CHAPTER XX
THE PARLOUR
I have now reached an event in my life that was very blissful and yet cruel. The thought of it still causes me many a sigh of pleasure and of pain.
I found myself one day, for no reason whatever, in a singular state of hatred and distrust. I felt greatly provoked with Madame de Pënâfiel, because I began to perceive that the thought of her influenced me more than I meant it should. This irritated me, for I feared that I had as yet formed no real opinion as to her true nature, and it made me uneasy and apprehensive.
That day, when I went to the Hôtel Pënâfiel, contrary to the usual custom of the house, which was marvellously strict, when the footman had opened the door from the vestibule, I saw no valet de chambre in the waiting-room who could announce me. Before reaching the parlour, one had to pass through three or four other rooms, which had no doors, but only portières. Not expecting me, she could scarcely hear me coming, as the carpets were so thick as to entirely prevent the sound of my footsteps.
I had reached the portière which shut off the parlour, and could see Madame de Pënâfiel before she perceived me, unless the reflection from a mirror had betrayed my presence. I shall never forget my astonishment at the sight of her pale and woebegone countenance. She looked weary, sorry, hopeless, if a face is capable of expressing all three of these feelings at the same moment.
I can see her still. She usually sat on a little low armchair. It was of gilt wood, covered with brown satin embroidered in little roses. In front of it was a long ermine rug, on which she placed her feet, and beside it against the wall was a little cabinet of buhl, whose upper half opened with doors like a bookcase; these doors were half open, and within them I saw, to my great astonishment, an ivory crucifix.
She had probably slid from off her chair, for she was half kneeling, half seated on the ermine rug, her hands were clasped on her knees, and her face was turned towards the crucifix, while a ray of light that shone on her forehead showed how intense was her sadness.
Nothing could be more beautiful or touching than the sight of this young woman, surrounded by all the prestige of luxury and elegance, and yet crushed under the burden of an untold sorrow.
After my first sensation of astonishment I was lost in sad contemplation, and with much distress I attempted to imagine what could be the cause of her grief.
But alas! almost immediately, by some mysterious fatality my habitual distrust, added to Madame de Pënâfiel's reputation for duplicity, suggested that this scene was only a tableau arranged for my benefit. That hearing me approaching, she had assumed this melancholy attitude, from what motive I will explain later.
I know that it was absurd and ridiculous to believe in such a deliberate piece of coquetry when apparently overcome by such a weight of sorrow; but whether it was the result of her habitual desire to appear charming, or was merely accidental, it would be impossible to see anything more perfect than the expression of her uplifted eyes, shining so beautifully through the limpid crystal of her tears; her slender, graceful form thus bending on the carpet, her swan-like throat with its lovely curve, and even her charming foot with its high instep, that was exposed by the disorder of her costume, as well as her ankle and the lower part of a delicate limb bound with the ribbons that fastened her black satin slippers,—the whole picture was ravishing.
After my first astonishment and my doubt as to the reality of her grief, my only feeling was one of admiration at the sight of so much perfection.
I hesitated for an instant, to decide whether I would enter suddenly, or whether go back to the door of the salon, and, by coughing slightly, give warning of my approach. Deciding on the latter, immediately I heard the doors of the little cabinet close suddenly, and in an alarmed voice Madame de Pënâfiel called out:
"Who is that?"
I advanced, giving many excuses, but saying how there had been no one to announce me. She answered:
"I beg your pardon, but as I felt far from well, I had ordered no one to be admitted. I supposed my orders had been carried out."
I could only offer a thousand excuses, and turn to go away. But she said:
"If the companionship of a poor nervous and miserable woman does not alarm you, I beg that you will stay. It would give me real pleasure."
When she told me to remain, and said that she had given orders to let no one in (which explained the absence of the valets in the waiting-room), I had no more hesitation in believing the scene of the crucifix was a piece of acting, and that the servant's orders were to let no one enter but me.
Of course this fine piece of reasoning was but the height of folly and impertinence, such a thing being quite improbable, but I preferred being conceited enough to think a woman of Madame de Pënâfiel's position capable of deceiving me by a miserable comedy, than to believe that she was suffering one of those terrible hours of mental agony, when we can only implore the aid and protection of God.
If for a moment I had reflected how often I, who also was young and in the enjoyment of every worldly pleasure, had been subject to just such an overpowering sense of causeless chagrin, the sad state in which I found Madame de Pënâfiel would have been quite clear to my mind. But no, my incarnate distrust and fear of deception paralysed my reason and generosity.
So without a moment's hesitation, instead of sympathising with such deep-felt grief, I came to the following conclusions, which, infamous as they were, seemed at the time perfectly probable. Alas! they were all the more dangerous for that very reason.
"Being so capricious," said I to myself, "Madame de Pënâfiel is provoked that I have not yet declared myself, not that she cares the least in the world for my devotion, but that it spoils her plans. Though seeing her constantly for the last three months, I have never spoken of love. I cannot discover any other admirer. If what the world says is true, it is not because she is virtuous, but because she delights in mystery.
"She wishes to utilise me, and to be revenged for my pretended indifference, by using me as a cloak to hide her real love affair from the eyes of the world. It is a very easy thing,—finding her alone, overwhelmed with sorrow, the least I can do is to ask the cause of her distress, to offer what consolation I can, and thus to be led on to a declaration which would suit her plans, and make me her plaything.
"Or else, having discovered my sadness, and the spells of melancholy I often succumb to and of which I never speak, she simulates this fit of despair, so that from sympathy, I will be led to some misanthropic confessions about my lost illusions, my sad soul, etc., perhaps other things more ridiculous still, and then she means to deride my sentimental maunderings."
Now when I was once firmly convinced of such suppositions, I declared that nothing I could say would be too outrageous. I would show her that I would not submit to be used as her tool.
All these reasons were completely absurd, these cowardly, underhand motives. Now that I can calmly think it over, I wonder why I never thought that, to have arranged such a scene, she needed to be sure of the day and the hour of my visit, and that to take me as a cloak to hide another affection would compromise her as surely as the liaison she endeavoured to hide, finally, that the mere pleasure of forcing a confession of my trials, which I had the good sense to keep to myself, would certainly not be worth such a clever piece of dissimulation.
But when it is a question of monomania (and I think that my intense distrust amounted to monomania), wise and sensible ideas are the last that ever come into our minds.
It was all in vain, then, that I had laughed at those wicked stories that had been constructed from the most ordinary occurrences. Without for a moment reflecting on my inconsequence, I was about to do what was a thousand times worse than forge a slander. I was about to calumniate that sacred thing, grief; to profit by what I had accidentally discovered. Involuntary witness of one of those hours of extreme sadness, in which noble souls give vent to their sorrow in the solitude of their chamber, I was about to question the truth of this sorrow which in secret had prayed to God for what he alone could give,—consolation and hope.
It was with such a spirit of doubt and sarcasm, and with the wicked brutality of those enemies of hers, whom I far surpassed in both of these qualities, that I seated myself, with a scornful air, on a chair that stood opposite to Madame de Pënâfiel, who had risen and resumed her seat. I remember almost every word we said.