The Deserted Woman by Honoré de Balzac (e book reader android .txt) 📖

in your mind. Then I began to think
over certain little things that you always do for me, and I
thought I could see in you the sort of affection by which a man
betrays a consciousness that his loyalty is becoming a burden. And
in that moment I paid very dear for my happiness. I felt that
Nature always demands the price for the treasure called love.
Briefly, has not fate separated us? Can you have said, 'Sooner or
later I must leave poor Claire; why not separate in time?' I read
that thought in the depths of your eyes, and went away to cry by
myself. Hiding my tears from you! the first tears that I have shed
for sorrow for these ten years; I am too proud to let you see
them, but I did not reproach you in the least.

"Yes, you are right. I ought not to be so selfish as to bind your
long and brilliant career to my so-soon out-worn life.... And
yet--how if I have been mistaken? How if I have taken your love
melancholy for a deliberation? Oh, my love, do not leave me in
suspense; punish this jealous wife of yours, but give her back the
sense of her love and yours; the whole woman lies in that--that
consciousness sanctifies everything.

"Since your mother came, since you paid a visit to Mlle. de
Rodiere, I have been gnawed by doubts dishonoring to us both. Make
me suffer for this, but do not deceive me; I want to know
everything that your mother said and that you think! If you have
hesitated between some alternative and me, I give you back your
liberty.... I will not let you know what happens to me; I will
not shed tears for you to see; only--I will not see you again....
Ah! I cannot go on, my heart is breaking..................
I have been sitting benumbed and stupid for some moments. Dear love,
I do not find that any feeling of pride rises against you; you are so
kind-hearted, so open; you would find it impossible to hurt me or
to deceive me; and you will tell me the truth, however cruel it may
be. Do you wish me to encourage your confession? Well, then, heart
of mine, I shall find comfort in a woman's thought. Has not the
youth of your being been mine, your sensitive, wholly gracious,
beautiful, and delicate youth? No woman shall find henceforth the
Gaston whom I have known, nor the delicious happiness that he has
given me.... No; you will never love again as you have loved,
as you love me now; no, I shall never have a rival, it is
impossible. There will be no bitterness in my memories of our
love, and I shall think of nothing else. It is out of your power
to enchant any woman henceforth by the childish provocations, the
charming ways of a young heart, the soul's winning charm, the
body's grace, the swift communion of rapture, the whole divine
cortege of young love, in fine.

"Oh, you are a man now, you will obey your destiny, weighing and
considering all things. You will have cares, and anxieties, and
ambitions, and concerns that will rob _her_ of the unchanging
smile that made your lips fair for me. The tones that were always
so sweet for me will be troubled at times; and your eyes that
lighted up with radiance from heaven at the sight of me, will
often be lustreless for _her_. And besides, as it is impossible to
love you as I love you, you will never care for that woman as you
have cared for me. She will never keep a constant watch over
herself as I have done; she will never study your happiness at
every moment with an intuition which has never failed me. Ah, yes,
the man, the heart and soul, which I shall have known will exist
no longer. I shall bury him deep in my memory, that I may have the
joy of him still; I shall live happy in that fair past life of
ours, a life hidden from all but our inmost selves.

"Dear treasure of mine, if all the while no least thought of
liberty has risen in your mind, if my love is no burden on you, if
my fears are chimerical, if I am still your Eve--the one woman in
the world for you--come to me as soon as you have read this
letter, come quickly! Ah, in one moment I will love you more than
I have ever loved you, I think, in these nine years. After
enduring the needless torture of these doubts of which I am
accusing myself, every added day of love, yes, every single day,
will be a whole lifetime of bliss. So speak, and speak openly; do
not deceive me, it would be a crime. Tell me, do you wish for your
liberty? Have you thought of all that a man's life means? Is there
any regret in your mind? That _I_ should cause you a regret! I
should die of it. I have said it: I love you enough to set your
happiness above mine, your life before my own. Leave on one side,
if you can, the wealth of memories of our nine years' happiness,
that they may not influence your decision, but speak! I submit
myself to you as to God, the one Consoler who remains if you
forsake me."

