“She had at once found, you perceive, a loophole for escape. In scenes like these an adverb is dangerous. But, happily, curiosity made her add: ‘And what did you see? Have I ever spoken of the Duke excepting in public? Have you detected in my eyes—?’—‘No,’ said I, ‘but in his. And you have eight times made me go to Saint-Thomas d’Aquin to see you listening to the same Mass as he.’—‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, ‘then I have made you jealous!’—Oh! I only wish I could be!’ said I, admiring the pliancy of her quick intelligence, and these acrobatic feats which can only be successful in the eyes of the blind. ‘But by dint of going to church I have become very incredulous. On the day of my first cold, and your first treachery, when you thought I was in bed, you received the Duke, and you told me you had seen no one.’—‘Do you know that your conduct is infamous?’—‘In what respect? I consider your marriage to the Duke an excellent arrangement; he gives you a great name, the only rank that suits you, a brilliant and distinguished position. You will be one of the queens of Paris. I should be doing you a wrong if I placed any obstacle in the way of this prospect, this distinguished life, this splendid alliance. Ah! Charlotte, some day you will do me justice by discovering how unlike my character is to that of other young men. You would have been compelled to deceive me; yes, you would have found it very difficult to break with me, for he watches you. It is time that we should part, for the Duke is rigidly virtuous. You must turn prude; I advise you to do so. The Duke is vain; he will be proud of his wife.’—‘Oh!’ cried she, bursting into tears, ‘Henri, if only you had spoken! Yes, if you had chosen’—it was I who was to blame, you understand—‘we would have gone to live all our days in a corner, married, happy, and defied the world.’—‘Well, it is too late now,’ said I, kissing her hands, and putting on a victimized air.—‘Good God! But I can undo it all!’ said she.—‘No, you have gone too far with the Duke. I ought indeed to go a journey to part us more effectually. We should both have reason to fear our own affection—’—‘Henri, do you think the Duke has any suspicions?’ I was still ‘Henri,’ but the tu was lost forever.—‘I do not think so,’ I replied, assuming the manner of a friend; ‘but be as devout as possible, reconcile yourself to God, for the Duke waits for proofs; he hesitates, you must bring him to the point.’
“She rose, and walked twice round the boudoir in real or affected agitation; then she no doubt found an attitude and a look beseeming the new state of affairs, for she stopped in front of me, held out her hand, and said in a voice broken by emotion, ‘Well, Henri, you are loyal, noble, and a charming man; I shall never forget you.’
“These were admirable tactics. She was bewitching in this transition of feeling, indispensable to the situation in which she wished to place herself in regard to me. I fell into the attitude, the manners, and the look of a man so deeply distressed, that I saw her too newly assumed dignity giving way; she looked at me, took my hand, drew me along almost, threw me on the sofa, but quite gently, and said after a moment’s silence, ‘I am dreadfully unhappy, my dear fellow. Do you love me?’—‘Oh! yes.’—‘Well, then, what will become of you?’ ”
At this point the women all looked at each other.
“Though I can still suffer when I recall her perfidy, I still laugh at her expression of entire conviction and sweet satisfaction that I must die, or at any rate sink into perpetual melancholy,” de Marsay went on. “Oh! do not laugh yet!” he said to his listeners; “there is better to come. I looked at her very tenderly after a pause, and said to her, ‘Yes, that is what I have been wondering.’—‘Well, what will you do?’—‘I asked myself that the day after my cold.’—‘And—?’ she asked with eager anxiety.—‘And I have made advances to the little lady to whom I was supposed to be attached.’
“Charlotte started up from the sofa like a frightened doe, trembling like a leaf, gave me one of those looks in which women forgo all their dignity, all their modesty, their refinement, and even their grace, the sparkling glitter of a hunted viper’s eye when driven into a corner, and said, ‘And I have loved this man! I have struggled! I have—’ On this last thought, which I leave you to guess, she made the most impressive pause I ever heard.—‘Good God!’ she cried, ‘how unhappy are we women! we never can be loved. To you there is nothing serious in the purest feelings. But never mind; when you cheat us you still are our dupes!’—‘I see that plainly,’ said I, with a stricken air; ‘you have far too much wit in your anger for your heart to suffer from it.’—This modest epigram increased her rage; she found some tears of vexation. ‘You disgust me with the world and with life,’ she said; ‘you snatch away all my illusions; you deprave my heart.’
“She said to me all that I had a
