The Marriage Contract

THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT—­THIRD DAY

Though the excitement of the fete had driven from Paul’s mind the anxious thoughts that now and then assailed it, when he was alone with himself and in his bed they returned to torment him.

“It seems to me,” he said to himself, “that without that good Mathias my mother-in-law would have tricked me.  And yet, is that believable?  What interest could lead her to deceive me?  Are we not to join fortunes and live together?  Well, well, why should I worry about it?  In two days Natalie will be my wife, our money relations are plainly defined, nothing can come between us.  Vogue la galere—­Nevertheless, I’ll be upon my guard.  Suppose Mathias was right?  Well, if he was, I’m not obliged to marry my mother-in-law.”

In this second battle of the contract Paul’s future had completely changed in aspect, though he was not aware of it.  Of the two persons whom he was marrying, one, the cleverest, was now his mortal enemy, and meditated already withdrawing her interests from the common fund.  Incapable of observing the difference that a Creole nature placed between his mother-in-law and other women, Paul was far from suspecting her craftiness.  The Creole nature is apart from all others; it derives from Europe by its intellect, from the tropics by the illogical violence of its passions, from the East by the apathetic indifference with which it does, or suffers, either good or evil, equally,—­a graceful nature withal, but dangerous, as a child is dangerous if not watched.  Like a child, the Creole woman must have her way immediately; like a child, she would burn a house to boil an egg.  In her soft and easy life she takes no care upon her mind; but when impassioned, she thinks of all things.  She has something of the perfidy of the Negroes by whom she has been surrounded from her cradle, but she is also as naive and even, at times, as artless as they.  Like them and like the children, she wishes doggedly for one thing with a growing intensity of desire, and will brood upon that idea until she hatches it.  A strange assemblage of virtues and defects! which her Spanish nature had strengthened in Madame Evangelista, and over which her French experience had cast the glaze of its politeness.

This character, slumbering in married happiness for sixteen years, occupied since then with the trivialities of social life, this nature to which a first hatred had revealed its strength, awoke now like a conflagration; at the moment of the woman’s life when she was losing the dearest object of her affections and needed another element for the energy that possessed her, this flame burst forth.  Natalie could be but three days more beneath her influence!  Madame Evangelista, vanquished at other points, had one clear day before her, the last of those that a daughter spends beside her mother.  A few words, and the Creole nature could influence the lives of the two beings about to walk together through the brambled paths and the dusty high-roads of Parisian society, for Natalie believed in her mother blindly.  What far-reaching power would the counsel of that Creole nature have on a mind so subservient!  The whole future of these lives might be determined by one single speech.  No code, no human institution can prevent the crime that kills by words.  There lies the weakness of social law; in that is the difference between the morals of the great world and the morals of the people:  one is frank, the other hypocritical; one employs the knife, the other the venom of ideas and language; to one death, to the other impunity.

The next morning, about mid-day, Madame Evangelista was half seated, half lying on the edge of her daughter’s bed.  During that waking hour they caressed and played together in happy memory of their loving life; a life in which no discord had ever troubled either the harmony of their feelings, the agreement of their ideas, or the mutual choice and enjoyment of their pleasures.

“Poor little darling!” said the mother, shedding true tears, “how can I help being sorrowful when I think that after I have fulfilled your every wish during your whole life you will belong, to-morrow night, to a man you must obey?”

“Oh, my dear mother, as for obeying!—­” and Natalie made a little motion of her head which expressed a graceful rebellion.  “You are joking,” she continued.  “My father always gratified your caprices; and why not? he loved you.  And I am loved, too.”

“Yes, Paul has a certain love for you.  But if a married woman is not careful nothing more rapidly evaporates than conjugal love.  The influence a wife ought to have over her husband depends entirely on how she begins with him.  You need the best advice.”

“But you will be with us.”

“Possibly, my child.  Last night, while the ball was going on, I reflected on the dangers of our being together.  If my presence were to do you harm, if the little acts by which you ought slowly, but surely, to establish your authority as a wife should be attributed to my influence, your home would become a hell.  At the first frown I saw upon your husband’s brow I, proud as I am, should instantly leave his house.  If I were driven to leave it, better, I think, not to enter it.  I should never forgive your husband if he caused trouble between us.  Whereas, when you have once become the mistress, when your husband is to you what your father was to me, that danger is no longer to be feared.  Though this wise policy will cost your young and tender heart a pang, your happiness demands that you become the absolute sovereign of your home.”

