Jan von Stille
The letter kills, and the spirit enlivens.
-E.U.S.P.
I was crazy in love with the Comtesse of X; I was twenty, and I was naïve; she betrayed me, I got mad, and she left me. I was naïve, I regretted it; I was twenty, she forgave me: And because I was twenty, and I was naïve, ever betrayed but even more abandoned than betrayed, I thought myself the best-beloved lover of them all, therefore the happiest of men.
She was a friend of Madame de T., who seemed to have something of a plan for me, though none which would compromise her dignity: As you’ll see, Madame de T. possessed principles of decency to which she was scrupulously attached.
One day I was expecting the Comtesse at the opera when I heard voices calling from her box. Was it not the gentle Madame de T.? “What! Already?,” she said to me. “Why are you standing there alone! Come to me.” I was far from expecting all that this encounter would hold of the novelistic and of the extraordinary. Oh, the imagination of women moves at a quick clip; and in this moment, that of Madame de T. was uniquely inspired.
“It is necessary,” she said, “that I save you the ridicule of such solitude; since you are here, it is necessary...The idea is excellent. It is as though a divine hand has conducted you here. Would you have, by chance, plans for this evening? It would be vain for me to warn you; no questions, no resistance...call my men. You are charming.” I bowed...I was pressed to descend, I obeyed. “Go to Monsieur’s home,” she said to a servant, “and forewarn its inhabitants that he will not return tonight…” Then she spoke into his ear and dismissed him.
I wanted to make a reply, but the opera began, and I was hushed: One listens, or one pretends to listen. The first act had barely finished when the same servant delivered a slip of paper to Madame de T.: “All is ready.” She sighed, asked for my hand, descended, had me enter her carriage, and I was already far from town before I had the chance to get any info on what she wanted from me.
Each time I posed a question, she responded with a burst of laughter. If I had not already known full well that she was a woman of grand passions, and that, at that very moment, she had an inclination, an inclination of which she could not help but know I knew, I would have been tempted to believe myself fallen into good fortunes. She knew likewise the state of my heart, for the Comtesse was, as I have already said, the intimate friend of Madame de T. I defended myself therefore against all presumptuousness and simply took all events as they came. We changed horses and started off again like lightning. All this started to seem more serious. I asked more insistently where this joke was bringing me. “It will bring you on a lovely sojourn; but guess where: Oh! You’d never think...to my husband’s house. Do you know him?”
“Not a bit.”
“I believe that you will be content with this: We’ve been separated, but we are reconciling. We have negotiated it for six months, and it shall happen under conditions we wrote for ourselves. It is, I think, pretty chivalrous of me to go to meet him.”
“Yes, but, if you please, what am I to do there? To what end might I be any good?”
“That is my business. I am afraid of the boredom of a one-on-one meeting; you are amiable, and I am more at ease with you nearby.”
“It seems bizarre that you would choose the day of your reunion to present me. You would have me believe that I am inconsequential. Add to this the embarrassed air that a first interview brings. In truth, I see nothing pleasant for any of us three in the path you have picked.”
“Ah! No morals, I beg you; you miss the point of your employment. You must amuse me, distract me, not preach to me.”
I saw that she saw I agreed. I began to laugh at my role, and we settled into a happy ride.
We changed horses a second time. The mysterious torch of night laid clear the heavens and spilled a voluptuous twilight. We approached the place where we were to conclude our one-on-one. I was compelled, at intervals, to admire the beauty of the countryside, the calm of night, the stirring silence of nature. To admire it all together, as is only reasonable, we leaned against the same door; the movement of the carriage made it so that the face of Madame de T. brushed against my own. Upon an unforeseen bump, she squeezed my hand; and me, by the greatest luck in the world, I held her in my arms. In this pose, I do not know what we searched to see. What is, however, certain, is that my eyes clouded over when she suddenly rid herself of me and tossed herself down onto the floor of the coach. “Your plan,” she said after a deep reverie, “is to convince me that I’m doing the wrong thing?” I was embarrassed by the question. “Playing games with you...what idiocy! You’d see them coming from too far away: but a stroke of chance, a surprise...those pardon themselves.”
“You have counted on it, or so it seems to me.”
We were at the door before we even realized that we had entered into the forecourt of the chateau. All was well-lit, all exuded joy, except the figure of the master, who was a first-rate sadboi. His languid air projected clearly that he felt no need for this reconciliation but for familial reasons. Nevertheless, a sense of propriety led Monsieur de T. to the door. I was presented, he offered his hand, and I fell to dreaming of my role, past, present, and future. I strolled through rooms decorated with as much taste as magnificence, for the master of the house was refined in all the pursuits of luxury. I guess he attempted to reanimate the resources of his dead physique with images of voluptuousness. Not knowing what to say, I saved myself by admiration. The goddess hastened to praise her temple. “You have seen nothing yet; I must bring you to Monsieur’s own apartment.”
