Part 2

Therefore, to kill a woman is the act of a child. She wept as she left me at my own door, so unhappy was she at not being able to nurse me herself! She wished she were my valet, she was jealous of his cares! All this was written to me the next day as a happy Clarissa might have written it. There is always the soul of a monkey in the sweetest and most angelic of women!” At these words the women present lowered their eyes as if wounded by a cruel truth so brutally stated. “I tell you nothing of the night, nor of the week that I passed,” continued de Marsay, “but it was then that I saw myself a statesman.” Those words were so finely uttered that, one and all, we made a gesture of admiration. “While reflecting, with an infernal spirit, on all the forms of cruel vengeance to which we can subject a woman,” continued de Marsay--“and there were many and irreparable ones in this case--I suddenly despised myself; I felt that I was commonplace, and I formulated, insensibly, a dreadful code, that of Indulgence. To take revenge upon a woman--does not such an act admit that there is but one woman in the world for us, and that we cannot live without her? If so, is vengeance a means to recover her? But if she is not indispensable to us, if there are others for us, why not allow her the same right to change that we claim for ourselves?

This, you must fully understand, applies only to passion; otherwise it would be anti-social; nothing proves the necessity of indissoluble marriage more than the instability of passion. The two sexes need to be chained together like the wild beasts that they are, in laws as mute and unchangeable as fate. Suppress revenge, and betrayal becomes nothing in love, its teeth are drawn. Those who think that there exists but one woman in the world for them, _they_ may take to vengeance, and then there is but one form for it--that of Othello. Mine was different; it was this--” The last three words produced among us that imperceptible movement which journalists describe in parliamentary debates as “profound sensation.” “Cured of my cold and of pure, absolute, divinest love, I let myself go into an adventure with another heroine, who was charming, of a style of beauty exactly opposite to that of my deceiving angel. I took good care, however, not to break with that very clever creature and good comedian, for I don’t know whether a true love can of itself give more graceful enjoyments than accomplished treachery. Such hypocrisy equals virtue. I don’t say this for you Englishmen,” added the minister, gently, addressing Lady Marimore, daughter of Lord Dudley. “Well, I even tried to fall in love.

It happened that I wanted for this new angel a little gift done with my own hair, and I went to a certain artist in hair, much in vogue in those days, who lived in the rue Boucher. This man had a monopoly of gifts done in hair, and I give his address for the benefit of those who haven’t much hair of their own; he keeps locks of all kinds and all colors. After receiving my order, he showed me his work. I then saw products of patients surpassing those of fairy tales and even of convicts; and he put me up to all the caprices and fashions which reigned in the realm of hair. “‘For the last year,’ he said to me, ‘there has been a rage for marking linen with hair; happily, I had a fine collection on hand and excellent work-women.’ “Hearing these words, a suspicion crossed my mind. I drew out my handkerchief and said to him: “‘Probably this was done at your place, with false hair?’ “He looked attentively at the handkerchief and said: “‘That lady was very difficult to suit; she insisted on matching the very shade of her hair. My wife marked those handkerchiefs herself. You have there, monsieur, one of the finest things of the kind ever executed.’ “Before this last flash of light I might still have believed in something; I could still have given some attention to a woman’s word. I left that shop having faith in pleasure, but, in the matter of love, as much of an atheist as a mathematician.