“Then why, mamma, did you say just now I must obey him?”

“My dear little daughter, in order that a wife may rule, she must always seem to do what her husband wishes.  If you were not told this you might by some impulsive opposition destroy your future.  Paul is a weak young man; he might allow a friend to rule him; he might even fall under the dominion of some woman who would make you feel her influence.  Prevent such disasters by making yourself from the very start his ruler.  Is it not better that he be governed by you than by others?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Natalie.  “I should think only of his happiness.”

“And it is my privilege, darling, to think only of yours, and to wish not to leave you at so crucial a moment without a compass in the midst of the reefs through which you must steer.”

“But, dearest mother, are we not strong enough, you and I, to stay together beside him, without having to fear those frowns you seem to dread.  Paul loves you, mamma.”

“Oh! oh!  He fears me more than he loves me.  Observe him carefully to-day when I tell him that I shall let you go to Paris without me, and you will see on his face, no matter what pains he takes to conceal it, his inward joy.”

“Why should he feel so?”

“Why?  Dear child!  I am like Saint-Jean Bouche-d’Or.  I will tell that to himself, and before you.”

“But suppose I marry on condition that you do not leave me?” urged Natalie.

“Our separation is necessary,” replied her mother.  “Several considerations have greatly changed my future.  I am now poor.  You will lead a brilliant life in Paris, and I could not live with you suitably without spending the little that remains to me.  Whereas, if I go to Lanstrac, I can take care of your property there and restore my fortune by economy.”

“You, mamma! You practise economy!” cried Natalie, laughing.  “Don’t begin to be a grandmother yet.  What! do you mean to leave me for such reasons as those?  Dear mother, Paul may seem to you a trifle stupid, but he is not one atom selfish or grasping.”

“Ah!” replied Madame Evangelista, in a tone of voice big with suggestions which made the girl’s heart throb, “those discussions about the contract have made me distrustful.  I have my doubts about him—­But don’t be troubled, dear child,” she added, taking her daughter by the neck and kissing her.  “I will not leave you long alone.  Whenever my return can take place without making difficulty between you, whenever Paul can rightly judge me, we will begin once more our happy little life, our evening confidences—­”

“Oh! mother, how can you think of living without your Natalie?”

“Because, dear angel, I shall live for her.  My mother’s heart will be satisfied in the thought that I contribute, as I ought, to your future happiness.”

“But, my dear, adorable mother, must I be alone with Paul, here, now, all at once?  What will become of me? what will happen? what must I do? what must I not do?”

“Poor child! do you think that I would utterly abandon you to your first battle?  We will write to each other three times a week like lovers.  We shall thus be close to each other’s hearts incessantly.  Nothing can happen to you that I shall not know, and I can save you from all misfortune.  Besides, it would be too ridiculous if I never went to see you; it would seem to show dislike or disrespect to your husband; I will always spend a month or two every year with you in Paris.”

“Alone, already alone, and with him!” cried Natalie in terror, interrupting her mother.

“But you wish to be his wife?”

“Yes, I wish it.  But tell me how I should behave,—­you, who did what you pleased with my father.  You know the way; I’ll obey you blindly.”

Madame Evangelista kissed her daughter’s forehead.  She had willed and awaited this request.

“Child, my counsels must adept themselves to circumstances.  All men are not alike.  The lion and the frog are not more unlike than one man compared with another,—­morally, I mean.  Do I know to-day what will happen to you to-morrow?  No; therefore I can only give you general advice upon the whole tenor of your conduct.”

“Dear mother, tell me, quick, all that you know yourself.”

