A Woman of Thirty

III.

AT THIRTY YEARS

Madame Firmiani was giving a ball.  M. Charles de Vandenesse, a young man of great promise, the bearer of one of those historic names which, in spite of the efforts of legislation, are always associated with the glory of France, had received letters of introduction to some of the great lady’s friends in Naples, and had come to thank the hostess and to take his leave.

Vandenesse had already acquitted himself creditably on several diplomatic missions; and now that he had received an appointment as attache to a plenipotentiary at the Congress of Laybach, he wished to take advantage of the opportunity to make some study of Italy on the way.  This ball was a sort of farewell to Paris and its amusements and its rapid whirl of life, to the great eddying intellectual centre and maelstrom of pleasure; and a pleasant thing it is to be borne along by the current of this sufficiently slandered great city of Paris.  Yet Charles de Vandenesse had little to regret, accustomed as he had been for the past three years to salute European capitals and turn his back upon them at the capricious bidding of a diplomatist’s destiny.  Women no longer made any impression upon him; perhaps he thought that a real passion would play too large a part in a diplomatist’s life; or perhaps that the paltry amusements of frivolity were too empty for a man of strong character.  We all of us have huge claims to strength of character.  There is no man in France, be he ever so ordinary a member of the rank and file of humanity, that will waive pretensions to something beyond mere cleverness.

Charles, young though he was—­he was scarcely turned thirty—­looked at life with a philosophic mind, concerning himself with theories and means and ends, while other men of his age were thinking of pleasure, sentiments, and the like illusions.  He forced back into some inner depth the generosity and enthusiasms of youth, and by nature he was generous.  He tried hard to be cool and calculating, to coin the fund of wealth which chanced to be in his nature into gracious manners, and courtesy, and attractive arts; ’tis the proper task of an ambitious man, to play a sorry part to gain “a good position,” as we call it in modern days.

He had been dancing, and now he gave a farewell glance over the rooms, to carry away a distinct impression of the ball, moved, doubtless, to some extent by the feeling which prompts a theatre-goer to stay in his box to see the final tableau before the curtain falls.  But M. de Vandenesse had another reason for his survey.  He gazed curiously at the scene before him, so French in character and in movement, seeking to carry away a picture of the light and laughter and the faces at this Parisian fete, to compare with the novel faces and picturesque surroundings awaiting him at Naples, where he meant to spend a few days before presenting himself at his post.  He seemed to be drawing the comparison now between this France so variable, changing even as you study her, with the manners and aspects of that other land known to him as yet only by contradictory hearsay tales or books of travel, for the most part unsatisfactory.  Thoughts of a somewhat poetical cast, albeit hackneyed and trite to our modern ideas, crossed his brain, in response to some longing of which, perhaps, he himself was hardly conscious, a desire in the depths of a heart fastidious rather than jaded, vacant rather than seared.

“These are the wealthiest and most fashionable women and the greatest ladies in Paris,” he said to himself.  “These are the great men of the day, great orators and men of letters, great names and titles; artists and men in power; and yet in it all it seems to me as if there were nothing but petty intrigues and still-born loves, meaningless smiles and causeless scorn, eyes lighted by no flame within, brain-power in abundance running aimlessly to waste.  All those pink-and-white faces are here not so much for enjoyment, as to escape from dulness.  None of the emotion is genuine.  If you ask for nothing but court feathers properly adjusted, fresh gauzes and pretty toilettes and fragile, fair women, if you desire simply to skim the surface of life, here is your world for you.  Be content with meaningless phrases and fascinating simpers, and do not ask for real feeling.  For my own part, I abhor the stale intrigues which end in sub-prefectures and receiver-generals’ places and marriages; or, if love comes into the question, in stealthy compromises, so ashamed are we of the mere semblance of passion.  Not a single one of all these eloquent faces tells you of a soul, a soul wholly absorbed by one idea as by remorse.  Regrets and misfortune go about shame-facedly clad in jests.  There is not one woman here whose resistance I should care to overcome, not one who could drag you down to the pit.  Where will you find energy in Paris?  A poniard here is a curious toy to hang from a gilt nail, in a picturesque sheath to match.  The women, the brains, and hearts of Paris are all on a par.  There is no passion left, because we have no individuality.  High birth and intellect and fortune are all reduced to one level; we all have taken to the uniform black coat by way of mourning for a dead France.  There is no love between equals.  Between two lovers there should be differences to efface, wide gulfs to fill.  The charm of love fled from us in 1789.  Our dulness and our humdrum lives are the outcome of the political system.  Italy at any rate is the land of sharp contrasts.  Woman there is a malevolent animal, a dangerous unreasoning siren, guided only by her tastes and appetites, a creature no more to be trusted than a tiger—­”

Mme. Firmiani here came up to interrupt this soliloquy made up of vague, conflicting, and fragmentary thoughts which cannot be reproduced in words.  The whole charm of such musing lies in its vagueness—­what is it but a sort of mental haze?

