III

"Her stalking-horse was a man in high favor, a courtier, cold and

sanctimonious, whom she never received at her own house. This little

comedy was performed for the benefit of simpletons and drawing-room

circles, who laughed at it. Marriage was never spoken of between us;

six years' difference of age might give her pause; she knew nothing of

my fortune, of which, on principle, I have always kept the secret. I,

on my part, fascinated by her wit and manners, by the extent of her

knowledge and her experience of the world, would have married her

without a thought. At the same time, her reserve charmed me. If she

had been the first to speak of marriage in a certain tone, I might

perhaps have noted it as vulgar in that accomplished soul.

"Six months, full and perfect--a diamond of the purest water! That has

been my portion of love in this base world.

"One morning, attacked by the feverish stiffness which marks the

beginning of a cold, I wrote her a line to put off one of those secret

festivals which are buried under the roofs of Paris like pearls in the

sea. No sooner was the letter sent than remorse seized me: she will

not believe that I am ill! thought I. She was wont to affect jealousy

and suspiciousness.--When jealousy is genuine," said de Marsay,

interrupting himself, "it is the visible sign of an unique passion."

"Why?" asked the Princesse de Cadignan eagerly.

"Unique and true love," said de Marsay, "produces a sort of corporeal

apathy attuned to the contemplation into which one falls. Then the

mind complicates everything; it works on itself, pictures its fancies,

turns them into reality and torment; and such jealousy is as

delightful as it is distressing."

A foreign minister smiled as, by the light of memory, he felt the

truth of this remark.

"Besides," de Marsay went on, "I said to myself, why miss a happy

hour? Was it not better to go, even though feverish? And, then, if she

learns that I am ill, I believe her capable of hurrying here and

compromising herself. I made an effort; I wrote a second letter, and

carried it myself, for my confidential servant was now gone. The river

lay between us. I had to cross Paris; but at last, within a suitable

distance of her house, I caught sight of a messenger; I charged him to

have the note sent up to her at once, and I had the happy idea of

driving past her door in a hackney cab to see whether she might not by

chance receive the two letters together. At the moment when I arrived

it was two o'clock; the great gate opened to admit a carriage. Whose?

--That of the stalking-horse!

"It is fifteen years since--well, even while I tell the tale, I, the

exhausted orator, the Minister dried up by the friction of public

business, I still feel a surging in my heart and the hot blood about

my diaphragm. At the end of an hour I passed once more; the carriage

was still in the courtyard! My note no doubt was in the porter's

hands. At last, at half-past three, the carriage drove out. I could

observe my rival's expression; he was grave, and did not smile; but he

was in love, and no doubt there was business in hand.

"I went to keep my appointment; the queen of my heart met me; I saw

her calm, pure, serene. And here I must confess that I have always

thought that Othello was not only stupid, but showed very bad taste.

Only a man who is half a Negro could behave so: indeed Shakespeare

felt this when he called his play 'The Moor of Venice.' The sight of

the woman we love is such a balm to the heart that it must dispel

anguish, doubt, and sorrow. All my rage vanished. I could smile again.

Hence this cheerfulness, which at my age now would be the most

atrocious dissimulation, was the result of my youth and my love. My

jealousy once buried, I had the power of observation. My ailing

condition was evident; the horrible doubts that had fermented in me

increased it. At last I found an opening for putting in these words:

'You have had no one with you this morning?' making a pretext of the

uneasiness I had felt in the fear lest she should have disposed of her

time after receiving my first note.--'Ah!' she exclaimed, 'only a man

could have such ideas! As if I could think of anything but your

suffering. Till the moment when I received your second note I could

think only of how I could contrive to see you.'--'And you were

alone?'--'Alone,' said she, looking at me with a face of innocence so

perfect that it must have been his distrust of such a look as that

which made the Moor kill Desdemona. As she lived alone in the house,

the word was a fearful lie. One single lie destroys the absolute

confidence which to some souls is the very foundation of happiness.

"To explain to you what passed in me at that moment it must be assumed

that we have an internal self of which the exterior /I/ is but the

husk; that this self, as brilliant as light, is as fragile as a shade

--well, that beautiful self was in me thenceforth for ever shrouded in

crape. Yes; I felt a cold and fleshless hand cast over me the winding-

sheet of experience, dooming me to the eternal mourning into which the

first betrayal plunges the soul. As I cast my eyes down that she might

not observe my dizziness, this proud thought somewhat restored my

strength: 'If she is deceiving you, she is unworthy of you!'

"I ascribed my sudden reddening and the tears which started to my eyes

to an attack of pain, and the sweet creature insisted on driving me

home with the blinds of the cab drawn. On the way she was full of a

solicitude and tenderness that might have deceived the Moor of Venice

whom I have taken as a standard of comparison. Indeed, if that great

child were to hesitate two seconds longer, every intelligent spectator

feels that he would ask Desdemona's forgiveness. Thus, killing the

woman is the act of a boy.--She wept as we parted, so much was she

distressed at being unable to nurse me herself. She wished she were my

valet, in whose happiness she found a cause of envy, and all this was

as elegantly expressed, oh! as Clarissa might have written in her

happiness. There is always a precious ape in the prettiest and most

angelic woman!"

At these words all the women looked down, as if hurt by this brutal

truth so brutally stated.

"I will say nothing of the night, nor of the week I spent," de Marsay

went on. "I discovered that I was a statesman."

It was so well said that we all uttered an admiring exclamation.

"As I thought over the really cruel vengeance to be taken on a woman,"

said de Marsay, continuing his story, "with infernal ingenuity--for,

as we had loved each other, some terrible and irreparable revenges

were possible--I despised myself, I felt how common I was, I

insensibly formulated a horrible code--that of Indulgence. In taking

vengeance on a woman, do we not in fact admit that there is but one

for us, that we cannot do without her? And, then, is revenge the way

to win her back? If she is not indispensable, if there are other women

in the world, why not grant her the right to change which we assume?