasons of the year, thinking and dreaming, sometimes awake, sometimes half asleep. I am quite capable, I must admit, of spending an entire day stretched out on the grass, watching the passing clouds, listening to the sighing of the wind, the buzzing of the insects, and the soft murmur of the brooklet, – in short, my dear Valentine, no savage denizen of the forest ever appreciated the infinite delight of a free and idle life more keenly than I do, and never was there a person more devoutly grateful to Heaven who has provided such simple and innocent enjoyment for us. But what is the matter, Valentine?" asked Madame de Luceval, gazing at her friend in surprise. "What is the meaning of these troubled looks, this emotion which you cannot conceal, try as you will? Valentine, once more I entreat you, answer me."

A brief silence followed this appeal, after which Madame d'Infreville, passing her hand across her forehead, replied, in a slightly constrained voice:

"Listen to the conclusion of my story, Florence, and you will, perhaps, divine what I cannot and dare not tell you."

"Speak, then, I beg of you."

"The first time I saw Michel," Valentine continued, "he was on the veranda I told you about. He spent most of his time there during the summer. Concealed from view by my window-shutter, I could examine him at my leisure, and it would be difficult to conceive of a handsomer man. Half reclining on a Turkish divan, enveloped in a long robe of India silk, he was smoking a narghile in an attitude of Oriental abandon, with his eyes fixed upon his garden. After listening awhile with evident delight to the murmur of the waterfall, and the singing of the beautiful birds in his aviary, he picked up a book, which he laid down again now and then, as if to think over what he had just read. Soon two of his friends dropped in. One of them is justly considered one of the most eminent men of the day. It was M. M – "

"You are right. He is one of the most brilliant and famous men of his time. I know him by sight and by reputation, and his exalted position, as well as the great difference in age between Michel and himself, make his visit to a rather obscure young man certainly very extraordinary. Did M. Michel seem to be very much flattered by this visit?"

"On the contrary, Michel welcomed him with affectionate familiarity. It seemed to me that M. M – treated him on a footing of perfect equality. A long conversation ensued, of which I, of course, could not hear a word. To compensate for this disappointment, I took an opera-glass, and from my place of concealment studied Michel's face closely during the interview. I could even watch the movements of his lips. I found a singular charm in this close scrutiny, and though I, of course, had no idea concerning the subject of the conversation, I could see that an animated discussion was going on between M – and Michel. At first, M – seemed to be arguing his point in the most energetic manner, but subsequently I saw, by the expression of his face, that he was gradually becoming a convert to Michel's opinion, though not without a stubborn resistance on his part. Nevertheless, an involuntary sign of assent occasionally testified to the advantage Michel was gaining, and he finally won a complete victory. I cannot describe the charm of your cousin's features during this long contest. By their mobility, as well as by the animation of his gestures, I could see that he was employing, in turn, fervid eloquence, keen raillery, and weighty arguments, to refute the statements of his guests and convert them to his way of thinking. The interview lasted a long time; when it was ended, Michel's friends took leave of him with even greater cordiality. He made a movement as if to rise and accompany them to the door, but they, laughingly, compelled him to retain his half recumbent attitude, apparently telling him that they knew what a terrible effort it would be for him to move. I learned afterwards that M – , being obliged to make a very important decision, had come – as he was frequently in the habit of doing – to consult Michel, whose tact is as unerring as his judgment is sound. From that day, my dear friend, though I had never even spoken to Michel, I felt a deep interest in him, which, alas, was fated to exert entirely too great an influence on my life."

The young woman remained silent for a moment.

As her friend proceeded, Florence had become more and more interested in the story and its hero, especially as she noted the many points of similarity between that gentleman's tastes and character and her own, for M. de Luceval, in reverting to his cousin Michel's incurable indolence, had never said anything that would serve to excuse it or imbue it with any romantic charm. And Florence also understood now the surprise, and, perhaps, even the feeling of involuntary jealousy that Valentine had not been able to entirely conceal when she, Florence, had expounded her ingenious theory on the subject of indolence and its delights.

Not that Madame d'Infreville was really jealous of Madame de Luceval; that would have been the height of folly. Florence did not even know Michel Renaud, and she was too sincere in her friendship to desire to make his acquaintance with the intention of alienating him from her friend.

Nevertheless, Madame d'Infreville experienced a sort of vague envy and uneasiness as she thought of all the elements of sympathy and happiness which were combined in the strange similarity of character which she now perceived in Florence and Michel Renaud.

CHAPTER V
COUNTERPARTS

MADAME DE LUCEVAL, after having remained silent and thoughtful for a moment, remarked to her friend:

"I can easily understand the deep impression that the incidents of the day on which you saw Cousin Michel for the first time must have made upon you. You saw that he was remarkably handsome and that he was also highly gifted, as he seemed to exercise such an influence over one of the most famous men of our time, while the delicate consideration shown to his old nurse proved conclusively that his was a most generous heart. This, alas! was enough, and more than enough, my poor Valentine, to excite the interest and admiration of a person so unfortunately situated as yourself."