“Madame, it has been five years since it was demolished.”
“Ah! Ah!,” she said.
At supper, she had only just thought to offer Monsieur some veal de rivière, and he responded, “Madame, it has been three years since I have eaten such a thing.”
“Ah! Ah!,” she said again.
Oh, how you’ve got to chase a conversation among three beings so surprised to find themselves together!
Supper reached its end. I imagined that we would go to sleep at an early hour; but I did not imagine correctly, except for the husband. Upon entering the salon: “I know you’re tactful, Madame,” he said, “by the precaution you have taken by bringing Monsieur. You have judged that I am ill-equipped for late-night dalliance, and you have judged well, for I retire.” Then, turning himself from my side, he took on an ironic air: “Monsieur would do well to pardon me and to bear my excuses before Madame.” Thus left he us.
We regarded each other and, so as to distract ourselves from reflection, Madame de T. proposed to me that we make a tour of the terrace, and that the servants should take their supper while we were out. The night was superb; it allowed full view of the gardens and seemed to want nothing but to give higher flights to the imagination. The chateau as well as the gardens, laid against a mountain, descended in terraces to the banks of the Seine; and its multitude of sinuosities formed small islands, wooded and picturesque, that varied the views and augmented the charm of that beautiful place.
It was across the longest of these terraces that we promenaded first: It was covered by thick forest. There arose that species of small-talk that one wishes to wipe away; but all along our walk, she became more comfortable with me and began to confide in me. One confidence invites another, I returned in kind, and she became ever more intimate and more interesting.
We marched like that for a long time. She had given me her arm first, then our arms were interlaced, I do not know how, so that mine lifted and held hers, and we almost decided to lay together on the ground. This pose was agreeable but fatiguing after a while, and we began again to converse. A grassy bank presented itself; it was sat upon with no change of pose. Once we’d sat upon this spot we commenced to praise trust, to praise its charm, its freshnesses. “Eh!,” she said to me, “who may enjoy better than us, with less to fear? I’m so familiar with your faithfulness that I feel like I know you, I know you well enough to have nothing to doubt when I am near you.” Maybe she wanted to be contradicted, but I did nothing of the sort. We therefore persuaded ourselves mutually that it was impossible that we could ever be otherwise than we were right then.
“I sense, however,” I said to her, “that your spirit has been scared by some surprise.”
“I am not easily surprised.”
“Nevertheless I fear that something has made you anxious.”
“What is necessary to reassure you?”
“You cannot guess?”
“I need a little clarification.”
“I must be sure that you’ll forgive me.”
“And therefore I must…?”
“...grant me here the kiss that I hazard to bestow.”
“Well would I like to: You would be too angry, were I to refuse. Your pride has made you believe that I fear you.”
One would like to prevent illusions: I receive the kiss.
It progressed then with kisses as it had with confidences: One invites another, they accelerate themselves, the one is heated by the others. In effect, the first was hardly given before a second followed it; then another: they drove and interleaved the conversation, then they replaced it; at length, finally, we allowed our sighs the liberty to escape. Silence arose and was heard (for one sometimes hears silence): It frightened us. We stood without a word and recommenced our march. “We must return inside,” she said, “this night air is worth nothing to us.”
“I imagine it less dangerous for you than for me,” I responded.
“Yes, I am less susceptible than another; but never mind, we return.”
“It is out of consideration for me, no doubt...you would like to defend me against the dangers of the impression such a promenade might make...and of the aftermath it may hold for me.”
“It is only to give some delicacy to my cause. I would like it just like that back there...but we return, I insist.” (Said with the awkwardness proper to two beings who force themselves to say, for better or worse, everything except what they would like to say.)
She forced me to take the path back to the chateau.
I do not know, I did not know in the least whether this course was a violence done by Madame unto herself, or if it was a resolution well-decided, or if she shared my frustration at seeing the end of such a wonderfully begun scene; but, by a mutual instinct, without slowing, we walked sadly, each similarly upset with ourselves. We did not know who or what had gotten into us. Neither of us was within our rights to require anything, to demand anything: We didn’t even know how to accuse each other. How a fight would have relieved us! But what to fight about? Nevertheless we approached, entombed in silence to avoid the duty we had imposed upon ourselves by awkwardness.
