XVII

When Augustine was so imprudent as to set forth her serious grievances

against her husband, the two old people were speechless with

indignation. But the word "divorce" was ere long spoken by Madame

Guillaume. At the sound of the word divorce the apathetic old draper

seemed to wake up. Prompted by his love for his daughter, and also by

the excitement which the proceedings would bring into his uneventful

life, father Guillaume took up the matter. He made himself the leader

of the application for a divorce, laid down the lines of it, almost

argued the case; he offered to be at all the charges, to see the

lawyers, the pleaders, the judges, to move heaven and earth. Madame de

Sommervieux was frightened, she refused her father's services, said

she would not be separated from her husband even if she were ten times

as unhappy, and talked no more about her sorrows. After being

overwhelmed by her parents with all the little wordless and consoling

kindnesses by which the old couple tried in vain to make up to her for

her distress of heart, Augustine went away, feeling the impossibility

of making a superior mind intelligible to weak intellects. She had

learned that a wife must hide from every one, even from her parents,

woes for which it is so difficult to find sympathy. The storms and

sufferings of the upper spheres are appreciated only by the lofty

spirits who inhabit there. In any circumstance we can only be judged

by our equals.

Thus poor Augustine found herself thrown back on the horror of her

meditations, in the cold atmosphere of her home. Study was indifferent

to her, since study had not brought her back her husband's heart.

Initiated into the secret of these souls of fire, but bereft of their

resources, she was compelled to share their sorrows without sharing

their pleasures. She was disgusted with the world, which to her seemed

mean and small as compared with the incidents of passion. In short,

her life was a failure.

One evening an idea flashed upon her that lighted up her dark grief

like a beam from heaven. Such an idea could never have smiled on a

heart less pure, less virtuous than hers. She determined to go to the

Duchesse de Carigliano, not to ask her to give her back her husband's

heart, but to learn the arts by which it had been captured; to engage

the interest of this haughty fine lady for the mother of her lover's

children; to appeal to her and make her the instrument of her future

happiness, since she was the cause of her present wretchedness.

So one day Augustine, timid as she was, but armed with supernatural

courage, got into her carriage at two in the afternoon to try for

admittance to the boudoir of the famous coquette, who was never

visible till that hour. Madame de Sommervieux had not yet seen any of

the ancient and magnificent mansions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. As

she made her way through the stately corridors, the handsome

staircases, the vast drawing-rooms--full of flowers, though it was in

the depth of winter, and decorated with the taste peculiar to women

born to opulence or to the elegant habits of the aristocracy,

Augustine felt a terrible clutch at her heart; she coveted the secrets

of an elegance of which she had never had an idea; she breathed in an

air of grandeur which explained the attraction of the house for her

husband. When she reached the private rooms of the Duchess she was

filled with jealousy and a sort of despair, as she admired the

luxurious arrangement of the furniture, the draperies and the

hangings. Here disorder was a grace, here luxury affected a certain

contempt of splendor. The fragrance that floated in the warm air

flattered the sense of smell without offending it. The accessories of

the rooms were in harmony with a view, through plate-glass windows, of

the lawns in a garden planted with evergreen trees. It was all

bewitching, and the art of it was not perceptible. The whole spirit of

the mistress of these rooms pervaded the drawing-room where Augustine

awaited her. She tried to divine her rival's character from the aspect

of the scattered objects; but there was here something as impenetrable

in the disorder as in the symmetry, and to the simple-minded young

wife all was a sealed letter. All that she could discern was that, as

a woman, the Duchess was a superior person. Then a painful thought

came over her.

"Alas! And is it true," she wondered, "that a simple and loving heart

is not all-sufficient to an artist; that to balance the weight of

these powerful souls they need a union with feminine souls of a

strength equal to their own? If I had been brought up like this siren,

our weapons at least might have been equal in the hour of struggle."

"But I am not at home!" The sharp, harsh words, though spoken in an

undertone in the adjoining boudoir, were heard by Augustine, and her

heart beat violently.

"The lady is in there," replied the maid.

"You are an idiot! Show her in," replied the Duchess, whose voice was

sweeter, and had assumed the dulcet tones of politeness. She evidently

now meant to be heard.

Augustine shyly entered the room. At the end of the dainty boudoir she

saw the Duchess lounging luxuriously on an ottoman covered with brown

velvet and placed in the centre of a sort of apse outlined by soft

folds of white muslin over a yellow lining. Ornaments of gilt bronze,

arranged with exquisite taste, enhanced this sort of dais, under which

the Duchess reclined like a Greek statue. The dark hue of the velvet

gave relief to every fascinating charm. A subdued light, friendly to

her beauty, fell like a reflection rather than a direct illumination.

A few rare flowers raised their perfumed heads from costly Sevres

vases. At the moment when this picture was presented to Augustine's

astonished eyes, she was approaching so noiselessly that she caught a

glance from those of the enchantress. This look seemed to say to some

one whom Augustine did not at first perceive, "Stay; you will see a

pretty woman, and make her visit seem less of a bore."