XVII

"Oh! my dear Leopold, no gambler with the last remains of his

fortune in his pocket, bent on staking it at the Cercle des

Etrangers for the last time one night, when he must come away rich

or ruined, ever felt such a perpetual ringing in his ears, such a

nervous moisture on his palms, such a fevered tumult in his brain,

such inward qualms in his body as I go through every day now that

I am playing my last card in the game of ambition. Alas! my dear

and only friend, for nearly ten years now I have been struggling.

This battle with men and things, in which I have unceasingly

poured out my strength and energy, and so constantly worn the

springs of desire, has, so to speak, undermined my vitality. With

all the appearance of a strong man of good health, I feel myself a

wreck. Every day carries with it a shred of my inmost life. At

every fresh effort I feel that I should never be able to begin

again. I have no power, no vigor left but for happiness; and if it

should never come to crown my head with roses, the /me/ that is

really me would cease to exist, I should be a ruined thing. I

should wish for nothing more in the world. I should want to cease

from living. You know that power and fame, the vast moral empire

that I crave, is but secondary; it is to me only a means to

happiness, the pedestal for my idol.

"To reach the goal and die, like the runner of antiquity! To see

fortune and death stand on the threshold hand in hand! To win the

beloved woman just when love is extinct! To lose the faculty of

enjoyment after earning the right to be happy!--Of how many men

has this been the fate!

"But there surely is a moment when Tantalus rebels, crosses his

arms, and defies hell, throwing up his part of the eternal dupe.

That is what I shall come to if anything should thwart my plan;

if, after stooping to the dust of provincial life, prowling like a

starving tiger round these tradesmen, these electors, to secure

their votes; if, after wrangling in these squalid cases, and

giving them my time--the time I might have spent on Lago Maggiore,

seeing the waters she sees, basking in her gaze, hearing her voice

--if, after all, I failed to scale the tribune and conquer the

glory that should surround the name that is to succeed to that of

Argaiolo! Nay, more than this, Leopold; there are days when I feel

a heady languor; deep disgust surges up from the depths of my

soul, especially when, abandoned to long day-dreams, I have lost

myself in anticipation of the joys of blissful love! May it not be

that our desire has only a certain modicum of power, and that it

perishes, perhaps, of a too lavish effusion of its essence? For,

after all, at this present, my life is fair, illuminated by faith,

work, and love.

"Farewell, my friend; I send love to your children, and beg you to

remember me to your excellent wife.--Yours,

"ALBERT."

Rosalie read this letter twice through, and its general purport was

stamped on her heart. She suddenly saw the whole of Albert's previous

existence, for her quick intelligence threw light on all the details,

and enabled her to take it all in. By adding this information to the

little novel published in the /Review/, she now fully understood

Albert. Of course, she exaggerated the greatness, remarkable as it

was, of this lofty soul and potent will, and her love for Albert

thenceforth became a passion, its violence enhanced by all the

strength of her youth, the weariness of her solitude, and the unspent

energy of her character. Love is in a young girl the effect of a

natural law; but when her craving for affection is centered in an

exceptional man, it is mingled with the enthusiasm which overflows in

a youthful heart. Thus Mademoiselle de Watteville had in a few days

reached a morbid and very dangerous stage of enamored infatuation. The

Baroness was much pleased with her daughter, who, being under the

spell of her absorbing thoughts, never resisted her will, seemed to be

devoted to feminine occupations, and realized her mother's ideal of a

docile daughter.

The lawyer was now engaged in Court two or three times a week. Though

he was overwhelmed with business, he found time to attend the trials,

call on the litigious merchants, and conduct the /Review/; keeping up

his personal mystery, from the conviction that the more covert and

hidden was his influence, the more real it would be. But he neglected

no means of success, reading up the list of electors of Besancon, and

finding out their interests, their characters, their various

friendships and antipathies. Did ever a Cardinal hoping to be made

Pope give himself more trouble?

One evening Mariette, on coming to dress Rosalie for an evening party,

handed to her, not without many groans over this treachery, a letter

of which the address made Mademoiselle de Watteville shiver and redden

and turn pale again as she read the address:

To Madame la Duchesse d'Argaiolo

(nee Princesse Soderini)

At Belgirate,

Lago Maggiore, Italy.

In her eyes this direction blazed as the words /Mene/, /Tekel/,

/Upharsin/, did in the eyes of Belshazzar. After concealing the

letter, Rosalie went downstairs to accompany her mother to Madame de

Chavoncourt's; and as long as the endless evening lasted, she was

tormented by remorse and scruples. She had already felt shame at

having violated the secrecy of Albert's letter to Leopold; she had

several times asked herself whether, if he knew of her crime, infamous

inasmuch as it necessarily goes unpunished, the high-minded Albert

could esteem her. Her conscience answered an uncompromising "No."

She had expiated her sin by self-imposed penances; she fasted, she

mortified herself by remaining on her knees, her arms outstretched for

hours, and repeating prayers all the time. She had compelled Mariette

to similar sets of repentance; her passion was mingled with genuine

asceticism, and was all the more dangerous.

"Shall I read that letter, shall I not?" she asked herself, while

listening to the Chavoncourt girls. One was sixteen, the other

seventeen and a half. Rosalie looked upon her two friends as mere

children because they were not secretly in love.--"If I read it," she

finally decided, after hesitating for an hour between Yes and No, "it

shall, at any rate, be the last. Since I have gone so far as to see

what he wrote to his friend, why should I not know what he says to

/her/? If it is a horrible crime, is it not a proof of love? Oh,

Albert! am I not your wife?"

When Rosalie was in bed she opened the letter, dated from day to day,

so as to give the Duchess a faithful picture of Albert's life and

feelings.

"25th.

"My dear Soul, all is well. To my other conquests I have just

added an invaluable one: I have done a service to one of the most

influential men who work the elections. Like the critics, who make

other men's reputations but can never make their own, he makes

deputies though he never can become one. The worthy man wanted to

show his gratitude without loosening his purse-strings by saying

to me, 'Would you care to sit in the Chamber? I can get you

returned as deputy.'

" 'If I ever make up my mind to enter on a political career,'

replied I hypocritically, 'it would be to devote myself to the

Comte, which I love, and where I am appreciated.'

" 'Well,' he said, 'we will persuade you, and through you we shall

have weight in the Chamber, for you will distinguish yourself

there.'

"And so, my beloved angel, say what you will, my perseverance will

be rewarded. Ere long I shall, from the high place of the French

Tribune, come before my country, before Europe. My name will be

flung to you by the hundred voices of the French press.

"Yes, as you tell me, I was old when I came to Besancon, and

Besancon has aged me more; but, like Sixtus V., I shall be young

again the day after my election. I shall enter on my true life, my

own sphere. Shall we not then stand in the same line? Count

Savaron de Savarus, Ambassador I know not where, may surely marry

a Princess Soderini, the widow of the Duc d'Argaiolo! Triumph

restores the youth of men who have been preserved by incessant

struggles. Oh, my Life! with what gladness did I fly from my

library to my private room, to tell your portrait of this progress

before writing to you! Yes, the votes I can command, those of the

Vicar-General, of the persons I can oblige, and of this client,

make my election already sure.