We reached the door when finally Madame de T. spoke: “I am upset with you...after the trust that I showed you, it is evil...so evil not to give me any at all! Think if, since we have been together, you have said a word to me about the Comtesse. When it is so lovely to speak of that which one loves! And you cannot doubt that I would have listened with interest. I required at least that much kindness from you after having risked depriving you of her.”
“I don’t have the same reproach to make of you, and you would not deflect such things, if instead of turning to me, confident of a reconciliation with your husband, you had spoken of a more sensible choice, a choice…”
“Oh, stop...you know that our only problem here is suspicion. Even as little as you understand women, you know that they’re always waiting for a good secret...But back to you: Where are you at with my friend the Comtesse? Does she submit to you happily? Ah, I fear the contrary: It pains me because I am so tenderly interested in you. Oh yes, Monsieur, interested...more than you would think possible.”
“Eh! Why then, Madame, would you want to follow this common line of thought, which the public enjoys blowing out of proportion and overanalyzing?”
“Don’t play dumb; I know all that one can know about your situation. The Comtesse is less mysterious than you. Women of her species are prodigal with secrets about their admirers, above all when a tendency to discretion like yours threatens to steal their glory from them. I am far from accusing her of coquettery; but a prude is no less vain than a coquette. Tell me frankly: Are you not often the victim of this strange character? Come on, speak, speak.”
“But Madame, you wanted to go back inside...remember, the air…”
“It has changed.”
She regrasped my arm, and we recommenced our march without my noticing the route we took. That which she had come to tell me of the lover I knew so well, that which she knew and told me about my mistress, our voyage, the scene in the carriage, that on the grassy bank, the time...all this troubled me; I was alternately carried away by pride and by desire, then brought back by reflection. In any case, I was too affected to put the proper words to what I experienced. While I fell prey to these confounding mental movements, she continued to talk, and only about the Comtesse. My silence seemed to confirm everything that she said. Certain traits that she listed, however, brought me back to the present.
“Because she is fine, she says! Because she has grace and charm! The disloyalty positively protrudes from her mouth like a funky second tongue; she makes an infidelity seem like an effort of reason, a sacrifice to decency. Never wavering; always amiable; rarely tender, and never true; bold by character, prude by system, lively, prudent, skillful, ditzy, sensible, smart, coquettish, and a philosopher: She is a Proteus, ever-shifting; she is an angel of tact: she comes, she escapes. How many roles I’ve seen her play! And between us, she surrounds herself with such idiots! How she mocks the Baron! What tricks she plays on the Marquis! When she took you, it was to distract two rivals who had become too wily, who were at the point of clashing. She kept them too close together, they had time to figure out what was up; they were beyond being talked down. But then she put you into the scene, and she occupied them with you, she led them into new searches, they despaired of you, they complained, but in a way you gave them comfort; in the end, the foursome was made content. Ah! How a skillful woman acts as empress to you! How happy she is while she holds all the pieces in this game, and gives none to you!” Madame de T. accompanied this last phrase with a meaningful sigh. It was a masterful move.
I felt as though someone had put a bandana over my eyes without my having seen it. My beloved appeared to be the fakest of all women, while I believed I’d caught a sensible one. I sighed as well, without knowing to whom this sigh was addressed, without knowing whether regret or hope had birthed it. She seemed distraught to have afflicted me and thought she may have gone too far with this portrait she had painted, which must seem suspect, given that it was drawn by a woman.
On my part, I had worked through nothing of what I had heard. We had slipped onto the grand trail of Feelings, and we’d reached such a height thereon that it was impossible to foresee the end of our voyage. In this milieu of our metaphysical reasonings, I saw looming, at the end of a terrace, a pavilion that was to witness the sweetest of moments. She gave me the details of its arrangement, its furnishings. What a shame that we did not have the key! All the same, we approached and found it unlocked; it lacked nothing except the clarity of day. But the darkness promised as well to lend it certain charms. In any case, I knew already how charming was the object that it would beautify.
We quivered upon entering. It was a bona fide loveshack. This realization seized us, and our knees buckled: Our arms were not enlaced and, unable to support ourselves, we fell together upon a sofa that occupied one section of the temple. The moon set itself to sleep, and the last of its rays carried away the veil of a modesty that, I believe, had already become disturbed. All confounded itself beneath the darkness. The hand that wanted to repel me felt the beating of my heart. She wanted to flee me, she fell upon me again, and more tenderly. Our souls met, they multiplied; one was born from each of our kisses.