Two months later I was seated beside my angelic deceiver on a sofa in her boudoir. I was holding one of her hands, which were very beautiful, and together we were climbing the Alps of sentiment, gathering flowers by the way, plucking the petals from the daisies (there is always a moment in life when we pluck out the daisy petals, though it may be in a salon where there are no daisies). At the moment of deepest tenderness, when we seem to love the most, love is so conscious of its lack of duration that one feels an invincible need to ask: ‘Do you love me?’--‘Will you love me always?’ I seized that lyrical moment, so warm, so flowery, so expansive, to make her tell her finest lies, with the ravishing exaggerations of that Gascon poetry peculiar to love. Charlotte then displayed the choicest flowers of her deception: she could not live without me; I was the only man in all the world to her; yet she feared to weary me, for in my presence her mind forsook her; near me her faculties became all love; she was too loving not to have many fears; of late she had sought a means to attach me forever to her side; but God alone could do that.” The women who were listening to de Marsay seemed offended by his mimicry; for he accompanied these words with pantomime, poses of the head, and affectations of manner, which conveyed the scene. “At the moment when I was expected to believe these adorable falsehoods, I said to her, still holding her right hand in mine: “‘When do you marry the duke?’ “The thrust was so direct, my glance met hers so straight, that the quiver of her hand lying softly in mine, slight as it was, could not be completely concealed. Her eyes fell before mine, and a slight flush came into her cheeks. “‘The duke!’ she said, feigning the utmost astonishment. ‘What can you mean?’ “‘I know all,’ I replied. ‘In my opinion you had better not delay the marriage. He is rich, he is a duke; but also, he is religious--more than that, he is a bigot! You don’t seem aware how urgent it is that you should make him commit himself in his own eyes and before God; if you don’t do this soon you will never gain your end.’ “‘Is this a dream?’ she said, pushing up her hair from her forehead with Malibran’s celebrated gesture, fifteen years before Malibran ever made it. “‘Come, don’t play the babe unborn, my angel,’ I said, trying to take both her hands. But she crossed them in front of her with an angry and prudish little air. ‘Marry him, I am willing,’ I continued. ‘In fact, I strongly advise it.’ “‘But,’ she said, falling at my feet, ‘there’s some horrible mistake here; I love no man but you in this world; you can ask me for any proof you like.’ “‘Rise, my dear,’ I said, ‘and do me the honor to be frank.’ “‘Yes, before Heaven.’ “‘Do you doubt my love?’ “‘No.’ “‘My fidelity?’ “‘No.’ “‘Well, then, I have committed the greatest of crimes,’ I went on. ‘I have doubted your love and your fidelity; and I have looked at the matter calmly--’ “‘Calmly!’ she cried, sighing. ‘Enough, Henri, I see that you no longer love me.’ “You observe that she was quick to seize that way of escape.

In such scenes an adverb is often very dangerous. But luckily curiosity induced her to add: “‘What have you seen or heard? Have I ever spoken to the duke except in society? Have you ever noticed in my eyes--’ “‘No,’ I said, ‘but I have in his. You have made me go eight times to Saint-Thomas d’Aquin to see you both hearing mass together.’ “‘Ah!’ she cried, ‘at last I have made you jealous!’ “‘I wish I could be,’ I replied, admiring the suppleness of that quick mind, and the acrobatic feats by which she strove to blind me. ‘But, by dint of going to church, I have become an unbeliever. The day of my first cold and your first deception you received the duke when you thought me safe in bed, and you told me you had seen no man.’ “‘Do you know that your conduct is infamous?’ “‘How so? I think your marriage with the duke an excellent affair; he gives you a fine name, the only position that is really suited to you, an honorable and brilliant future. You will be one of the queens of Paris.

I should do you a great wrong if I placed any obstacles in the way of this arrangement, this honorable life, this superb alliance. Ah! some day, Charlotte, you will do me justice by discovering how different my character is from that of other young men. You are on the point of being forced to break with me, and yet you would have found it very difficult to do so. The duke is watching you; his virtue is very stern, and it is high time that you and I should part. You will have to be a prude, I warn you of that. The duke is a vain man, and he wants to be proud of his wife.’ “‘Ah!’ she said, bursting into tears, ‘Henri, if you had only spoken!’ (you see she was determined to put the blame on me)--‘yes, if you had wished it we could have lived all our lives together, married, happy before the world, or in some quiet corner of it.’ “‘Well, it is too late now,’ I said, kissing her hands and assuming the air of a victim. “‘But I can undo it all,’ she said. “‘No, you have gone too far with the duke. I shall even make a journey, to separate us from each other more completely. We should each have to fear the love of our own hearts.’ “‘Do you think, Henri, that the duke has any suspicions?’ “‘I think not,’ I replied, ‘but he is watching you.