"Then, Florence, though you may not excuse, you can at least understand how such a passion as this was born in my heart."

"I can not only understand, but excuse it, in one so crushed with grief and disappointment. Your situation was so trying that it was only natural that you should endeavour to divert and console yourself."

"I scarcely need tell you, then, that I thought of Michel all that night in spite of myself. Early the next morning I ran to my window, and gazed eagerly out through the protecting blinds. The day was superb, and Michel spent it as he had spent the previous day, stretched out upon a couch on the veranda, smoking, reading, dreaming, and enjoying to the full the happiness of being alive, as he told me afterwards. During the day, a man dressed in black, and carrying a large portfolio under his arm, visited him. Thanks to my lorgnette I soon discovered that he was Michel's man of affairs. In fact, he drew several papers from his portfolio, apparently with the intention of reading them to Michel, but the latter took them and signed them without even taking the trouble to glance over them, after which the visitor drew from his pocket a roll of bank-notes, which he handed to your cousin, apparently with the request that he would count them, which he refused to do, thus showing his blind confidence in this man."

"All of which goes to prove that our dear cousin is very careless in business matters."

"Alas! that is only too true, unfortunately for him."

"What! is his fortune – ?"

"You shall know all if you will give me your attention a few minutes longer. During the day, which was spent in complete idleness, like the one which had preceded it, Michel's nurse brought him a letter. He read it. Ah, Florence, never have I seen compassion so touchingly depicted upon any human face. He opened the desk in which he had placed the bank-notes, and handed one to his nurse. The good woman threw her arms around his neck, and you can not imagine with what delightful emotion he seemed to receive her almost maternal caresses.

"It was long after sunset," continued Valentine, "before I could again shut myself up in my own room, and return to my dear window. But I had scarcely looked out before I saw a young woman enter the gallery and hasten towards Michel. It was a terrible shock to me. It was both stupid and foolish in me, of course, for I had not the slightest claim upon Michel, but the feeling was not only involuntary but uncontrollable, and, darting away from the window, I threw myself in an armchair, and burying my face in my hands, wept long and bitterly. Subsequently, I fell into a deep reverie, from which I was aroused a couple of hours afterwards by a prelude upon the piano, and soon two voices that harmonised perfectly began to sing the impassioned duet of Mathilde and Arnold from the opera of 'Guillaume Tell.'"

"It was Michel?"

"Yes, Michel and that woman!"

It is impossible to describe the way in which Valentine uttered the words, "That woman."

After a moment of painful silence she continued:

"The night was clear and still, and the two vibrant, impassioned voices soared heavenward like a pæan of happiness and love. For awhile I listened in spite of myself, but towards the last it made me so utterly wretched, that, not having the courage to go away, I covered my ears with my hands; then, blushing for my absurd weakness, I tried to listen again, but the song had ended. I went back to the window; the air was heavy with the rich perfume of a thousand flowers; there was not a breath of wind; a soft, faint light like that from an alabaster lamp shone through the lowered blinds of the gallery. A profound silence reigned for a few moments, then I heard the gravel in the garden path crunch under the feet of Michel and that woman. They were walking slowly along; his arm was around her waist. I could bear no more, and I hastily closed the window. I passed a frightful night. What new and terrible passions had been aroused during the last two days! Love, desire, jealousy, hatred, remorse, – yes, remorse, for I felt now that an irresistible power was sweeping me on to ruin, and that I should succumb in the struggle. You know the energy and ardour of my character; the same attributes entered into this unfortunate love. I resisted bravely for a time; but when my husband's cruel and brutal conduct exasperated me so deeply, I felt released from all obligations to him, and blindly abandoned myself to the passion that was devouring me."

"But you have been happy, very happy, have you not, Valentine?"

"At first I experienced bliss unspeakable, though it was marred at times by the recollection of that woman from whom Michel had long been separated. She was a celebrated opera singer, celebrated even in Italy, I believe. I found Michel all I had dreamed, – talented, witty, refined, graceful, deferential, courteous, – all these attributes were united in him, together with a marvellous tenderness and delicacy of feeling, and a perfect disposition. And yet, this liaison had scarcely lasted two months before I became the most miserable of women, while adoring Michel as much as ever."

"But why, my poor Valentine? From what you have just told me, I should think that Michel possessed every attribute necessary to make you happy."

"Yes," sighed Valentine, "but all these attributes are nullified by an incurable fault, by – "

Madame d'Infreville gave a sudden start, then paused abruptly.

"Why do you stop so suddenly, Valentine?" asked Florence, in surprise. "Why this reticence? Go on, I beg of you. Haven't you perfect confidence in me?"

"Have I not just proved it by my confession?"

"Yes, oh, yes; but go on."

"You will understand my reticence, I think," continued Madame d'Infreville, after a moment's hesitation, "when I tell you that all that is kind and noble and tender and commendable in Michel is spoiled by an incurable apathy."

