CHAPTER XXII
CONTRADICTIONS
After this interview, my anger and jealousy were for some hours so furious that the only thing I regretted was not to have been even more cruel and insolent to Madame de Pënâfiel.
By the violence of these transports of rage, I recognised the extent of my love for her,—a love whose depths I had not before sounded.
This medallion that I had discovered was to my eyes sufficient proof of the truth of my last suspicions, and if they were true, why should not those other stories be true, that had distressed me so at first? Now I no longer believed that she had wished to force me into confiding in her so that she might mock at me afterwards. I thought that another refused to requite the love that I would have given my life to obtain.
Then the calm of reason succeeded to the tumultuous excitement of passion; I could think calmly of my real position towards Madame de Pënâfiel. I had never alluded in any way to the great affection I bore her; why, then, should I be astonished at her confession, and the secret I thought I had discovered? How could I have treated her so? A woman, suffering perhaps from an unreturned affection, an incurable love, who was ignorant of my feelings towards her, and, relying on my generosity, came to me, if not for consolation, at least for my sympathy and pity. But my watchful jealousy and my anger were not to be quieted by these wise reflections. Who was that man whose portrait I had meant to crush? I had been in constant attendance on Madame de Pënâfiel for a long time, and I had seen no one that I could suppose to be the object of this unrequited passion that I suspected.
Her grief and her regrets, therefore, had existed for a long time. I understood now many singularities that were never clearly seen before, and that were so variously interpreted by the world, her sudden silences, her ennui, her disdain, her wild outbursts of enthusiasm which some souvenir would evoke, and which, as often as not, ended in fits of regret or despair. There was some object in her coquetry and her constant desire to please, but when could this mysterious personage enjoy the sight of all these charms? I sought the answer to this enigma in vain, though I remembered the reticence of her last conversation, and her embarrassment when, no doubt, she was on the point of telling me her secret sorrow.
But who could be the object of this fervent and unfortunate passion? Of this love that had caused her for the last few weeks a more profound grief than ever before?
Loving Marguerite as I loved her, ought I to attempt to offer her the tenderest of consolations? Might I hope to supplant in her heart this painful souvenir? Would I succeed if I made the attempt, should I dare to try? Tortured by regret and despair, this unhappy woman, who was so noble and refined, had become so susceptible through suffering, and so shy, that, for fear of wounding her sensitive nature, I could not, without the greatest tact, speak to her of a happier future.
And yet, in asking me to bewail her sufferings, had she not with rare delicacy and tact understood that certain great misfortunes invest one with such dignity, such majestic sorrow, that the most devoted, the most loving are compelled to be silent, and to wait until the victim of this royal grief speaks first, as other princes are obliged to do, and says, "Come to me, for my misfortune is great."
What hope could I now have, even supposing Madame de Pënâfiel to have given way to a secret liking for me when she addressed me with such confidence? My language to her had been so brutal, so strange, that it was impossible for me to imagine what the consequences might be.
Sometimes the very excess of my insolence reassured me. My answers had been so insulting, so violent, such a contrast to my former behaviour towards her, not to seem incomprehensible. Knowing her own merit, surrounded by every attention, and constantly flattered, she must have been more astounded than angered by my words, and she is probably still at a loss to discover the key to my conduct.
I am not sure whether this thought was inspired by hope or despair. But though I felt thoroughly ashamed of my impertinence, I ended by persuading myself that the outrageousness of my conduct, far from injuring my prospects, might be of great service to me, and, had I planned it all, I could not have managed it better.
In every love affair, the main thing, I think, is to excite and fill the imagination. To attain this end there is nothing more successful than a contrast. Therefore, it is above all things necessary that the impression you are to make should be essentially different from all those hitherto received, though at some later day, by your devotion and love, you may have to obliterate any bad impression you have made in the beginning.
If a woman has ordinarily but few friends, and is unused to flattery, there is no better way of captivating her mind, and afterwards her heart, than by the most extreme carefulness of her comfort, by the most delicate attentions; her vanity rejoices in these thousand respectful and tender proofs of solicitude, to which she had never been accustomed. It is in this manner we can explain the frequent and wonderful success of men who are no longer young, but who have great refinement and persistence. Such men can completely subjugate young girls, and even young married women.
On the other hand, does a woman fill a high position? is she continually and basely flattered? Then severity and haughtiness often have a powerful effect on her. Some women have to be treated as clever courtiers treat princes, with a certain amount of firmness, even brusqueness. If the rude outspoken language does not please them at first, it surprises, astonishes, and often subjugates them; for it is such a contrast to the commonplace and stupid things they hear every day, from every class of men, that it is frequently far from injuring the man who dares to make use of it. Applying these thoughts to my position, I said to myself: "The hardness and disdain with which I received Madame de Pënâfiel's confidences, my anger at the sight of the portrait she attempted to hide, can easily be attributed to the violence of my love, which she has, no doubt, guessed by this time; now, rages caused by love are always excusable, especially in the eyes of the woman who is loved, and as Marguerite is high-minded and generous, she will understand how miserable I was when I believed her about to entertain me with a tale of her unrequited affection."
Sometimes, arguing in another way, I thought I might be mistaken, and that, after all, Madame de Pënâfiel was not in love with any one else. Then my old suspicions returned, and I wondered why I should ever have dismissed them. This portrait was only one of the accessories of the comedy I accused her of acting. Then, as I had but a poor and mean opinion of myself, which was not improved by the realisation of my latest conduct, it was, I believed, impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel should have any sympathy for me, so I tried to explain her apparent confidence by assigning her the meanest motives.
This aroused my anger more than ever, and I applauded my insolence.
In the midst of this uncertainty and anxiety this restless and agonising fever, I received the following note from Madame de Pënâfiel:
"I am waiting for you. Come—you must—come immediately.
M."
It was nine o'clock, I started off instantly almost wild with joy. She had sent for me. I might still hope.