“In the first place, my dear child, the cause of the failure of married women who desire to keep their husbands’ hearts—­and,” she said, making a parenthesis, “to keep their hearts and rule them is one and the same thing—­Well, the principle cause of conjugal disunion is to be found in perpetual intercourse, which never existed in the olden time, but which has been introduced into this country of late years with the mania for family.  Since the Revolution the manners and customs of the bourgeois have invaded the homes of the aristocracy.  This misfortune is due to one of their writers, Rousseau, an infamous heretic, whose ideas were all anti-social and who pretended, I don’t know how, to justify the most senseless things.  He declared that all women had the same rights and the same faculties; that living in a state of society we ought, nevertheless, to obey nature—­as if the wife of a Spanish grandee, as if you or I had anything in common with the women of the people!  Since then, well-bred women have suckled their children, have educated their daughters, and stayed in their own homes.  Life has become so involved that happiness is almost impossible,—­for a perfect harmony between natures such as that which has made you and me live as two friends is an exception.  Perpetual contact is as dangerous for parents and children as it is for husband and wife.  There are few souls in which love survives this fatal omnipresence.  Therefore, I say, erect between yourself and Paul the barriers of society; go to balls and operas; go out in the morning, dine out in the evenings, pay visits constantly, and grant but little of your time to your husband.  By this means you will always keep your value to him.  When two beings bound together for life have nothing to live upon but sentiment, its resources are soon exhausted, indifference, satiety, and disgust succeed.  When sentiment has withered what will become of you?  Remember, affection once extinguished can lead to nothing but indifference or contempt.  Be ever young and ever new to him.  He may weary you,—­that often happens,—­but you must never weary him.  The faculty of being bored without showing it is a condition of all species of power.  You cannot diversify happiness by the cares of property or the occupations of a family.  If you do not make your husband share your social interests, if you do not keep him amused you will fall into a dismal apathy.  Then begins the SPLEEN of love.  But a man will always love the woman who amuses him and keeps him happy.  To give happiness and to receive it are two lines of feminine conduct which are separated by a gulf.”

“Dear mother, I am listening to you, but I don’t understand one word you say.”

“If you love Paul to the extent of doing all he asks of you, if you make your happiness depend on him, all is over with your future life; you will never be mistress of your home, and the best precepts in the world will do you no good.”

“That is plainer; but I see the rule without knowing how to apply it,” said Natalie, laughing.  “I have the theory; the practice will come.”

“My poor Ninie,” replied the mother, who dropped an honest tear at the thought of her daughter’s marriage, “things will happen to teach it to you—­And,” she continued, after a pause, during which the mother and daughter held each other closely embraced in the truest sympathy, “remember this, my Natalie:  we all have our destiny as women, just as men have their vocation as men.  A woman is born to be a woman of the world and a charming hostess, as a man is born to be a general or a poet.  Your vocation is to please.  Your education has formed you for society.  In these days women should be educated for the salon as they once were for the gynoecium.  You were not born to be the mother of a family or the steward of a household.  If you have children, I hope they will not come to spoil your figure on the morrow of your marriage; nothing is so bourgeois as to have a child at once.  If you have them two or three years after your marriage, well and good; governesses and tutors will bring them up.  You are to be the lady, the great lady, who represents the luxury and the pleasure of the house.  But remember one thing—­let your superiority be visible in those things only which flatter a man’s self-love; hide the superiority you must also acquire over him in great things.”

“But you frighten me, mamma,” cried Natalie.  “How can I remember all these precepts?  How shall I ever manage, I, such a child, and so heedless, to reflect and calculate before I act?”

“But, my dear little girl, I am telling you to-day that which you must surely learn later, buying your experience by fatal faults and errors of conduct which will cause you bitter regrets and embarrass your whole life.”

“But how must I begin?” asked Natalie, artlessly.

“Instinct will guide you,” replied her mother.  “At this moment Paul desires you more than he loves you; for love born of desires is a hope; the love that succeeds their satisfaction is the reality.  There, my dear, is the question; there lies your power.  What woman is not loved before marriage?  Be so on the morrow and you shall remain so always.  Paul is a weak man who is easily trained to habit.  If he yields to you once he will yield always.  A woman ardently desired can ask all things; do not commit the folly of many women who do not see the importance of the first hours of their sway,—­that of wasting your power on trifles, on silly things with no result.  Use the empire your husband’s first emotions give you to accustom him to obedience.  And when you make him yield, choose that it be on some unreasonable point, so as to test the measure of your power by the measure of his concession.  What victory would there be in making him agree to a reasonable thing?  Would that be obeying you?  We must always, as the Castilian proverb says, take the bull by the horns; when a bull has once seen the inutility of his defence and of his strength he is beaten.  When your husband does a foolish thing for you, you can govern him.”