"My chief fault!" exclaimed Madame de Luceval, "so you were afraid to tell me that."

"No, no, Florence; your indolence is charming."

"M. de Luceval doesn't agree with you on that point," responded the young wife, smiling faintly.

"But your indolence has no such disastrous consequences, either so far as you, yourself, or your husband are concerned," replied Valentine. "You enjoy it, and no one really suffers from it. It is very different in Michel's case. He has paid no attention whatever to money matters, and his man of business, encouraged by this negligence, has not only stolen from him in the most shameful manner, but has also embarked in various business enterprises which have been profitable to him but ruinous to Michel, who has been too indolent to verify his accounts; and now, I am by no means sure that he has enough money left to live upon even in the most frugal manner."

"Poor fellow, how sad that is! But is not your influence sufficiently strong to overcome this unfortunate indolence?"

"My influence!" repeated Valentine, smiling bitterly. "What influence can one have over a character like his. Arguments, prayers, entreaties, and warnings do not disturb his serenity in the least. No harsh or unkind word ever falls from Michel's lips, oh, no, but he shrinks from anger and impatience, precisely as he shrinks from fatigue. Always calm, smiling, and affectionate, the most vehement remonstrances, the most despairing supplications, receive no other answer than a smile or a kiss. It is because he has thus completely ignored my advice and entreaties that he finds himself in his present alarming position, alarming at least to me, though not to him; for having led a perfectly indolent life up to the present time, he is not likely to find himself possessed of sufficient courage or energy to rescue himself from his deplorable position when his entire ruin is accomplished."

"You are right, Valentine; the situation is even graver than I thought."

"Yes, for one terrible fear haunts me continually."

"What do you mean?"

"Michel is endowed with too keen powers of discernment to deceive himself in regard to his future. He knows, too, that when his last louis is spent he has nothing to expect from any one, much less from himself."

"But what do you fear?"

"That he will kill himself," replied Valentine, shuddering.

"Good Heavens! has he hinted at anything of the kind?"

"Oh, no, he has taken good care not to do that. Any such intimation would be sure to lead to a distressing scene on my part, and he hates tears and complaints of any kind. No, he has never admitted that the thought of self-destruction has even occurred to him, but the fact escaped him one day, for he remarked, laughingly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world: 'Happy dead, – eternal idleness is their portion.'"

"But Valentine, this fear is terrible."

"And it never leaves me, even for an instant," replied the unfortunate woman, bursting into tears; "and yet I am obliged to conceal it in his presence, for whenever he sees me sad or preoccupied, he says to me, with that tender, gracious smile of his:

"'Why this sadness, my dear Valentine? Are we not young, and do we not love each other? Let us think only of our happiness. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any one, so take me as I am, and if I have displeased you in any way, or if I no longer please you, leave me, find some one who suits you better, and let us remain friends only. In my opinion, love should be only joy and felicity, tenderness and repose. It should be like a beautiful lake, clear and calm, reflecting only the pleasant things of life. Why cast a gloom over it by useless anxiety? Let us enjoy our youth in peace, my angel! The person who has known during his whole life ten days of perfect, radiant happiness, should be content to thank God and die. We have had a hundred and more of such days, my Valentine, and whether we enjoy more of them depends only upon yourself, for I adore you. Am I not too indolent to be inconstant?'"

"Yes," added Valentine, with increasing earnestness, "yes, that is the way in which Michel regards love. Those alternations of hope and fear, the vague unrest, the foolish, but no less terrible fits of jealousy that lacerate one's heart, only excite Michel's derision. His indolence – I can not say his indifference, for, after all, he loves me as much as he can love any one, as he says himself – irritates me and makes my blood fairly boil sometimes; but I restrain myself, because, in spite of myself, I adore him just as he is. Nor is this all. Michel never seems to have the slightest suspicion of the remorse and anxiety and fears that assail me every day, for in order that I may be able to spend several hours and sometimes even an entire day with him, I am obliged to tell falsehood after falsehood, to place myself almost at the mercy of my servants, and to devise new pretexts for my frequent absences. And when I return, ah, Florence, when I return, – if you knew what a terrible load I have on my heart when, after a long absence, I place my hand on the knocker, saying to myself all the while, 'What if everything has been discovered!' And when I find myself face to face with my husband, I am even more miserable. To meet his gaze, to try to discover if he has the slightest suspicion of the truth, to tremble inwardly at his most trivial question, to appear calm and indifferent when I am half crazed with fear and anxiety, – all this is torture. And to add to my misery and degradation, I must be assiduous in my attentions to a husband I loathe; I must even stoop to flattery to keep him in good humour, so terribly am I afraid of him, and so eager am I to drive away his suspicions by a bright and cheerful manner. Sometimes, Florence, I must even be gay, do you hear me? Gay, when I have death in my soul. Ah, Florence, such a life is nothing more or less than a hell upon earth, and yet it is impossible for me to abandon it."

"Oh, Valentine," exclaimed Madame de Luceval, throwing herself in her friend's arms, "I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you! You have saved me!"