Duchess of Langeais — Section 7

The General turned abruptly from her and went.

But out in the street he brushed away the tears that he would not let fall.

The religious phase lasted for three months.

At the end of that time the Duchess grew weary of vain repetitions; the Deity, bound hand and foot, was delivered up to her lover.

Possibly she may have feared that by sheer dint of talking of eternity she might perpetuate his love in this world and the next.

For her own sake, it must be believed that no man had touched her heart, or her conduct would be inexcusable.

She was young; the time when men and women feel that they cannot afford to lose time or to quibble over their joys was still far off.

She, no doubt, was on the verge not of first love, but of her first experience of the bliss of love.

And from inexperience, for want of the painful lessons which would have taught her to value the treasure poured out at her feet, she was playing with it.

Knowing nothing of the glory and rapture of the light, she was fain to stay in the shadow.

Armand was just beginning to understand this strange situation; he put his hope in the first word spoken by nature.

Every evening, as he came away from Mme de Langeais’, he told himself that no woman would accept the tenderest, most delicate proofs of a man’s love during seven months, nor yield passively to the slighter demands of passion, only to cheat love at the last.

He was waiting patiently for the sun to gain power, not doubting but that he should receive the earliest fruits.

The married woman’s hesitations and the religious scruples he could quite well understand.

He even rejoiced over those battles.

He mistook the Duchess’s heartless coquetry for modesty; and he would not have had her otherwise.

So he had loved to see her devising obstacles; was he not gradually triumphing over them?

Did not every victory won swell the meagre sum of lovers’ intimacies long denied, and at last conceded with every sign of love?

Still, he had had such leisure to taste the full sweetness of every small successive conquest on which a lover feeds his love, that these had come to be matters of use and wont.

So far as obstacles went, there were none now save his own awe of her; nothing else left between him and his desire save the whims of her who allowed him to call her Antoinette.

So he made up his mind to demand more, to demand all.

Embarrassed like a young lover who cannot dare to believe that his idol can stoop so low, he hesitated for a long time.

He passed through the experience of terrible reactions within himself.

A set purpose was annihilated by a word, and definite resolves died within him on the threshold.

He despised himself for his weakness, and still his desire remained unuttered.

Nevertheless, one evening, after sitting in gloomy melancholy, he brought out a fierce demand for his illegally legitimate rights.

The Duchess had not to wait for her bond-slave’s request to guess his desire.

When was a man’s desire a secret?

And have not women an intuitive knowledge of the meaning of certain changes of countenance?

“What!

you wish to be my friend no longer?

” she broke in at the first words, and a divine red surging like new blood under the transparent skin, lent brightness to her eyes.

“As a reward for my generosity, you would dishonor me?

Just reflect a little.

I myself have thought much over this; and I think always for us _both_.

There is such a thing as a woman’s loyalty, and we can no more fail in it than you can fail in honour.

_I_ cannot blind myself.

If I am yours, how, in any sense, can I be M. de Langeais’ wife?

Can you require the sacrifice of my position, my rank, my whole life in return for a doubtful love that could not wait patiently for seven months?

What!

already you would rob me of my right to dispose of myself?

No, no; you must not talk like this again.

No, not another word.

I will not, I cannot listen to you.

” Mme de Langeais raised both hands to her head to push back the tufted curls from her hot forehead; she seemed very much excited.

“You come to a weak woman with your purpose definitely planned out.

You say--‘For a certain length of time she will talk to me of her husband, then of God, and then of the inevitable consequences.

But I will use and abuse the ascendancy I shall gain over her; I will make myself indispensable; all the bonds of habit, all the misconstructions of outsiders, will make for me; and at length, when our _liaison_ is taken for granted by all the world, I shall be this woman’s master.

’--Now, be frank; these are your thoughts!

Oh!

you calculate, and you say that you love.

Shame on you!

You are enamoured?

Ah!

that I well believe!

You wish to possess me, to have me for your mistress, that is all!

Very well then, No!

The _Duchesse de Langeais_ will not descend so far.

Simple _bourgeoises_ may be the victims of your treachery--I, never!

Nothing gives me assurance of your love.

You speak of my beauty; I may lose every trace of it in six months, like the dear Princess, my neighbour.

You are captivated by my wit, my grace.

Great Heavens!

you would soon grow used to them and to the pleasures of possession.

Have not the little concessions that I was weak enough to make come to be a matter of course in the last few months?

Some day, when ruin comes, you will give me no reason for the change in you beyond a curt, ‘I have ceased to care for you.