“I want to introduce you to some one who has the greatest wish to make your acquaintance, after all that she has heard of you,” said the lady, taking his arm.

She brought him into the next room, and with such a smile and glance as a Parisienne alone can give, she indicated a woman sitting by the hearth.

“Who is she?” the Comte de Vandenesse asked quickly.

“You have heard her name more than once coupled with praise or blame.  She is a woman who lives in seclusion—­a perfect mystery.”

“Oh! if ever you have been merciful in your life, for pity’s sake tell me her name.”

“She is the Marquise d’Aiglemont.”

“I will take lessons from her; she had managed to make a peer of France of that eminently ordinary person her husband, and a dullard into a power in the land.  But, pray tell me this, did Lord Grenville die for her sake, do you think, as some women say?”

“Possibly.  Since that adventure, real or imaginary, she is very much changed, poor thing!  She has not gone into society since.  Four years of constancy—­that is something in Paris.  If she is here to-night——­” Here Mme. Firmiani broke off, adding with a mysterious expression, “I am forgetting that I must say nothing.  Go and talk with her.”

For a moment Charles stood motionless, leaning lightly against the frame of the doorway, wholly absorbed in his scrutiny of a woman who had become famous, no one exactly knew how or why.  Such curious anomalies are frequent enough in the world.  Mme. d’Aiglemont’s reputation was certainly no more extraordinary than plenty of other great reputations.  There are men who are always in travail of some great work which never sees the light, statisticians held to be profound on the score of calculations which they take very good care not to publish, politicians who live on a newspaper article, men of letters and artists whose performances are never given to the world, men of science, much as Sganarelle is a Latinist for those who know no Latin; there are the men who are allowed by general consent to possess a peculiar capacity for some one thing, be it for the direction of arts, or for the conduct of an important mission.  The admirable phrase, “A man with a special subject,” might have been invented on purpose for these acephalous species in the domain of literature and politics.

Charles gazed longer than he intended.  He was vexed with himself for feeling so strongly interested; it is true, however, that the lady’s appearance was a refutation of the young man’s ballroom generalizations.

The Marquise had reached her thirtieth year.  She was beautiful in spite of her fragile form and extremely delicate look.  Her greatest charm lay in her still face, revealing unfathomed depths of soul.  Some haunting, ever-present thought veiled, as it were, the full brilliance of eyes which told of a fevered life and boundless resignation.  So seldom did she raise the eyelids soberly downcast, and so listless were her glances, that it almost seemed as if the fire in her eyes were reserved for some occult contemplation.  Any man of genius and feeling must have felt strangely attracted by her gentleness and silence.  If the mind sought to explain the mysterious problem of a constant inward turning from the present to the past, the soul was no less interested in initiating itself into the secrets of a heart proud in some sort of its anguish.  Everything about her, moreover, was in keeping with these thoughts which she inspired.  Like almost all women who have very long hair, she was very pale and perfectly white.  The marvelous fineness of her skin (that almost unerring sign) indicated a quick sensibility which could be seen yet more unmistakably in her features; there was the same minute and wonderful delicacy of finish in them that the Chinese artist gives to his fantastic figures.  Perhaps her neck was rather too long, but such necks belong to the most graceful type, and suggest vague affinities between a woman’s head and the magnetic curves of the serpent.  Leave not a single one of the thousand signs and tokens by which the most inscrutable character betrays itself to an observer of human nature, he has but to watch carefully the little movements of a woman’s head, the ever-varying expressive turns and curves of her neck and throat, to read her nature.

Mme. d’Aiglemont’s dress harmonized with the haunting thought that informed the whole woman.  Her hair was gathered up into a tall coronet of broad plaits, without ornament of any kind; she seemed to have bidden farewell for ever to elaborate toilettes.  Nor were any of the small arts of coquetry which spoil so many women to be detected in her.  Perhaps her bodice, modest though it was, did not altogether conceal the dainty grace of her figure, perhaps, too, her gown looked rich from the extreme distinction of its fashion, and if it is permissible to look for expression in the arrangement of stuffs, surely those numerous straight folds invested her with a great dignity.  There may have been some lingering trace of the indelible feminine foible in the minute care bestowed upon her hand and foot; yet, if she allowed them to be seen with some pleasure, it would have tasked the utmost malice of a rival to discover any affectation in her gestures, so natural did they seem, so much a part of old childish habit, that her careless grace absolved this vestige of vanity.

All these little characteristics, the nameless trifles which combine to make up the sum of a woman’s prettiness or ugliness, her charm or lack of charm, can only be indicated, when, as with Mme. d’Aiglemont, a personality dominates and gives coherence to the details, informing them, blending them all in an exquisite whole.  Her manner was perfectly in accord with her style of beauty and her dress.  Only to certain women at a certain age is it given to put language into their attitude.  Is it joy or is it sorrow that teaches a woman of thirty the secret of that eloquence of carriage, so that she must always remain an enigma which each interprets by the aid of his hopes, desires, or theories?