Make yourself _dévote_, attend to your religious duties, for the duke is seeking proof; he is hesitating, and you ought to make him come to a decision.’ “She rose, walked about the boudoir in a state of agitation either feigned or real; then she found a pose and a glance which she no doubt felt to be in harmony with the situation; for she stopped before me, held out her hand, and said in a voice full of emotion: “‘Henri, you are a loyal, noble, charming man, and I shall never forget you.’ “This was excellent strategy. She was enchanting in this attitude, which was necessary to the situation in which she wanted to stand toward me. I assumed the manner of a man so distressed that she took me by the hand and led me--almost threw me, though gently--on the sofa, saying, after a moment’s silence: ‘I am deeply grieved, my friend. You love me truly?’ “‘Oh, yes.’ “‘Then what will become of you?’” Here all the women present exchanged glances. “I have suffered once more in thus recalling her treachery, but at any rate I still laugh at the air of conviction and soft inward satisfaction which she felt, if not at my death, at least at my eternal unhappiness,” continued de Marsay. “Oh! you needn’t laugh yet,” he said to the guests; “the best is still to come. I looked at her very tenderly, after a pause, and said: “‘Yes, that is what I have asked myself.’ “‘What will you do?’ “‘I asked myself that question the morning after the cold I told you of.’ “‘And?--’ she said, with visible uneasiness. “‘I began to pay court to that little lady whom I had for my substitute.’ “Charlotte sprang up from the sofa like a frightened doe; she trembled like a leaf, as she cast upon me one of those looks in which a woman forgets her dignity, her modesty, her craftiness, even her grace--the glittering glance of a hunted serpent, forced to its hole--and said: “‘I, who loved him! I, who struggled! I, who--’ “On that third idea, which I leave you to guess, she made the finest organ pause ears ever listened to. “‘Good heavens!’ she cried, ‘how wretched women are! We are never truly loved.

There is nothing genuine to men in the purest sentiments. But, let me tell you, though you trick us, you are still our dupes.’ “‘So I see,’ I said with a contrite air. ‘You have too much wit in your anger for your heart to suffer much.’ “This modest sarcasm redoubled her wrath; she now wept tears of rage. “‘You have degraded life and the world in my eyes,’ she said; ‘you have torn away all my illusions, you have debased my heart--’ “In short, she said to me all that I had the right to say to her, with an unconcealed simplicity, a naive effrontery, which would certainly have got the better of any man but me. “‘What will become of us, poor hapless women, in the social life which Louis XVIII’s Charter has created for us? Yes, we were born to suffer. As for love, we are always above you, and you are always below us, in loyalty. None of you have honesty in your hearts. For you, love is a game in which you think it fair to cheat.’ “‘Dear,’ I said, ‘to take things seriously in our present social life would be to play at perfect love with an actress.’ “‘What infamous treachery!’ she cried. ‘So this has all been reasoned out?’ “‘No; it is simply reasonable.’ “‘Farewell, Monsieur de Marsay,’ she said; ‘you have deceived me shamefully.’ “‘Will Madame la duchesse,’ I asked in a submissive manner, ‘remember Charlotte’s wrongs?’ “‘Assuredly,’ she said in a bitter tone. “‘So then, you detest me?’ “She inclined her head; and I left her to a sentiment which allowed her to think that she had something to avenge. My friends, I have deeply studied the lives of men who have had success with women; and I feel sure that neither the Maréchal de Richelieu, nor Lauzun, nor Louis de Valois ever made, for the first time, so able a retreat. As for my own heart and mind, they were formed then and forever; and the control I gained over the unreflecting impulses which cause us to commit so many follies gave me the coolness and self-possession which you know of.” “How I pity the second woman!” said the Baronne de Nucingen.