“Why so?”

“Because, my child, marriage lasts a lifetime, and a husband is not a man like other men.  Therefore, never commit the folly of giving yourself into his power in everything.  Keep up a constant reserve in your speech and in your actions.  You may even be cold to him without danger, for you can modify coldness at will.  Besides, nothing is more easy to maintain than our dignity.  The words, ’It is not becoming in your wife to do thus and so,’ is a great talisman.  The life of a woman lies in the words, ‘I will not.’  They are the final argument.  Feminine power is in them, and therefore they should only be used on real occasions.  But they constitute a means of governing far beyond that of argument or discussion.  I, my dear child, reigned over your father by his faith in me.  If your husband believes in you, you can do all things with him.  To inspire that belief you must make him think that you understand him.  Do not suppose that that is an easy thing to do.  A woman can always make a man think that he is loved, but to make him admit that he is understood is far more difficult.  I am bound to tell you all now, my child, for to-morrow life with its complications, life with two wills which must be made one, begins for you.  Bear in mind, at all moments, that difficulty.  The only means of harmonizing your two wills is to arrange from the first that there shall be but one; and that will must be yours.  Many persons declare that a wife creates her own unhappiness by changing sides in this way; but, my dear, she can only become the mistress by controlling events instead of bearing them; and that advantage compensates for any difficulty.”

Natalie kissed her mother’s hands with tears of gratitude.  Like all women in whom mental emotion is never warmed by physical emotion, she suddenly comprehended the bearings of this feminine policy; but, like a spoiled child that never admits the force of reason and returns obstinately to its one desire, she came back to the charge with one of those personal arguments which the logic of a child suggests:—­

“Dear mamma,” she said, “it is only a few days since you were talking of Paul’s advancement, and saying that you alone could promote it; why, then, do you suddenly turn round and abandon us to ourselves?”

“I did not then know the extent of my obligations nor the amount of my debts,” replied the mother, who would not suffer her real motive to be seen.  “Besides, a year or two hence I can take up that matter again.  Come, let us dress; Paul will be here soon.  Be as sweet and caressing as you were,—­you know?—­that night when we first discussed this fatal contract; for to-day we must save the last fragments of our fortune, and I must win for you a thing to which I am superstitiously attached.”

“What is it?”

“The ‘Discreto.’”

Paul arrived about four o’clock.  Though he endeavored to meet his mother-in-law with a gracious look upon his face, Madame Evangelista saw traces of the clouds which the counsels of the night and the reflections of the morning had brought there.

“Mathias has told him!” she thought, resolving to defeat the old notary’s action.  “My dear son,” she said, “you left your diamonds in the drawer of the console, and I frankly confess that I would rather not see again the things that threatened to bring a cloud between us.  Besides, as Monsieur Mathias said, they ought to be sold at once to meet the first payment on the estates you have purchased.”

“They are not mine,” he said.  “I have given them to Natalie, and when you see them upon her you will forget the pain they caused you.”

Madame Evangelista took his hand and pressed it cordially, with a tear of emotion.

“Listen to me, my dear children,” she said, looking from Paul to Natalie; “since you really feel thus, I have a proposition to make to both of you.  I find myself obliged to sell my pearl necklace and my earrings.  Yes, Paul, it is necessary; I do not choose to put a penny of my fortune into an annuity; I know what I owe to you.  Well, I admit a weakness; to sell the ‘Discreto’ seems to me a disaster.  To sell a diamond which bears the name of Philip the Second and once adorned his royal hand, an historic stone which the Duke of Alba touched for ten years in the hilt of his sword—­no, no, I cannot!  Elie Magus estimates my necklace and ear-rings at a hundred and some odd thousand francs without the clasps.  Will you exchange the other jewels I made over to you for these? you will gain by the transaction, but what of that?  I am not selfish.  Instead of those mere fancy jewels, Paul, your wife will have fine diamonds which she can really enjoy.  Isn’t it better that I should sell those ornaments which will surely go out of fashion, and that you should keep in the family these priceless stones?”