’--Then, rank and fortune and honour and all that was the Duchesse de Langeais will be swallowed up in one disappointed hope.

I shall have children to bear witness to my shame, and----” With an involuntary gesture she interrupted herself, and continued: “But I am too good-natured to explain all this to you when you know it better than I.

Come!

let us stay as we are.

I am only too fortunate in that I can still break these bonds which you think so strong.

Is there anything so very heroic in coming to the Hotel de Langeais to spend an evening with a woman whose prattle amuses you?

--a woman whom you take for a plaything?

Why, half a dozen young coxcombs come here just as regularly every afternoon between three and five.

They, too, are very generous, I am to suppose?

I make fun of them; they stand my petulance and insolence pretty quietly, and make me laugh; but as for you, I give all the treasures of my soul to you, and you wish to ruin me, you try my patience in endless ways.

Hush, that will do, that will do,” she continued, seeing that he was about to speak, “you have no heart, no soul, no delicacy.

I know what you want to tell me.

Very well, then--yes.

I would rather you should take me for a cold, insensible woman, with no devotion in her composition, no heart even, than be taken by everybody else for a vulgar person, and be condemned to your so-called pleasures, of which you would most certainly tire, and to everlasting punishment for it afterwards.

Your selfish love is not worth so many sacrifices....

” The words give but a very inadequate idea of the discourse which the Duchess trilled out with the quick volubility of a bird-organ.

Nor, truly, was there anything to prevent her from talking on for some time to come, for poor Armand’s only reply to the torrent of flute notes was a silence filled with cruelly painful thoughts.

He was just beginning to see that this woman was playing with him; he divined instinctively that a devoted love, a responsive love, does not reason and count the consequences in this way.

Then, as he heard her reproach him with detestable motives, he felt something like shame as he remembered that unconsciously he had made those very calculations.

With angelic honesty of purpose, he looked within, and self-examination found nothing but selfishness in all his thoughts and motives, in the answers which he framed and could not utter.

He was self-convicted.

In his despair he longed to fling himself from the window.

The egoism of it was intolerable.

What indeed can a man say when a woman will not believe in love?

--Let me prove how much I love you.

--The _I_ is always there.

The heroes of the boudoir, in such circumstances, can follow the example of the primitive logician who preceded the Pyrrhonists and denied movement.

Montriveau was not equal to this feat.

With all his audacity, he lacked this precise kind which never deserts an adept in the formulas of feminine algebra.

If so many women, and even the best of women, fall a prey to a kind of expert to whom the vulgar give a grosser name, it is perhaps because the said experts are great _provers_, and love, in spite of its delicious poetry of sentiment, requires a little more geometry than people are wont to think.

Now the Duchess and Montriveau were alike in this--they were both equally unversed in love lore.

The lady’s knowledge of theory was but scanty; in practice she knew nothing whatever; she felt nothing, and reflected over everything.

Montriveau had had but little experience, was absolutely ignorant of theory, and felt too much to reflect at all.

Both therefore were enduring the consequences of the singular situation.

At that supreme moment the myriad thoughts in his mind might have been reduced to the formula--“Submit to be mine----” words which seem horribly selfish to a woman for whom they awaken no memories, recall no ideas.

Something nevertheless he must say.

And what was more, though her barbed shafts had set his blood tingling, though the short phrases that she discharged at him one by one were very keen and sharp and cold, he must control himself lest he should lose all by an outbreak of anger.

“Mme la Duchesse, I am in despair that God should have invented no way for a woman to confirm the gift of her heart save by adding the gift of her person.

The high value which you yourself put upon the gift teaches me that I cannot attach less importance to it.

If you have given me your inmost self and your whole heart, as you tell me, what can the rest matter?

And besides, if my happiness means so painful a sacrifice, let us say no more about it.

But you must pardon a man of spirit if he feels humiliated at being taken for a spaniel.

” The tone in which the last remark was uttered might perhaps have frightened another woman; but when the wearer of a petticoat has allowed herself to be addressed as a Divinity, and thereby set herself above all other mortals, no power on earth can be so haughty.

“M. le Marquis, I am in despair that God should not have invented some nobler way for a man to confirm the gift of his heart than by the manifestation of prodigiously vulgar desires.

We become bond-slaves when we give ourselves body and soul, but a man is bound to nothing by accepting the gift.

Who will assure me that love will last?

The very love that I might show for you at every moment, the better to keep your love, might serve you as a reason for deserting me.

I have no wish to be a second edition of Mme de Beauseant.

Who can ever know what it is that keeps you beside us?

