There was something august in Natalie’s features; still, her chin was rather heavy—a painter would have said thick in impasto, an expression descriptive of a type that shows preexisting sentiments of which the violence does not declare itself till middle life. Her mouth, a little sunk in her face, showed the arrogance no less expressed in her hand, her chin, her eyebrows, and her stately shape. Finally, a last sign which alone might have warned the judgment of a connoisseur, Natalie’s pure and fascinating voice had a metallic ring. However gently the brazen instrument was handled, however tenderly the vibrations were sent through the curves of the horn, that voice proclaimed a nature like that of the Duke of Alva, from whom the Casa-Reals were collaterally descended. All these indications pointed to passions, violent but not tender, to sudden infatuations, irreconcilable hatred, a certain wit without intellect, and the craving to rule, inherent in persons who feel themselves below their pretensions.
These faults, the outcome of race and constitution, sometimes compensated for by the impulsions of generous blood, were hidden in Natalie as ore is hidden in the mine, and would only be brought to the surface by the rough treatment and shocks to which character is subjected in the world. At present the sweetness and freshness of youth, the elegance of her manners, her saintly ignorance, and the grace of girlhood, tinged her features with the delicate veneer that always must deceive superficial observers. Then her mother had given her the habit of agreeable talk which lends a tone of superiority, replies to argument by banter, and has a fascinating flow under which a woman hides the tufa of a shallow mind, as nature hides a barren soil under a luxuriant growth of ephemeral plants. And Natalie had the charm of spoilt children who have known no griefs; her frankness was seductive, she had not the prim manners which mothers impress on their daughters by laying down a code of absurd reserve and speech when they wish to get them married. She was sincere and gay, as a girl is, who, knowing nothing of marriage, expects happiness only, foresees no disaster, and believes that as a wife she will acquire the right of always having her own way.
How should Paul, who loved as a man does when love is seconded by desire, foresee in a girl of this temper, whose beauty dazzled him, the woman as she would be at thirty, when shrewder observers might have been deceived by appearances? If happiness were difficult to find in married life, with this girl it would not be impossible. Some fine qualities shone through her defects. In the hand of a skilful master any good quality may be made to stifle faults, especially in a girl who can love.
But to make so stern a metal ductile, the iron fist of which de Marsay had spoken was needed. The Paris dandy was right. Fear, inspired by love, is an infallible tool for dealing with a woman’s spirit. Those who fear, love; and fear is more nearly akin to love than to hatred.—Would Paul have the coolness, the judgment, the firmness needed in the contest of which no wife should be allowed to have a suspicion? And again, did Natalie love Paul?
Natalie, like most girls, mistook for love the first impulses of instinct and liking that Paul’s appearance stirred in her, knowing nothing of the meaning of marriage or of housewifery. To her the Comte de Manerville, who had seen diplomatic service at every court in Europe, one of the most fashionable men of Paris, could not be an ordinary man devoid of moral strength, with a mixture of bravery and shyness, energetic perhaps in adversity, but defenceless against the foes that poison happiness. Would she develop tact enough to discern Paul’s good qualities among his superficial defects? Would she not magnify these and forget those, after the manner of young wives who know nothing of life?
At a certain age a woman will overlook vice in the man who spares her petty annoyances, while she regards such annoyances as misfortunes. What conciliatory influence and what experience would cement and enlighten this young couple? Would not Paul and his wife imagine that love was all in all, when they were only at the stage of affectionate grimacing in which young wives indulge at the beginning of their life, and of the compliments a husband pays on their return from a ball while he still has the courtesy of admiration?
In such a situation would not Paul succumb to his wife’s tyranny instead of asserting his authority? Would he be able to say “No”? All was danger for a weak man in circumstances where a strong one might perhaps have run some risk.
The subject of this study is not the transition of an unmarried to a married man—a picture which, broadly treated, would not lack the interest which the inmost storm of our feelings must lend to the commonest facts of life. The events and ideas which culminated in Paul’s marriage to Mademoiselle Evangelista are an introduction to the work, and only intended as a study to the great comedy which is the prologue to every married life. Hitherto this passage has been neglected by dramatic writers, though it offers fresh resources to their wit.
This prologue, which decided Paul’s future life, and to which Madame Evangelista looked forward with terror, was the discussion to which the marriage settlements give rise in every family, whether of the nobility or