“But, my dear mother, consider yourself,” said Paul.

“I,” replied Madame Evangelista, “I want such things no longer.  Yes, Paul, I am going to be your bailiff at Lanstrac.  It would be folly in me to go to Paris at the moment when I ought to be here to liquidate my property and settle my affairs.  I shall grow miserly for my grandchildren.”

“Dear mother,” said Paul, much moved, “ought I to accept this exchange without paying you the difference?”

“Good heavens! are you not, both of you, my dearest interests?  Do you suppose I shall not find happiness in thinking, as I sit in my chimney-corner, ’Natalie is dazzling to-night at the Duchesse de Berry’s ball’?  When she sees my diamond at her throat and my ear-rings in her ears she will have one of those little enjoyments of vanity which contribute so much to a woman’s happiness and make her so gay and fascinating.  Nothing saddens a woman more than to have her vanity repressed; I have never seen an ill-dressed woman who was amiable or good-humored.”

“Heavens! what was Mathias thinking about?” thought Paul.  “Well, then, mamma,” he said, in a low voice, “I accept.”

“But I am confounded!” said Natalie.

At this moment Solonet arrived to announce the good news that he had found among the speculators of Bordeaux two contractors who were much attracted by the house, the gardens of which could be covered with dwellings.

“They offer two hundred and fifty thousand francs,” he said; “but if you consent to the sale, I can make them give you three hundred thousand.  There are three acres of land in the garden.”

“My husband paid two hundred thousand for the place, therefore I consent,” she replied.  “But you must reserve the furniture and the mirrors.”

“Ah!” said Solonet, “you are beginning to understand business.”

“Alas!  I must,” she said, sighing.

“I am told that a great many persons are coming to your midnight service,” said Solonet, perceiving that his presence was inopportune, and preparing to go.

Madame Evangelista accompanied him to the door of the last salon, and there she said, in a low voice:—­

“I now have personal property to the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand francs; if I can get two hundred thousand for my share of the house it will make a handsome capital, which I shall want to invest to the very best advantage.  I count on you for that.  I shall probably live at Lanstrac.”

The young notary kissed his client’s hand with a gesture of gratitude; for the widow’s tone of voice made Solonet fancy that this alliance, really made from self-interest only, might extend a little farther.

“You can count on me,” he replied.  “I can find you investments in merchandise on which you will risk nothing and make very considerable profits.”

“Adieu until to-morrow,” she said; “you are to be our witness, you know, with Monsieur le Marquis de Gyas.”

“My dear mother,” said Paul, when she returned to them, “why do you refuse to come to Paris?  Natalie is provoked with me, as if I were the cause of your decision.”

“I have thought it all over, my children, and I am sure that I should hamper you.  You would feel obliged to make me a third in all you did, and young people have ideas of their own which I might, unintentionally, thwart.  Go to Paris.  I do not wish to exercise over the Comtesse de Manerville the gentle authority I have held over Natalie.  I desire to leave her wholly to you.  Don’t you see, Paul, that there are habits and ways between us which must be broken up?  My influence ought to yield to yours.  I want you to love me, and to believe that I have your interests more at heart than you think for.  Young husbands are, sooner or later, jealous for the love of a wife for her mother.  Perhaps they are right.  When you are thoroughly united, when love has blended your two souls into one, then, my dear son, you will not fear an opposing influence if I live in your house.  I know the world, and men, and things; I have seen the peace of many a home destroyed by the blind love of mothers who made themselves in the end as intolerable to their daughters as to their sons-in-law.  The affection of old people is often exacting and querulous.  Perhaps I could not efface myself as I should.  I have the weakness to think myself still handsome; I have flatterers who declare that I am still agreeable; I should have, I fear, certain pretensions which might interfere with your lives.  Let me, therefore, make one more sacrifice for your happiness.  I have given you my fortune, and now I desire to resign to you my last vanities as a woman.  Your notary Mathias is getting old.  He cannot look after your estates as I will.  I will be your bailiff; I will create for myself those natural occupations which are the pleasures of old age.  Later, if necessary, I will come to you in Paris, and second you in your projects of ambition.  Come, Paul, be frank; my proposal suits you, does it not?”