Our persistent coldness of heart is the cause of an unfailing passion in some of you; other men ask for an untiring devotion, to be idolized at every moment; some for gentleness, others for tyranny.

No woman in this world as yet has really read the riddle of man’s heart.

” There was a pause.

When she spoke again it was in a different tone.

“After all, my friend, you cannot prevent a woman from trembling at the question, ‘Will this love last always?

’ Hard though my words may be, the dread of losing you puts them into my mouth.

Oh, me!

it is not I who speaks, dear, it is reason; and how should anyone so mad as I be reasonable?

In truth, I am nothing of the sort.

” The poignant irony of her answer had changed before the end into the most musical accents in which a woman could find utterance for ingenuous love.

To listen to her words was to pass in a moment from martyrdom to heaven.

Montriveau grew pale; and for the first time in his life, he fell on his knees before a woman.

He kissed the Duchess’s skirt hem, her knees, her feet; but for the credit of the Faubourg Saint-Germain it is necessary to respect the mysteries of its boudoirs, where many are fain to take the utmost that Love can give without giving proof of love in return.

The Duchess thought herself generous when she suffered herself to be adored.

But Montriveau was in a wild frenzy of joy over her complete surrender of the position.

“Dear Antoinette,” he cried.

“Yes, you are right; I will not have you doubt any longer.

I too am trembling at this moment--lest the angel of my life should leave me; I wish I could invent some tie that might bind us to each other irrevocably.

” “Ah!

” she said, under her breath, “so I was right, you see.

” “Let me say all that I have to say; I will scatter all your fears with a word.

Listen!

if I deserted you, I should deserve to die a thousand deaths.

Be wholly mine, and I will give you the right to kill me if I am false.

I myself will write a letter explaining certain reasons for taking my own life; I will make my final arrangements, in short.

You shall have the letter in your keeping; in the eye of the law it will be a sufficient explanation of my death.

You can avenge yourself, and fear nothing from God or men.

” “What good would the letter be to me?

What would life be if I had lost your love?

If I wished to kill you, should I not be ready to follow?

No;

thank you for the thought, but I do not want the letter.

Should I not begin to dread that you were faithful to me through fear?

And if a man knows that he must risk his life for a stolen pleasure, might it not seem more tempting?

Armand, the thing I ask of you is the one hard thing to do.

” “Then what is it that you wish?

” “Your obedience and my liberty.

” “Ah, God!

” cried he, “I am a child.

” “A wayward, much spoilt child,” she said, stroking the thick hair, for his head still lay on her knee.

“Ah!

and loved far more than he believes, and yet he is very disobedient.

Why not stay as we are?

Why not sacrifice to me the desires that hurt me?

Why not take what I can give, when it is all that I can honestly grant?

Are you not happy?

” “Oh yes, I am happy when I have not a doubt left.

Antoinette, doubt in love is a kind of death, is it not?

” In a moment he showed himself as he was, as all men are under the influence of that hot fever; he grew eloquent, insinuating.

And the Duchess tasted the pleasures which she reconciled with her conscience by some private, Jesuitical ukase of her own; Armand’s love gave her a thrill of cerebral excitement which custom made as necessary to her as society, or the Opera.

To feel that she was adored by this man, who rose above other men, whose character frightened her; to treat him like a child; to play with him as Poppaea played with Nero--many women, like the wives of King Henry VIII, have paid for such a perilous delight with all the blood in their veins.

Grim presentiment!

Even as she surrendered the delicate, pale, gold curls to his touch, and felt the close pressure of his hand, the little hand of a man whose greatness she could not mistake; even as she herself played with his dark, thick locks, in that boudoir where she reigned a queen, the Duchess would say to herself: “This man is capable of killing me if he once finds out that I am playing with him.

” Armand de Montriveau stayed with her till two o’clock in the morning.

From that moment this woman, whom he loved, was neither a duchess nor a Navarreins; Antoinette, in her disguises, had gone so far as to appear to be a woman.

On that most blissful evening, the sweetest prelude ever played by a Parisienne to what the world calls “a slip”; in spite of all her affectations of a coyness which she did not feel, the General saw all maidenly beauty in her.

He had some excuse for believing that so many storms of caprice had been but clouds covering a heavenly soul;

that these must be lifted one by one like the veils that hid her divine loveliness.

The Duchess became, for him, the most simple and girlish mistress; she was the one woman in the world for him; and he went away quite happy in that at last he had brought her to give him such pledges of love, that it seemed to him impossible but that he should be but her husband henceforth in secret, her choice sanctioned by Heaven.