Though its tumult waned, our senses’ incense allowed us no more the use of our voices. We nurtured each other in the silence by the language of thought. Madame de T. took refuge in my arms, nestled her head upon my own, sighed, and calmed herself with my caresses: she afflicted herself, she consoled herself, and demanded of love all that could delight her.
This love, which was frightened only an instant before, reassured itself a moment later. Now one of us would give all that which the other would take; one would then want to receive that which had been stolen; and, on one side and the other, we hastened to repeat the process, so as to be reassured of our conquests.
But all this had been a bit rushed, and we felt our mistake. We reviewed, with more detail, what had escaped us: Too ardent, one becomes less delicate. To shorten the processes of pleasure only confounds all the deliciousness that proceeds from them: To cut a knot, to break a gossamer strip: Yes, fast sensuousness leaves its mark, and soon the idol comes to resemble a victim.
Calming now, we found the air purer, fresher. We had not realized that the river, whose waves bathed the walls of the pavilion, broke the nighttime silence with a soft murmur that seemed to keep time with the palpitations of our hearts. The darkness was too profound to allow us to distinguish between objects; but through the transparent curtains of this gorgeous night, our imagination made the island near our pavilion into an enchanted place. The river, it seemed to us, was blanketed with lovers who enjoyed themselves in the waves. Never had the forests of Gnide been so populated with lovers as our charmed eyes populated that far bank. And though there were none but joyous couples in this nature we created, there were none more joyous than we. We would have been a match for Psyche and Love themselves. I was just so young as Psyche; I found Madame de T. just so charming as Love. Now that she’d let loose, she appeared even more ravishing than before. Each moment delivered a new beauty to me. The torch of love clarified the eyes of my soul, and the surest of senses confirmed my happiness. When fear is banished, caresses follow on caresses: One caress tenderly calls the next. One requires nothing more than a simple favor to be thrilled. If one lover differs from the other, it is only refinement. Refusals are timid, made with tender care. One desires, one does not want: It is the praise that pleases...desire flatters...the soul is exalted...one adores...one does not surrender...one has already surrendered.
“Ah!” she said, her voice celestial, “let us go from this dangerous rest; desires reproduce themselves without end, and there is no way to resist.” She led me.
We were alienated from each other by regret; she often turned her head; a divine flame seemed to burn in the entryway. “You have consecrated her to me,” she said, “Who ever knew how to evoke pleasure like you? Ah, how you know love! How lucky she is!”
“Wait, who?” I spluttered with surprise. “If I’ve given you pleasure, what being in all of nature could you possibly envy?”
We passed along the grassy bank, and we stopped involuntarily with muted emotion. “What an immense space,” she said, “between this spot and the pavillion that we’ve left! My soul is so full of happiness that I can hardly remember having been able to resist you.”
“Even so,” I replied, “must I see here the dissipation of that charm with which my imagination was so filled there below? Will this spot be burned into my memory as fatal?”
“Could it become so, while I am with you?”
“Yes, without a doubt, because I am exactly as unhappy here as I was happy down there. Love wants to multiply itself forever: It thinks it has obtained nothing when it ceases to obtain.”
“Again...no, I cannot permit it...no, never…” And after a long silence. “But this must mean that you love me well.”
This conversation reminded me of my scant twenty years. Regardless, it changed its course: She became less serious. She ventured so far as to joke about the pleasures of love, to analyze them, to separate them from morality, to simplify, to prove that these favors had been for nothing but pleasure; to say that there, speaking philosophically, had been no engagement, like that which one achieves by public contract, neither in allowing her to penetrate our secrets or in having committed some indiscretions with her. “What a delicious night,” she said, “that we’ve passed only in the pursuit of pleasure, our guide and our excuse! If certain reasons, as I suppose they will, force us to separate tomorrow, our joy, unknown to all of nature, will not allow our bonds to unravel...some regrets, but lovely memories compensate for them...and then, after all, some pleasure, but totally without slowness, yes, the hassle and tyranny of procedure…”
We are such machines (and I blush at that), that instead of all the delicacy that tormented me before the scene which came to pass, I was stricken in half by the boldness of her principles; I found them sublime, and I already sensed some future licentious arrangement.
“Such a beautiful night,” she said, “and such beautiful places! It has been eight years since I quit such things; but they have lost none of their charm; they have regained all their novelty; we will never forget that room, will we? The chateau promises an even more charming encore; but it is impossible to teach you anything: You are like an infant who wants to touch everything, but who bruises everything he touches.” A curious move on her part, and one which surprised me, promised me that I was not what she wanted.