The way in which the Marquise leaned both elbows on the arm of her chair, the toying of her interclasped fingers, the curve of her throat, the indolent lines of her languid but lissome body as she lay back in graceful exhaustion, as it were; her indolent limbs, her unstudied pose, the utter lassitude of her movements,—­all suggested that this was a woman for whom life had lost its interest, a woman who had known the joys of love only in dreams, a woman bowed down by the burden of memories of the past, a woman who had long since despaired of the future and despaired of herself, an unoccupied woman who took the emptiness of her own life for the nothingness of life.

Charles de Vandenesse saw and admired the beautiful picture before him, as a kind of artistic success beyond an ordinary woman’s powers of attainment.  He was acquainted with d’Aiglemont; and now, at the first sight of d’Aiglemont’s wife, the young diplomatist saw at a glance a disproportionate marriage, an incompatibility (to use the legal jargon) so great that it was impossible that the Marquise should love her husband.  And yet—­the Marquise d’Aiglemont’s life was above reproach, and for any observer the mystery about her was the more interesting on this account.  The first impulse of surprise over, Vandenesse cast about for the best way of approaching Mme. d’Aiglemont.  He would try a commonplace piece of diplomacy, he thought; he would disconcert her by a piece of clumsiness and see how she would receive it.

“Madame,” he said, seating himself near her, “through a fortunate indiscretion I have learned that, for some reason unknown to me, I have had the good fortune to attract your notice.  I owe you the more thanks because I have never been so honored before.  At the same time, you are responsible for one of my faults, for I mean never to be modest again—­”

“You will make a mistake, monsieur,” she laughed; “vanity should be left to those who have nothing else to recommend them.”

The conversation thus opened ranged at large, in the usual way, over a multitude of topics—­art and literature, politics, men and things —­till insensibly they fell to talking of the eternal theme in France and all the world over—­love, sentiment, and women.

“We are bond-slaves.”

“You are queens.”

This was the gist and substance of all the more or less ingenious discourse between Charles and the Marquise, as of all such discourses —­past, present, and to come.  Allow a certain space of time, and the two formulas shall begin to mean “Love me,” and “I will love you.”

“Madame,” Charles de Vandenesse exclaimed under his breath, “you have made me bitterly regret that I am leaving Paris.  In Italy I certainly shall not pass hours in intellectual enjoyment such as this has been.”

“Perhaps, monsieur, you will find happiness, and happiness is worth more than all the brilliant things, true and false, that are said every evening in Paris.”

Before Charles took leave, he asked permission to pay a farewell call on the Marquise d’Aiglemont, and very lucky did he feel himself when the form of words in which he expressed himself for once was used in all sincerity; and that night, and all day long on the morrow, he could not put the thought of the Marquise out of his mind.

At times he wondered why she had singled him out, what she had meant when she asked him to come to see her, and thought supplied an inexhaustible commentary.  Again it seemed to him that he had discovered the motives of her curiosity, and he grew intoxicated with hope or frigidly sober with each new construction put upon that piece of commonplace civility.  Sometimes it meant everything, sometimes nothing.  He made up his mind at last that he would not yield to this inclination, and—­went to call on Mme. d’Aiglemont.

There are thoughts which determine our conduct, while we do not so much as suspect their existence.  If at first sight this assertion appears to be less a truth than a paradox, let any candid inquirer look into his own life and he shall find abundant confirmation therein.  Charles went to Mme. d’Aiglemont, and so obeyed one of these latent, pre-existent germs of thought, of which our experience and our intellectual gains and achievements are but later and tangible developments.

For a young man a woman of thirty has irresistible attractions.  There is nothing more natural, nothing better established, no human tie of stouter tissue than the heart-deep attachment between such a woman as the Marquise d’Aiglemont and such a man as Charles de Vandenesse.  You can see examples of it every day in the world.  A girl, as a matter of fact, has too many young illusions, she is too inexperienced, the instinct of sex counts for too much in her love for a young man to feel flattered by it.  A woman of thirty knows all that is involved in the self-surrender to be made.  Among the impulses of the first, put curiosity and other motives than love; the second acts with integrity of sentiment.  The first yields; the second makes deliberate choice.  Is not that choice in itself an immense flattery?  A woman armed with experience, forewarned by knowledge, almost always dearly bought, seems to give more than herself; while the inexperienced and credulous girl, unable to draw comparisons for lack of knowledge, can appreciate nothing at its just worth.  She accepts love and ponders it.  A woman is a counselor and a guide at an age when we love to be guided and obedience is delight; while a girl would fain learn all things, meeting us with a girl’s naivete instead of a woman’s tenderness.  She affords a single triumph; with a woman there is resistance upon resistance to overcome; she has but joy and tears, a woman has rapture and remorse.