Armand went slowly home, turning this thought in his mind with the impartiality of a man who is conscious of all the responsibilities that love lays on him while he tastes the sweetness of its joys.

He went along the Quais to see the widest possible space of sky; his heart had grown in him; he would fain have had the bounds of the firmament and of earth enlarged.

It seemed to him that his lungs drew an ampler breath.

In the course of his self-examination, as he walked, he vowed to love this woman so devoutly, that every day of her life she should find absolution for her sins against society in unfailing happiness.

Sweet stirrings of life when life is at the full!

The man that is strong enough to steep his soul in the colour of one emotion, feels infinite joy as glimpses open out for him of an ardent lifetime that knows no diminution of passion to the end; even so it is permitted to certain mystics, in ecstasy, to behold the Light of God.

Love would be naught without the belief that it would last forever; love grows great through constancy.

It was thus that, wholly absorbed by his happiness, Montriveau understood passion.

“We belong to each other forever!

” The thought was like a talisman fulfilling the wishes of his life.

He did not ask whether the Duchess might not change, whether her love might not last.

No, for he had faith.

Without that virtue there is no future for Christianity, and perhaps it is even more necessary to society.

A conception of life as feeling occurred to him for the first time;

hitherto he had lived by action, the most strenuous exertion of human energies, the physical devotion, as it may be called, of the soldier.

Next day M. de Montriveau went early in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

He had made an appointment at a house not far from the Hotel de Langeais; and the business over, he went thither as if to his own home.

The General’s companion chanced to be a man for whom he felt a kind of repulsion whenever he met him in other houses.

This was the Marquis de Ronquerolles, whose reputation had grown so great in Paris boudoirs.

He was witty, clever, and what was more--courageous; he set the fashion to all the young men in Paris.

As a man of gallantry, his success and experience were equally matters of envy; and neither fortune nor birth was wanting in his case, qualifications which add such lustre in Paris to a reputation as a leader of fashion.

“Where are you going?

” asked M. de Ronquerolles.

“To Mme de Langeais’.

” “Ah, true.

I forgot that you had allowed her to lime(sp) you.

You are wasting your affections on her when they might be much better employed elsewhere.

I could have told you of half a score of women in the financial world, any one of them a thousand times better worth your while than that titled courtesan, who does with her brains what less artificial women do with----” “What is this, my dear fellow?

” Armand broke in.

“The Duchess is an angel of innocence.

” Ronquerolles began to laugh.

“Things being thus, dear boy,” said he, “it is my duty to enlighten you.

Just a word; there is no harm in it between ourselves.

Has the Duchess surrendered?

If so, I have nothing more to say.

Come, give me your confidence.

There is no occasion to waste your time in grafting your great nature on that unthankful stock, when all your hopes and cultivation will come to nothing.

” Armand ingenuously made a kind of general report of his position, enumerating with much minuteness the slender rights so hardly won.

Ronquerolles burst into a peal of laughter so heartless, that it would have cost any other man his life.

But from their manner of speaking and looking at each other during that colloquy beneath the wall, in a corner almost as remote from intrusion as the desert itself, it was easy to imagine the friendship between the two men knew no bounds, and that no power on earth could estrange them.

“My dear Armand, why did you not tell me that the Duchess was a puzzle to you?

I would have given you a little advice which might have brought your flirtation properly through.

You must know, to begin with, that the women of our Faubourg, like any other women, love to steep themselves in love; but they have a mind to possess and not to be possessed.

They have made a sort of compromise with human nature.

The code of their parish gives them a pretty wide latitude short of the last transgression.

The sweets enjoyed by this fair Duchess of yours are so many venial sins to be washed away in the waters of penitence.

But if you had the impertinence to ask in earnest for the moral sin to which naturally you are sure to attach the highest importance, you would see the deep disdain with which the door of the boudoir and the house would be incontinently shut upon you.

The tender Antoinette would dismiss everything from her memory; you would be less than a cipher for her.

She would wipe away your kisses, my dear friend, as indifferently as she would perform her ablutions.

She would sponge love from her cheeks as she washes off rouge.

We know women of that sort--the thorough-bred Parisienne.

Have you ever noticed a grisette tripping along the street?

Her face is as good as a picture.

A pretty cap, fresh cheeks, trim hair, a guileful smile, and the rest of her almost neglected.

Is not this true to the life?

Well, that is the Parisienne.

She knows that her face is all that will be seen, so she devotes all her care, finery, and vanity to her head.

The Duchess is the same; the head is everything with her.

She can only feel through her intellect, her heart lies in her brain, she is a sort of intellectual epicure, she has a head-voice.