When Mme. de Beauseant knew that her letter was in M. de Nueil's hands, she sank in such utter prostration, the over-pressure of many thoughts so numbed her faculties, that she seemed almost drowsy. At any rate, she was suffering from a pain not always proportioned in its intensity to a woman's strength; pain which women alone know. And while the unhappy Marquise awaited her doom, M. de Nueil, reading her letter, felt that he was "in a very difficult position," to use the expression that young men apply to a crisis of this kind.

By this time he had all but yielded to his mother's importunities and to the attractions of Mlle. de la Rodiere, a somewhat insignificant, pink-and-white young person, as straight as a poplar. It is true that, in accordance with the rules laid down for marriageable young ladies, she scarcely opened her mouth, but her rent-roll of forty thousand livres spoke quite sufficiently for her. Mme. de Nueil, with a mother's sincere affection, tried to entangle her son in virtuous courses. She called his attention to the fact that it was a flattering distinction to be preferred by Mlle. de la Rodiere, who had refused so many great matches; it was quite time, she urged, that he should think of his future, such a good opportunity might not repeat itself, some day he would have eighty thousand livres of income from land; money made everything bearable; if Mme. de Beauseant loved him for his own sake, she ought to be the first to urge him to marry. In short, the well-intentioned mother forgot no arguments which the feminine intellect can bring to bear upon the masculine mind, and by these means she had brought her son into a wavering condition.

Mme. de Beauseant's letter arrived just as Gaston's love of her was holding out against the temptations of a settled life conformable to received ideas. That letter decided the day. He made up his mind to break off with the Marquise and to marry.

"One must live a man's life," said he to himself.

Then followed some inkling of the pain that this decision would give to Mme. de Beauseant. The man's vanity and the lover's conscience further exaggerated this pain, and a sincere pity for her seized upon him. All at once the immensity of the misery became apparent to him, and he thought it necessary and charitable to deaden the deadly blow. He hoped to bring Mme. de Beauseant to a calm frame of mind by gradually reconciling her to the idea of separation; while Mlle. de la Rodiere, always like a shadowy third between them, should be sacrificed to her at first, only to be imposed upon her later. His marriage should take place later, in obedience to Mme. de Beauseant's expressed wish. He went so far as to enlist the Marquise's nobleness and pride and all the great qualities of her nature to help him to succeed in this compassionate design. He would write a letter at once to allay her suspicions. _A letter!_ For a woman with the most exquisite feminine perception, as well as the intuition of passionate love, a letter in itself was a sentence of death.

So when Jacques came and brought Mme. de Beauseant a sheet of paper folded in a triangle, she trembled, poor woman, like a snared swallow. A mysterious sensation of physical cold spread from head to foot, wrapping her about in an icy winding sheet. If he did not rush to her feet, if he did not come to her in tears, and pale, and like a lover, she knew that all was lost. And yet, so many hopes are there in the heart of a woman who loves, that she is only slain by stab after stab, and loves on till the last drop of life-blood drains away.

"Does madame need anything?" Jacques asked gently, as he went away.

"No," she said.

"Poor fellow!" she thought, brushing a tear from her eyes, "he guesses my feelings, servant though he is!"

She read: "My beloved, you are inventing idle terrors for yourself..." The Marquise gazed at the words, and a thick mist spread before her eyes. A voice in her heart cried, "He lies!"--Then she glanced down the page with the clairvoyant eagerness of passion, and read these words at the foot, "_Nothing has been decided as yet..._" Turning to the other side with convulsive quickness, she saw the mind of the writer distinctly through the intricacies of the wording; this was no spontaneous outburst of love. She crushed it in her fingers, twisted it, tore it with her teeth, flung it in the fire, and cried aloud, "Ah! base that he is! I was his, and he had ceased to love me!"

She sank half dead upon the couch.


M. de Nueil went out as soon as he had written his letter. When he came back, Jacques met him on the threshold with a note. "Madame la Marquise has left the chateau," said the man.

M. de Nueil, in amazement, broke the seal and read:--

"MADAME,--If I could cease to love you, to take the chances of
becoming an ordinary man which you hold out to me, you must admit
that I should thoroughly deserve my fate. No, I shall not do as
you bid me; the oath of fidelity which I swear to