A girl cannot play the part of a mistress unless she is so corrupt that we turn from her with loathing; a woman has a thousand ways of preserving her power and her dignity; she has risked so much for love, that she must bid him pass through his myriad transformations, while her too submissive rival gives a sense of too serene security which palls.  If the one sacrifices her maidenly pride, the other immolates the honor of a whole family.  A girl’s coquetry is of the simplest, she thinks that all is said when the veil is laid aside; a woman’s coquetry is endless, she shrouds herself in veil after veil, she satisfies every demand of man’s vanity, the novice responds but to one.

And there are terrors, fears, and hesitations—­trouble and storm in the love of a woman of thirty years, never to be found in a young girl’s love.  At thirty years a woman asks her lover to give her back the esteem she has forfeited for his sake; she lives only for him, her thoughts are full of his future, he must have a great career, she bids him make it glorious; she can obey, entreat, command, humble herself, or rise in pride; times without number she brings comfort when a young girl can only make moan.  And with all the advantages of her position, the woman of thirty can be a girl again, for she can play all parts, assume a girl’s bashfulness, and grow the fairer even for a mischance.

Between these two feminine types lies the immeasurable difference which separates the foreseen from the unforeseen, strength from weakness.  The woman of thirty satisfies every requirement; the young girl must satisfy none, under penalty of ceasing to be a young girl.  Such ideas as these, developing in a young man’s mind, help to strengthen the strongest of all passions, a passion in which all spontaneous and natural feeling is blended with the artificial sentiment created by conventional manners.

The most important and decisive step in a woman’s life is the very one that she invariably regards as the most insignificant.  After her marriage she is no longer her own mistress, she is the queen and the bond-slave of the domestic hearth.  The sanctity of womanhood is incompatible with social liberty and social claims; and for a woman emancipation means corruption.  If you give a stranger the right of entry into the sanctuary of home, do you not put yourself at his mercy?  How then if she herself bids him enter it?  Is not this an offence, or, to speak more accurately, a first step towards an offence?  You must either accept this theory with all its consequences, or absolve illicit passion.  French society hitherto has chosen the third and middle course of looking on and laughing when offences come, apparently upon the Spartan principle of condoning the theft and punishing clumsiness.  And this system, it may be, is a very wise one.  ’Tis a most appalling punishment to have all your neighbors pointing the finger of scorn at you, a punishment that a woman feels in her very heart.  Women are tenacious, and all of them should be tenacious of respect; without esteem they cannot exist, esteem is the first demand that they make of love.  The most corrupt among them feels that she must, in the first place, pledge the future to buy absolution for the past, and strives to make her lover understand that only for irresistible bliss can she barter the respect which the world henceforth will refuse to her.

Some such reflections cross the mind of any woman who for the first time and alone receives a visit from a young man; and this especially when, like Charles de Vandenesse, the visitor is handsome or clever.  And similarly there are not many young men who would fail to base some secret wish on one of the thousand and one ideas which justify the instinct that attracts them to a beautiful, witty, and unhappy woman like the Marquise d’Aiglemont.

Mme. d’Aiglemont, therefore, felt troubled when M. de Vandenesse was announced; and as for him, he was almost confused in spite of the assurance which is like a matter of costume for a diplomatist.  But not for long.  The Marquise took refuge at once in the friendliness of manner which women use as a defence against the misinterpretations of fatuity, a manner which admits of no afterthought, while it paves the way to sentiment (to make use of a figure of speech), tempering the transition through the ordinary forms of politeness.  In this ambiguous position, where the four roads leading respectively to Indifference, Respect, Wonder, and Passion meet, a woman may stay as long as she pleases, but only at thirty years does she understand all the possibilities of the situation.  Laughter, tenderness, and jest are all permitted to her at the crossing of the ways; she has acquired the tact by which she finds all the responsive chords in a man’s nature, and skill in judging the sounds which she draws forth.  Her silence is as dangerous as her speech.  You will never read her at that age, nor discover if she is frank or false, nor how far she is serious in her admissions or merely laughing at you.  She gives you the right to engage in a game of fence with her, and suddenly by a glance, a gesture of proved potency, she closes the combat and turns from you with your secret in her keeping, free to offer you up in a jest, free to interest herself in you, safe alike in her weakness and your strength.

Although the Marquise d’Aiglemont took up her position upon this neutral ground during the first interview, she knew how to preserve a high womanly dignity.  The sorrows of which she never spoke seemed to hang over her assumed gaiety like a light cloud obscuring the sun.  When Vandenesse went out, after a conversation which he had enjoyed more than he had thought possible, he carried with him the conviction that this was like to be too costly a conquest for his aspirations.

“It would mean sentiment from here to yonder,” he thought, “and correspondence enough to wear out a deputy second-clerk on his promotion.  And yet if I really cared——­”

Luckless phrase that has been the ruin of many an infatuated mortal.  In France the way to love lies through self-love.  Charles went back to Mme. d’Aiglemont, and imagined that she showed symptoms of pleasure in his conversion.  And then, instead of giving himself up like a boy to the joy of falling in love, he tried to play a double role.  He did his best to act passion and to keep cool enough to analyze the progress of this flirtation, to be lover and diplomatist at once; but youth and hot blood and analysis could only end in one way, over head and ears in love; for, natural or artificial, the Marquise was more than his match.  Each time he went out from Mme. d’Aiglemont, he strenuously held himself to his distrust, and submitted the progressive situations of his case to a rigorous scrutiny fatal to his own emotions.

