The Seven Cardinal Sins: Envy and Indolence Part 69

CHAPTER V.

COUNTERPARTS.

Madame de Luceval, after having remained silent and thoughtful for a moment, remarked to her friend:

"I can easily understand the deep impression that the incidents of the day on which you saw Cousin Michel for the first time must have made upon you. You saw that he was remarkably handsome and that he was also highly gifted, as he seemed to exercise such an influence over one of the most famous men of our time, while the delicate consideration shown to his old nurse proved conclusively that his was a most generous heart.

This, alas! was enough, and more than enough, my poor Valentine, to excite the interest and admiration of a person so unfortunately situated as yourself."

"Then, Florence, though you may not excuse, you can at least understand how such a pa.s.sion as this was born in my heart."

"I can not only understand, but excuse it, in one so crushed with grief and disappointment. Your situation was so trying that it was only natural that you should endeavour to divert and console yourself."

"I scarcely need tell you, then, that I thought of Michel all that night in spite of myself. Early the next morning I ran to my window, and gazed eagerly out through the protecting blinds. The day was superb, and Michel spent it as he had spent the previous day, stretched out upon a couch on the veranda, smoking, reading, dreaming, and enjoying to the full the happiness of being alive, as he told me afterwards. During the day, a man dressed in black, and carrying a large portfolio under his arm, visited him. Thanks to my lorgnette I soon discovered that he was Michel's man of affairs. In fact, he drew several papers from his portfolio, apparently with the intention of reading them to Michel, but the latter took them and signed them without even taking the trouble to glance over them, after which the visitor drew from his pocket a roll of bank-notes, which he handed to your cousin, apparently with the request that he would count them, which he refused to do, thus showing his blind confidence in this man."

"All of which goes to prove that our dear cousin is very careless in business matters."

"Alas! that is only too true, unfortunately for him."

"What! is his fortune--?"

"You shall know all if you will give me your attention a few minutes longer. During the day, which was spent in complete idleness, like the one which had preceded it, Michel's nurse brought him a letter. He read it. Ah, Florence, never have I seen compa.s.sion so touchingly depicted upon any human face. He opened the desk in which he had placed the bank-notes, and handed one to his nurse. The good woman threw her arms around his neck, and you can not imagine with what delightful emotion he seemed to receive her almost maternal caresses.

"It was long after sunset," continued Valentine, "before I could again shut myself up in my own room, and return to my dear window. But I had scarcely looked out before I saw a young woman enter the gallery and hasten towards Michel. It was a terrible shock to me. It was both stupid and foolish in me, of course, for I had not the slightest claim upon Michel, but the feeling was not only involuntary but uncontrollable, and, darting away from the window, I threw myself in an armchair, and burying my face in my hands, wept long and bitterly. Subsequently, I fell into a deep reverie, from which I was aroused a couple of hours afterwards by a prelude upon the piano, and soon two voices that harmonised perfectly began to sing the impa.s.sioned duet of Mathilde and Arnold from the opera of 'Guillaume Tell.'"

"It was Michel?"

"Yes, Michel and that woman!"

It is impossible to describe the way in which Valentine uttered the words, "That woman."

After a moment of painful silence she continued:

"The night was clear and still, and the two vibrant, impa.s.sioned voices soared heavenward like a paean of happiness and love. For awhile I listened in spite of myself, but towards the last it made me so utterly wretched, that, not having the courage to go away, I covered my ears with my hands; then, blushing for my absurd weakness, I tried to listen again, but the song had ended. I went back to the window; the air was heavy with the rich perfume of a thousand flowers; there was not a breath of wind; a soft, faint light like that from an alabaster lamp shone through the lowered blinds of the gallery. A profound silence reigned for a few moments, then I heard the gravel in the garden path crunch under the feet of Michel and that woman. They were walking slowly along; his arm was around her waist. I could bear no more, and I hastily closed the window. I pa.s.sed a frightful night. What new and terrible pa.s.sions had been aroused during the last two days! Love, desire, jealousy, hatred, remorse,--yes, remorse, for I felt now that an irresistible power was sweeping me on to ruin, and that I should succ.u.mb in the struggle. You know the energy and ardour of my character; the same attributes entered into this unfortunate love. I resisted bravely for a time; but when my husband's cruel and brutal conduct exasperated me so deeply, I felt released from all obligations to him, and blindly abandoned myself to the pa.s.sion that was devouring me."

"But you have been happy, very happy, have you not, Valentine?"

"At first I experienced bliss unspeakable, though it was marred at times by the recollection of that woman from whom Michel had long been separated. She was a celebrated opera singer, celebrated even in Italy, I believe. I found Michel all I had dreamed,--talented, witty, refined, graceful, deferential, courteous,--all these attributes were united in him, together with a marvellous tenderness and delicacy of feeling, and a perfect disposition. And yet, this liaison had scarcely lasted two months before I became the most miserable of women, while adoring Michel as much as ever."

"But why, my poor Valentine? From what you have just told me, I should think that Michel possessed every attribute necessary to make you happy."

"Yes," sighed Valentine, "but all these attributes are nullified by an incurable fault, by--"

Madame d'Infreville gave a sudden start, then paused abruptly.

"Why do you stop so suddenly, Valentine?" asked Florence, in surprise.

"Why this reticence? Go on, I beg of you. Haven't you perfect confidence in me?"

"Have I not just proved it by my confession?"