We call that kind of poor creature a Lais of the intellect.

You have been taken in like a boy.

If you doubt it, you can have proof of it tonight, this morning, this instant.

Go up to her, try the demand as an experiment, insist peremptorily if it is refused.

You might set about it like the late Marechal de Richelieu, and get nothing for your pains.

” Armand was dumb with amazement.

“Has your desire reached the point of infatuation?

” “I want her at any cost!

” Montriveau cried out despairingly.

“Very well.

Now, look here.

Be as inexorable as she is herself.

Try to humiliate her, to sting her vanity.

Do _not_ try to move her heart, nor her soul, but the woman’s nerves and temperament, for she is both nervous and lymphatic.

If you can once awaken desire in her, you are safe.

But you must drop these romantic boyish notions of yours.

If when once you have her in your eagle’s talons you yield a point or draw back, if you so much as stir an eyelid, if she thinks that she can regain her ascendancy over you, she will slip out of your clutches like a fish, and you will never catch her again.

Be as inflexible as law.

Show no more charity than the headsman.

Hit hard, and then hit again.

Strike and keep on striking as if you were giving her the knout.

Duchesses are made of hard stuff, my dear Armand; there is a sort of feminine nature that is only softened by repeated blows; and as suffering develops a heart in women of that sort, so it is a work of charity not to spare the rod.

Do you persevere.

Ah!

when pain has thoroughly relaxed those nerves and softened the fibres that you take to be so pliant and yielding; when a shriveled heart has learned to expand and contract and to beat under this discipline; when the brain has capitulated--then, perhaps, passion may enter among the steel springs of this machinery that turns out tears and affectations and languors and melting phrases; then you shall see a most magnificent conflagration (always supposing that the chimney takes fire).

The steel feminine system will glow red-hot like iron in the forge; that kind of heat lasts longer than any other, and the glow of it may possibly turn to love.

“Still,” he continued, “I have my doubts.

And, after all, is it worth while to take so much trouble with the Duchess?

Between ourselves a man of my stamp ought first to take her in hand and break her in; I would make a charming woman of her; she is a thoroughbred; whereas, you two left to yourselves will never get beyond the A B C. But you are in love with her, and just now you might not perhaps share my views on this subject----.

A pleasant time to you, my children,” added Ronquerolles, after a pause.

Then with a laugh: “I have decided myself for facile beauties; they are tender, at any rate, the natural woman appears in their love without any of your social seasonings.

A woman that haggles over herself, my poor boy, and only means to inspire love!

Well, have her like an extra horse--for show.

The match between the sofa and confessional, black and white, queen and knight, conscientious scruples and pleasure, is an uncommonly amusing game of chess.

And if a man knows the game, let him be never so little of a rake, he wins in three moves.

Now, if I undertook a woman of that sort, I should start with the deliberate purpose of----” His voice sank to a whisper over the last words in Armand’s ear, and he went before there was time to reply.

As for Montriveau, he sprang at a bound across the courtyard of the Hotel de Langeais, went unannounced up the stairs straight to the Duchess’s bedroom.

“This is an unheard-of thing,” she said, hastily wrapping her dressing-gown about her.

“Armand!

this is abominable of you!

Come, leave the room, I beg.

Just go out of the room, and go at once.

Wait for me in the drawing-room.

--Come now!

” “Dear angel, has a plighted lover no privilege whatsoever?

” “But, monsieur, it is in the worst possible taste of a plighted lover or a wedded husband to break in like this upon his wife.

” He came up to the Duchess, took her in his arms, and held her tightly to him.

“Forgive, dear Antoinette; but a host of horrid doubts are fermenting in my heart.

” “_Doubts_?

Fie!

--Oh, fie on you!

” “Doubts all but justified.

If you loved me, would you make this quarrel?

Would you not be glad to see me?

Would you not have felt a something stir in your heart?

For I, that am not a woman, feel a thrill in my inmost self at the mere sound of your voice.

Often in a ballroom a longing has come upon me to spring to your side and put my arms about your neck.

” “Oh!

if you have doubts of me so long as I am not ready to spring to your arms before all the world, I shall be doubted all my life long, I suppose.

Why, Othello was a mere child compared with you!

” “Ah!

” he cried despairingly, “you have no love for me----” “Admit, at any rate, that at this moment you are not lovable.

” “Then I have still to find favour in your sight?

” “Oh, I should think so.

Come,” added she, “with a little imperious air, go out of the room, leave me.

I am not like you; I wish always to find favour in your eyes.

” Never woman better understood the art of putting charm into insolence, and does not the charm double the effect?