Paul would not admit it, but he was at heart delighted to get his liberty.  The suspicions which Mathias had put into his mind respecting his mother-in-law were, however, dissipated by this conversation, which Madame Evangelista carried on still longer in the same tone.

“My mother was right,” thought Natalie, who had watched Paul’s countenance.  “He is glad to know that I am separated from her—­why?”

That “why” was the first note of a rising distrust; did it prove the power of those maternal instructions?

There are certain characters which on the faith of a single proof believe in friendship.  To persons thus constituted the north wind drives away the clouds as rapidly as the south wind brings them; they stop at effects and never hark back to causes.  Paul had one of those essentially confiding natures, without ill-feelings, but also without foresight.  His weakness proceeded far more from his kindness, his belief in goodness, than from actual debility of soul.

Natalie was sad and thoughtful, for she knew not what to do without her mother.  Paul, with that self-confident conceit which comes of love, smiled to himself at her sadness, thinking how soon the pleasures of marriage and the excitements of Paris would drive it away.  Madame Evangelista saw this confidence with much satisfaction.  She had already taken two great steps.  Her daughter possessed the diamonds which had cost Paul two hundred thousand francs; and she had gained her point of leaving these two children to themselves with no other guide than their illogical love.  Her revenge was thus preparing, unknown to her daughter, who would, sooner or later, become its accomplice.  Did Natalie love Paul?  That was a question still undecided, the answer to which might modify her projects, for she loved her daughter too sincerely not to respect her happiness.  Paul’s future, therefore, still depended on himself.  If he could make his wife love him, he was saved.

The next day, at midnight, after an evening spent together, with the addition of the four witnesses, to whom Madame Evangelista gave the formal dinner which follows the legal marriage, the bridal pair, accompanied by their friends, heard mass by torchlight, in presence of a crowd of inquisitive persons.  A marriage celebrated at night always suggests to the mind an unpleasant omen.  Light is the symbol of life and pleasure, the forecasts of which are lacking to a midnight wedding.  Ask the intrepid soul why it shivers; why the chill of those black arches enervates it; why the sound of steps startles it; why it notices the cry of bats and the hoot of owls.  Though there is absolutely no reason to tremble, all present do tremble, and the darkness, emblem of death, saddens them.  Natalie, parted from her mother, wept.  The girl was now a prey to those doubts which grasp the heart as it enters a new career in which, despite all assurances of happiness, a thousand pitfalls await the steps of a young wife.  She was cold and wanted a mantle.  The air and manner of Madame Evangelista and that of the bridal pair excited some comment among the elegant crowd which surrounded the altar.

“Solonet tells me that the bride and bridegroom leave for Paris to-morrow morning, all alone.”

“Madame Evangelista was to live with them, I thought.”

“Count Paul has got rid of her already.”

“What a mistake!” said the Marquise de Gyas.  “To shut the door on the mother of his wife is to open it to a lover.  Doesn’t he know what a mother is?”

“He has been very hard on Madame Evangelista; the poor woman has had to sell her house and her diamonds, and is going to live at Lanstrac.”

“Natalie looks very sad.”

“Would you like to be made to take a journey the day after your marriage?”

“It is very awkward.”

“I am glad I came here to-night,” said a lady.  “I am now convinced of the necessity of the pomps of marriage and of wedding fetes; a scene like this is very bare and sad.  If I may say what I think,” she added, in a whisper to her neighbor, “this marriage seems to me indecent.”

Madame Evangelista took Natalie in her carriage and accompanied her, alone, to Paul’s house.

“Well, mother, it is done!”

“Remember, my dear child, my last advice, and you will be a happy woman.  Be his wife, and not his mistress.”

When Natalie had retired, the mother played the little comedy of flinging herself with tears into the arms of her son-in-law.  It was the only provincial thing that Madame Evangelista allowed herself, but she had her reasons for it.  Amid tears and speeches, apparently half wild and despairing, she obtained of Paul those concessions which all husbands make.

The next day she put the married pair into their carriage, and accompanied them to the ferry, by which the road to Paris crosses the Gironde.  With a look and a word Natalie enabled her mother to see that if Paul had won the trick in the game of the contract, her revenge was beginning.  Natalie was already reducing her husband to perfect obedience.