“To-day she gave me to understand that she has been very unhappy and lonely,” said he to himself, after the third visit, “and that but for her little girl she would have longed for death.  She was perfectly resigned.  Now as I am neither her brother nor her spiritual director, why should she confide her troubles to me?  She loves me.”

Two days later he came away apostrophizing modern manners.

“Love takes on the hue of every age.  In 1822 love is a doctrinaire.  Instead of proving love by deeds, as in times past, we have taken to argument and rhetoric and debate.  Women’s tactics are reduced to three shifts.  In the first place, they declare that we cannot love as they love. (Coquetry! the Marquise simply threw it at me, like a challenge, this evening!) Next they grow pathetic, to appeal to our natural generosity or self-love; for does it not flatter a young man’s vanity to console a woman for a great calamity?  And lastly, they have a craze for virginity.  She must have thought that I thought her very innocent.  My good faith is like to become an excellent speculation.”

But a day came when every suspicious idea was exhausted.  He asked himself whether the Marquise was not sincere; whether so much suffering could be feigned, and why she should act the part of resignation?  She lived in complete seclusion; she drank in silence of a cup of sorrow scarcely to be guessed unless from the accent of some chance exclamation in a voice always well under control.  From that moment Charles felt a keen interest in Mme. d’Aiglemont.  And yet, though his visits had come to be a recognized thing, and in some sort a necessity to them both, and though the hour was kept free by tacit agreement, Vandenesse still thought that this woman with whom he was in love was more clever than sincere.  “Decidedly, she is an uncommonly clever woman,” he used to say to himself as he went away.

When he came into the room, there was the Marquise in her favorite attitude, melancholy expressed in her whole form.  She made no movement when he entered, only raised her eyes and looked full at him, but the glance that she gave him was like a smile.  Mme. d’Aiglemont’s manner meant confidence and sincere friendship, but of love there was no trace.  Charles sat down and found nothing to say.  A sensation for which no language exists troubled him.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked in a softened voice.

“Nothing. . . .  Yes; I am thinking of something of which, as yet, you have not thought at all.”

“What is it?”

“Why—­the Congress is over.”

“Well,” she said, “and ought you to have been at the Congress?”

A direct answer would have been the most eloquent and delicate declaration of love; but Charles did not make it.  Before the candid friendship in Mme. d’Aiglemont’s face all the calculations of vanity, the hopes of love, and the diplomatist’s doubts died away.  She did not suspect, or she seemed not to suspect, his love for her; and Charles, in utter confusion turning upon himself, was forced to admit that he had said and done nothing which could warrant such a belief on her part.  For M. de Vandenesse that evening, the Marquise was, as she had always been, simple and friendly, sincere in her sorrow, glad to have a friend, proud to find a nature responsive to her own—­nothing more.  It had not entered her mind that a woman could yield twice; she had known love—­love lay bleeding still in the depths of her heart, but she did not imagine that bliss could bring her its rapture twice, for she believed not merely in the intellect, but in the soul; and for her love was no simple attraction; it drew her with all noble attractions.

In a moment Charles became a young man again, enthralled by the splendor of a nature so lofty.  He wished for a fuller initiation into the secret history of a life blighted rather by fate than by her own fault.  Mme. d’Aiglemont heard him ask the cause of the overwhelming sorrow which had blended all the harmonies of sadness with her beauty; she gave him one glance, but that searching look was like a seal set upon some solemn compact.

“Ask no more such questions of me,” she said.  “Four years ago, on this very day, the man who loved me, for whom I would have given up everything, even my own self-respect, died, and died to save my name.  That love was still young and pure and full of illusions when it came to an end.  Before I gave way to passion—­and never was a woman so urged by fate—­I had been drawn into the mistake that ruins many a girl’s life, a marriage with a man whose agreeable manners concealed his emptiness.  Marriage plucked my hopes away one by one.  And now, to-day, I have forfeited happiness through marriage, as well as the happiness styled criminal, and I have known no happiness.  Nothing is left to me.  If I could not die, at least I ought to be faithful to my memories.”

No tears came with the words.  Her eyes fell, and there was a slight twisting of the fingers interclasped, according to her wont.  It was simply said, but in her voice there was a note of despair, deep as her love seemed to have been, which left Charles without a hope.  The dreadful story of a life told in three sentences, with that twisting of the fingers for all comment, the might of anguish in a fragile woman, the dark depths masked by a fair face, the tears of four years of mourning fascinated Vandenesse; he sat silent and diminished in the presence of her woman’s greatness and nobleness, seeing not the physical beauty so exquisite, so perfectly complete, but the soul so great in its power to feel.  He had found, at last, the ideal of his fantastic imaginings, the ideal so vigorously invoked by all who look on life as the raw material of a passion for which many a one seeks ardently, and dies before he has grasped the whole of the dreamed-of treasure.