"Yes, oh, yes; but go on."

"You will understand my reticence, I think," continued Madame d'Infreville, after a moment's hesitation, "when I tell you that all that is kind and n.o.ble and tender and commendable in Michel is spoiled by an incurable apathy."

"My chief fault!" exclaimed Madame de Luceval, "so you were afraid to tell me that."

"No, no, Florence; your indolence is charming."

"M. de Luceval doesn't agree with you on that point," responded the young wife, smiling faintly.

"But your indolence has no such disastrous consequences, either so far as you, yourself, or your husband are concerned," replied Valentine.

"You enjoy it, and no one really suffers from it. It is very different in Michel's case. He has paid no attention whatever to money matters, and his man of business, encouraged by this negligence, has not only stolen from him in the most shameful manner, but has also embarked in various business enterprises which have been profitable to him but ruinous to Michel, who has been too indolent to verify his accounts; and now, I am by no means sure that he has enough money left to live upon even in the most frugal manner."

"Poor fellow, how sad that is! But is not your influence sufficiently strong to overcome this unfortunate indolence?"

"My influence!" repeated Valentine, smiling bitterly. "What influence can one have over a character like his. Arguments, prayers, entreaties, and warnings do not disturb his serenity in the least. No harsh or unkind word ever falls from Michel's lips, oh, no, but he shrinks from anger and impatience, precisely as he shrinks from fatigue. Always calm, smiling, and affectionate, the most vehement remonstrances, the most despairing supplications, receive no other answer than a smile or a kiss. It is because he has thus completely ignored my advice and entreaties that he finds himself in his present alarming position, alarming at least to me, though not to him; for having led a perfectly indolent life up to the present time, he is not likely to find himself possessed of sufficient courage or energy to rescue himself from his deplorable position when his entire ruin is accomplished."

"You are right, Valentine; the situation is even graver than I thought."

"Yes, for one terrible fear haunts me continually."

"What do you mean?"

"Michel is endowed with too keen powers of discernment to deceive himself in regard to his future. He knows, too, that when his last louis is spent he has nothing to expect from any one, much less from himself."

"But what do you fear?"

"That he will kill himself," replied Valentine, shuddering.

"Good Heavens! has he hinted at anything of the kind?"

"Oh, no, he has taken good care not to do that. Any such intimation would be sure to lead to a distressing scene on my part, and he hates tears and complaints of any kind. No, he has never admitted that the thought of self-destruction has even occurred to him, but the fact escaped him one day, for he remarked, laughingly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world: 'Happy dead,--eternal idleness is their portion.'"

"But Valentine, this fear is terrible."

"And it never leaves me, even for an instant," replied the unfortunate woman, bursting into tears; "and yet I am obliged to conceal it in his presence, for whenever he sees me sad or preoccupied, he says to me, with that tender, gracious smile of his:

"'Why this sadness, my dear Valentine? Are we not young, and do we not love each other? Let us think only of our happiness. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any one, so take me as I am, and if I have displeased you in any way, or if I no longer please you, leave me, find some one who suits you better, and let us remain friends only. In my opinion, love should be only joy and felicity, tenderness and repose.

It should be like a beautiful lake, clear and calm, reflecting only the pleasant things of life. Why cast a gloom over it by useless anxiety?

Let us enjoy our youth in peace, my angel! The person who has known during his whole life ten days of perfect, radiant happiness, should be content to thank G.o.d and die. We have had a hundred and more of such days, my Valentine, and whether we enjoy more of them depends only upon yourself, for I adore you. Am I not too indolent to be inconstant?'"

"Yes," added Valentine, with increasing earnestness, "yes, that is the way in which Michel regards love. Those alternations of hope and fear, the vague unrest, the foolish, but no less terrible fits of jealousy that lacerate one's heart, only excite Michel's derision. His indolence--I can not say his indifference, for, after all, he loves me as much as he can love any one, as he says himself--irritates me and makes my blood fairly boil sometimes; but I restrain myself, because, in spite of myself, I adore him just as he is. Nor is this all. Michel never seems to have the slightest suspicion of the remorse and anxiety and fears that a.s.sail me every day, for in order that I may be able to spend several hours and sometimes even an entire day with him, I am obliged to tell falsehood after falsehood, to place myself almost at the mercy of my servants, and to devise new pretexts for my frequent absences. And when I return, ah, Florence, when I return,--if you knew what a terrible load I have on my heart when, after a long absence, I place my hand on the knocker, saying to myself all the while, 'What if everything has been discovered!' And when I find myself face to face with my husband, I am even more miserable. To meet his gaze, to try to discover if he has the slightest suspicion of the truth, to tremble inwardly at his most trivial question, to appear calm and indifferent when I am half crazed with fear and anxiety,--all this is torture. And to add to my misery and degradation, I must be a.s.siduous in my attentions to a husband I loathe; I must even stoop to flattery to keep him in good humour, so terribly am I afraid of him, and so eager am I to drive away his suspicions by a bright and cheerful manner. Sometimes, Florence, I must even be gay, do you hear me? Gay, when I have death in my soul. Ah, Florence, such a life is nothing more or less than a h.e.l.l upon earth, and yet it is impossible for me to abandon it."

"Oh, Valentine," exclaimed Madame de Luceval, throwing herself in her friend's arms, "I thank you, my dear, dear friend, I thank you! You have saved me!"

CHAPTER VI.