An almost imperceptible smile which flickered for a moment on de Marsay’s pale lips made Delphine de Nucingen color. “How people forget!” cried the Baron de Nucingen. The naiveté of the celebrated banker had such success that his wife, who had been that “second” of de Marsay’s, could not help laughing with the rest of the company. “You are all disposed to condemn that woman,” said Lady Dudley, “but I can understand why she should not consider her marriage in the light of an inconstancy. Men never will distinguish between constancy and fidelity. I knew the woman whose history Monsieur de Marsay has just related; she was one of the last of your great ladies.” “Alas! you are right there,” said de Marsay. “For the last fifty years we have been taking part in the steady destruction of all social distinctions. We ought to have saved women from the great shipwreck, but the Civil Code has passed its level over their heads. However terrible the words may be, they must be said; the duchess is disappearing, and so is the marquise. As for baronesses (I ask pardon of Madame de Nucingen, who will make herself a true countess when her husband becomes peer of France), the baronesses have never been regarded seriously.” “Aristocracy begins with the viscountess,” remarked Blondet, smiling. “Countesses will remain,” said de Marsay. “An elegant woman will always be more or less a countess--countess of the Empire, or of yesterday, countess of the _vieille roche_, or, as they say in Italy, countess of civility. But as for the _great lady_, she is dead--dead with the grandiose surroundings of the last century; dead with her powder, _mouches_, and high-heeled slippers, and her busked corset adorned with its triangle of flowing ribbons.

Duchesses in the present day can pass through ordinary doors that are not widened to admit a hoop. The Empire saw the last of the gowns with trains. Napoleon little imagined the effects of the Code of which he was so proud. That man, by creating his _duchesses_, generated the race of _comme il faut_[2] women whom we see today--the resulting product of his legislation.” “Thought, used as a hammer by the lad leaving school and the nameless journalist, has demolished the splendors of the social state,” said the Comte de Vandenesse. “Today, any absurd fellow who can hold his head above a collar, cover his manly breast with half a yard of satin in the form of a waistcoat, present a brow shining with future genius under his frizzed hair, and blunder along in varnished pumps and silk socks costing half a dozen francs, now wears a glass in the arch of one eye by squeezing his cheek against it and--whether he’s a lawyer’s clerk, the son of a contractor, or a banker’s bastard--ogles impertinently the prettiest duchess, rates her charms as she comes down the staircase of a theater, and says to his friend (clothed by Buisson, like the rest of us), ‘There, my dear fellow, is a _comme il faut_ woman.’” “You have never made yourselves,” said Lord Dudley, “into a party; it will be long now before you have any place politically. A great deal has been said in France about organizing labor, but property has never yet organized. Here is what is happening to you: A duke, no matter who (there were still a few under Louis XVIII and Charles X who possessed two hundred thousand francs a year, a splendid mansion and a retinue of servants),--that duke could still behave like a great seigneur. The last of these great French lords is the Prince de Talleyrand. This duke dies, and, let us suppose, leaves four children, two of whom are daughters.

Each of these heirs, supposing that he has managed to marry them well, will inherit, at most, sixty to eighty thousand francs a year; each is father or mother of several children, consequently obliged to live on one floor, probably the ground-floor, of a house, with the strictest economy--it may be that they are even obliged to borrow money. The wife of the eldest son, who is a duchess in name only, has neither carriage, nor servants, nor opera-box, nor time of her own; she hasn’t even her own suite of rooms in a family mansion, nor her own fortune, nor her personal baubles. She is buried in marriage as a wife of the rue Saint Denis is buried in commerce; she buys the socks of her dear babes, feeds and teaches her daughters, whom she no longer puts to school in a convent. Your women of rank simply sit upon their nests.” “Alas, yes!” said Joseph Bridau. “Our epoch no longer possesses those exquisite feminine flowers which adorned the great centuries of the French monarchy. The fan of the great lady is broken. Woman no longer blushes, whispers sly malice, hides her face behind her fan only to show it--the fan serves merely to fan her! When a thing is no longer anything but what it _is_, it is too useful to belong to luxury.” “Everything in France has assisted in producing the _comme il faut_ woman,” said Daniel d’Arthèz. “The aristocracy has consented to this state of things by retreating to its estates to hide and die--emigrating to the interior before ideas as formerly it emigrated to foreign parts before the populace. Women who could have established European salons, controlled opinion and turned it like a glove, who should have ruled the world by guiding the men of art and thought who outwardly ruled it, have committed the fatal blunder of abandoning their ground, ashamed to have to struggle with a bourgeoisie intoxicated by power and making its début on the world’s stage only, perhaps, to be hacked in pieces by the barbarians who are at its heels.