With those words of hers in his ears, in the presence of her sublime beauty, his own thoughts seemed poor and narrow.  Powerless as he felt himself to find words of his own, simple enough and lofty enough to scale the heights of this exaltation, he took refuge in platitudes as to the destiny of women.

“Madame, we must either forget our pain, or hollow out a tomb for ourselves.”

But reason always cuts a poor figure beside sentiment; the one being essentially restricted, like everything that is positive, while the other is infinite.  To set to work to reason where you are required to feel, is the mark of a limited nature.  Vandenesse therefore held his peace, sat awhile with his eyes fixed upon her, then came away.  A prey to novel thoughts which exalted woman for him, he was in something the same position as a painter who has taken the vulgar studio model for a type of womanhood, and suddenly confronts the Mnemosyne of the Musee —­that noblest and least appreciated of antique statues.

Charles de Vandenesse was deeply in love.  He loved Mme. d’Aiglemont with the loyalty of youth, with the fervor that communicates such ineffable charm to a first passion, with a simplicity of heart of which a man only recovers some fragments when he loves again at a later day.  Delicious first passion of youth, almost always deliciously savored by the woman who calls it forth; for at the golden prime of thirty, from the poetic summit of a woman’s life, she can look out over the whole course of love—­backwards into the past, forwards into the future—­and, knowing all the price to be paid for love, enjoys her bliss with the dread of losing it ever present with her.  Her soul is still fair with her waning youth, and passion daily gathers strength from the dismaying prospect of the coming days.

“This is love,” Vandenesse said to himself this time as he left the Marquise, “and for my misfortune I love a woman wedded to her memories.  It is hard work to struggle against a dead rival, never present to make blunders and fall out of favor, nothing of him left but his better qualities.  What is it but a sort of high treason against the Ideal to attempt to break the charm of memory, to destroy the hopes that survive a lost lover, precisely because he only awakened longings, and all that is loveliest and most enchanting in love?”

These sober reflections, due to the discouragement and dread of failure with which love begins in earnest, were the last expiring effort of diplomatic reasoning.  Thenceforward he knew no afterthoughts, he was the plaything of his love, and lost himself in the nothings of that strange inexplicable happiness which is full fed by a chance word, by silence, or a vague hope.  He tried to love Platonically, came daily to breathe the air that she breathed, became almost a part of her house, and went everywhere with her, slave as he was of a tyrannous passion compounded of egoism and devotion of the completest.  Love has its own instinct, finding the way to the heart, as the feeblest insect finds the way to its flower, with a will which nothing can dismay or turn aside.  If feeling is sincere, its destiny is not doubtful.  Let a woman begin to think that her life depends on the sincerity or fervor or earnestness which her lover shall put into his longings, and is there not sufficient in the thought to put her through all the tortures of dread?  It is impossible for a woman, be she wife or mother, to be secure from a young man’s love.  One thing it is within her power to do—­to refuse to see him as soon as she learns a secret which she never fails to guess.  But this is too decided a step to take at an age when marriage has become a prosaic and tiresome yoke, and conjugal affection is something less than tepid (if indeed her husband has not already begun to neglect her).  Is a woman plain? she is flattered by a love which gives her fairness.  Is she young and charming?  She is only to be won by a fascination as great as her own power to charm, that is to say, a fascination well-nigh irresistible.  Is she virtuous?  There is a love sublime in its earthliness which leads her to find something like absolution in the very greatness of the surrender and glory in a hard struggle.  Everything is a snare.  No lesson, therefore, is too severe where the temptation is so strong.  The seclusion in which the Greeks and Orientals kept and keep their women, an example more and more followed in modern England, is the only safeguard of domestic morality; but under this system there is an end of all the charm of social intercourse; and society, and good breeding, and refinement of manners become impossible.  The nations must take their choice.

So a few months went by, and Mme. d’Aiglemont discovered that her life was closely bound with this young man’s life, without overmuch confusion in her surprise, and felt with something almost like pleasure that she shared his tastes and his thoughts.  Had she adopted Vandenesse’s ideas?  Or was it Vandenesse who had made her lightest whims his own?  She was not careful to inquire.  She had been swept out already into the current of passion, and yet this adorable woman told herself with the confident reiteration of misgiving;

“Ah! no.  I will be faithful to him who died for me.”

Pascal said that “the doubt of God implies belief in God.”  And similarly it may be said that a woman only parleys when she has surrendered.  A day came when the Marquise admitted to herself that she was loved, and with that admission came a time of wavering among countless conflicting thoughts and feelings.  The superstitions of experience spoke their language.  Should she be happy?  Was it possible that she should find happiness outside the limits of the laws which society rightly or wrongly has set up for humanity to live by?  Hitherto her cup of life had been full of bitterness.  Was there any happy issue possible for the ties which united two human beings held apart by social conventions?  And might not happiness be bought too dear?  Still, this so ardently desired happiness, for which it is so natural to seek, might perhaps be found after all.  Curiosity is always retained on the lover’s side in the suit.  The secret tribunal was still sitting when Vandenesse appeared, and his presence put the metaphysical spectre, reason, to flight.

If such are the successive transformations through which a sentiment, transient though it be, passes in a young man and a woman of thirty, there comes a moment of time when the shades of difference blend into each other, when all reasonings end in a single and final reflection which is lost and absorbed in the desire which it confirms.  Then the longer the resistance, the mightier the voice of love.  And here endeth this lesson, or rather this study made from the ecorche, to borrow a most graphic term from the studio, for in this history it is not so much intended to portray love as to lay bare its mechanism and its dangers.  From this moment every day adds color to these dry bones, clothes them again with living flesh and blood and the charm of youth, and puts vitality into their movements; till they glow once more with the beauty, the persuasive grace of sentiment, the loveliness of life.

Charles found Mme. d’Aiglemont absorbed in thought, and to his “What is it?” spoken in thrilling tones grown persuasive with the heart’s soft magic, she was careful not to reply.  The delicious question bore witness to the perfect unity of their spirits; and the Marquise felt, with a woman’s wonderful intuition, that to give any expression to the sorrow in her heart would be to make an advance.  If, even now, each one of those words was fraught with significance for them both, in what fathomless depths might she not plunge at the first step?  She read herself with a clear and lucid glance.  She was silent, and Vandenesse followed her example.

“I am not feeling well,” she said at last, taking alarm at the pause fraught with such great moment for them both, when the language of the eyes completely filled the blank left by the helplessness of speech.

“Madame,” said Charles, and his voice was tender but unsteady with strong feeling, “soul and body are both dependent on each other.  If you were happy, you would be young and fresh.  Why do you refuse to ask of love all that love has taken from you?  You think that your life is over when it is only just beginning.  Trust yourself to a friend’s care.  It is so sweet to be loved.”

“I am old already,” she said; “there is no reason why I should not continue to suffer as in the past.  And ‘one must love,’ do you say?  Well, I must not, and I cannot.  Your friendship has put some sweetness into my life, but beside you I care for no one, no one could efface my memories.  A friend I accept; I should fly from a lover.  Besides, would it be a very generous thing to do, to exchange a withered heart for a young heart; to smile upon illusions which now I cannot share, to cause happiness in which I should either have no belief, or tremble to lose?  I should perhaps respond to his devotion with egoism, should weigh and deliberate while he felt; my memory would resent the poignancy of his happiness.  No, if you love once, that love is never replaced, you see.  Indeed, who would have my heart at this price?”

There was a tinge of heartless coquetry in the words, the last effort of discretion.

“If he loses courage, well and good, I shall live alone and faithful.”  The thought came from the very depths of the woman, for her it was the too slender willow twig caught in vain by a swimmer swept out by the current.

Vandenesse’s involuntary shudder at her dictum plead more eloquently for him than all his past assiduity.  Nothing moves a woman so much as the discovery of a gracious delicacy in us, such a refinement of sentiment as her own, for a woman the grace and delicacy are sure tokens of truth.  Charles’ start revealed the sincerity of his love.  Mme. d’Aiglemont learned the strength of his affection from the intensity of his pain.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said coldly.  “New love, new vexation of spirit.”

Then he changed the subject, and spoke of indifferent matters; but he was visibly moved, and he concentrated his gaze on Mme. d’Aiglemont as if he were seeing her for the last time.

“Adieu, madame,” he said, with emotion in his voice.

“Au revoir,” said she, with that subtle coquetry, the secret of a very few among women.

He made no answer and went.

When Charles was no longer there, when his empty chair spoke for him, regrets flocked in upon her, and she found fault with herself.  Passion makes an immense advance as soon as a woman persuades herself that she has failed somewhat in generosity or hurt a noble nature.  In love there is never any need to be on our guard against the worst in us; that is a safeguard; a woman only surrenders at the summons of a virtue.  “The floor of hell is paved with good intentions,”—­it is no preacher’s paradox.

Vandenesse stopped away for several days.  Every evening at the accustomed hour the Marquise sat expectant in remorseful impatience.  She could not write—­that would be a declaration, and, moreover, her instinct told her that he would come back.  On the sixth day he was announced, and never had she heard the name with such delight.  Her joy frightened her.

“You have punished me well,” she said, addressing him.

Vandenesse gazed at her in astonishment.

“Punished?” he echoed.  “And for what?” He understood her quite well, but he meant to be avenged for all that he had suffered as soon as she suspected it.

“Why have you not come to see me?” she demanded with a smile.

“Then you have seen no visitors?” asked he, parrying the question.

“Yes.  M. de Ronquerolles and M. de Marsay and young d’Escrignon came and stayed for nearly two hours, the first two yesterday, the last this morning.  And besides, I have had a call, I believe, from Mme. Firmiani and from your sister, Mme. de Listomere.”

Here was a new infliction, torture which none can comprehend unless they know love as a fierce and all-invading tyrant whose mildest symptom is a monstrous jealousy, a perpetual desire to snatch away the beloved from every other influence.

“What!” thought he to himself, “she has seen visitors, she has been with happy creatures, and talking to them, while I was unhappy and all alone.”

He buried his annoyance forthwith, and consigned love to the depths of his heart, like a coffin to the sea.  His thoughts were of the kind that never find expression in words; they pass through the mind swiftly as a deadly acid, that poisons as it evaporates and vanishes.  His brow, however, was over-clouded; and Mme. d’Aiglemont, guided by her woman’s instinct, shared his sadness without understanding it.  She had hurt him, unwittingly, as Vandenesse knew.  He talked over his position with her, as if his jealousy were one of those hypothetical cases which lovers love to discuss.  Then the Marquise understood it all.  She was so deeply moved, that she could not keep back the tears —­and so these lovers entered the heaven of love.

Heaven and Hell are two great imaginative conceptions formulating our ideas of Joy and Sorrow—­those two poles about which human existence revolves.  Is not heaven a figure of speech covering now and for evermore an infinite of human feeling impossible to express save in its accidents—­since that Joy is one?  And what is Hell but the symbol of our infinite power to suffer tortures so diverse that of our pain it is possible to fashion works of art, for no two human sorrows are alike?

One evening the two lovers sat alone and side by side, silently watching one of the fairest transformations of the sky, a cloudless heaven taking hues of pale gold and purple from the last rays of the sunset.  With the slow fading of the daylight, sweet thoughts seem to awaken, and soft stirrings of passion, and a mysterious sense of trouble in the midst of calm.  Nature sets before us vague images of bliss, bidding us enjoy the happiness within our reach, or lament it when it has fled.  In those moments fraught with enchantment, when the tender light in the canopy of the sky blends in harmony with the spells working within, it is difficult to resist the heart’s desires grown so magically potent.  Cares are blunted, joy becomes ecstasy; pain, intolerable anguish.  The pomp of sunset gives the signal for confessions and draws them forth.  Silence grows more dangerous than speech for it gives to eyes all the power of the infinite of the heavens reflected in them.  And for speech, the least word has irresistible might.  Is not the light infused into the voice and purple into the glances?  Is not heaven within us, or do we feel that we are in the heavens?

Vandenesse and Julie—­for so she had allowed herself to be called for the past few days by him whom she loved to speak of as Charles —­Vandenesse and Julie were talking together, but they had drifted very far from their original subject; and if their spoken words had grown meaningless they listened in delight to the unspoken thoughts that lurked in the sounds.  Her hand lay in his.  She had abandoned it to him without a thought that she had granted a proof of love.

Together they leaned forward to look out upon a majestic cloud country, full of snows and glaciers and fantastic mountain peaks with gray stains of shadow on their sides, a picture composed of sharp contrasts between fiery red and the shadows of darkness, filling the skies with a fleeting vision of glory which cannot be reproduced —­magnificent swaddling-bands of sunrise, bright shrouds of the dying sun.  As they leaned Julie’s hair brushed lightly against Vandenesse’s cheek.  She felt that light contact, and shuddered violently, and he even more, for imperceptibly they both had reached one of those inexplicable crises when quiet has wrought upon the senses until every faculty of perception is so keen that the slightest shock fills the heart lost in melancholy with sadness that overflows in tears; or raises joy to ecstasy in a heart that is lost in the vertigo of love.  Almost involuntarily Julie pressed her lover’s hand.  That wooing pressure gave courage to his timidity.  All the joy of the present, all the hopes of the future were blended in the emotion of a first caress, the bashful trembling kiss that Mme. d’Aiglemont received upon her cheek.  The slighter the concession, the more dangerous and insinuating it was.  For their double misfortune it was only too sincere a revelation.  Two noble natures had met and blended, drawn each to each by every law of natural attraction, held apart by every ordinance.

General d’Aiglemont came in at that very moment.

“The Ministry has gone out,” he said.  “Your uncle will be in the new cabinet.  So you stand an uncommonly good chance of an embassy, Vandenesse.”

Charles and Julie looked at each other and flushed red.  That blush was one more tie to unite them; there was one thought and one remorse in either mind; between two lovers guilty of a kiss there is a bond quite as strong and terrible as the bond between two robbers who have murdered a man.  Something had to be said by way of reply.

“I do not care to leave Paris now,” Charles said.

“We know why,” said the General, with the knowing air of a man who discovers a secret.  “You do not like to leave your uncle, because you do not wish to lose your chance of succeeding to the title.”

The Marquise took refuge in her room, and in her mind passed a pitiless verdict upon her husband.

“His stupidity is really beyond anything!”