I protested that I was becoming more reasonable. She changed her tune: “Tonight,” she said, “would be completely agreeable to me if I were not plagued with one piece of guilt: I am angry, truly angry about that which I told you of the Comtesse. I don’t mean to complain about you. Novelty stings. You have found me lovable, and I’d love to believe that you had a good time; but the reign of habit takes so long to deconstruct that I don’t think I have what it takes to overcome it. I have already exhausted all that has potential to ensnare a heart. What more could you await from me? What could you desire? And what does a woman become to you, without desire or waiting! I have totally spoiled you: It is hardly possible that you will forgive me for a day of pleasures that, just after the moment of intoxication, abandons you to the severity of reflection.
“On that note, please tell me what you thought of my husband. Pretty morose, huh? The situation isn’t likeable in the slightest. I imagine he feels a bit coldly about you. Our friendship was suspect to him. It will be necessary not to prolong this first journey: He would get moody. And he’ll be waking up any minute now (oh, doubtlessly he will wake up)...and anyway, you have your own affairs to hide as well...do you remember his mood when he left us here?” She gave the impression that she was telling me her last words, and suddenly she added, “He was happier back when he constructed so meticulously that office that I’ve told you about. It was before our marriage. It adjoins my apartment. It has never been anything to me but a testimony...to the artificial ways that Monsieur de T. needed to fortify his feelings, and to the little comfort I gave to his soul.”
It was thus that, step by step, she excited my curiosity about the office.
“It adjoins your apartment,” I said, “and so what better place to avenge your offended charms, to restore to you what you have lost!” She began to perk up. “Ah! If I were chosen to be the executor of this vengeance, if the relish of that moment may brush away the memory of the shortcomings of habit…”
“If you promise me you’ll be smarter,” she interrupted me.
I should admit, I didn’t feel all the fervor, all the devotion that was required of a visitor to this new temple; but I was plenty curious: It was no longer Madame de T. that I desired, but the office.
We reentered the chateau. The lamps on staircases and in corridors were extinguished; we wandered in a maze. The mistress of the chateau herself had forgotten the way; at long last we arrived at the door to her apartment, to that apartment which, closed, so reduced my boasting. “What are you going to make of me,” I asked. “What do you want me to become? Will you only send me away, then, into darkness? Will you expose me by making noise, by having us detected, by betraying us, so that I lose you?” She could not respond in kind to such reason. “Promise me…”
“Everything. Everything in the world.”
My vow was received. We quietly opened the door: We found two sleeping women; one young, the other older. This second was to be trusted, and it was her that we awakened. Madame whispered in her ear. Soon I saw her leave by a secret door, artfully built into the woodwork panels. I offered to take the place of the sleeping woman. My services were accepted, and Madame rid herself of all superfluous ornament. A simple ribbon retained all her hair, which escaped in floating locks; to the ribbon she added only a rose I’d clipped in the garden, and which I held again now, distracted: An open robe had replaced all her other clothing. There was not a single blemish in all this ensemble; I found Madame de T. more beautiful than ever. A little fatigue had weighted her eyelids and gave to her glances a fascinating languor, a softer expression. The color of her lips, brighter than usual, accentuated the glow of her teeth and rendered her smile yet more voluptuous; the redness scattered here and there across it even exaggerated its whiteness and testified to her finesse. These traces left by past pleasures recalled them to me. In the end she appeared more seductive than my imagination could have foreseen, even in our sweetest moments. The woodwork opened once more, and her second discreet confidant disappeared.
Near to entering the office, Madame stopped me: “Remember,” she told me gravely, “that you will be supposed never to have entered, nor even suspected the asylum into which I am about to introduce you. No thoughtlessness; I am fine with anything else.” Discretion is the highest of virtues; it is obligatory, even in moments of revelry.
Now all this had the air of an initiation. She had me traverse a small, dark corridor, leading me by the hand. My heart palpitated like that of a young seminarian who is being tested before the celebration of a mysterious sacrament. “But your Comtesse,” she said, stopping...I was going to reply; the doors opened: admiration intercepted my response. I was surprised, no, shocked, I have no idea what I thought, and I commenced immediately to believe in magic. The hidden door shut, and I could no longer see where I had come in. I saw nothing but an aerial bouquet that, without a hanging string, seemed not to be held up by anything; finally I found myself in a vast cage of mirrors, on which were such artful paintings that, repeated, they produced the illusion that all the scenes actually existed. We no longer needed any light; a sweet, celestial glow penetrated the place, allowing for each object therein to be more or less visible; incense burners exhaled delicious perfumes; statues and trophies stole to their eyes the flames of the lamps that clarified magically this palace of deliciousness.
The side by which we had entered bore porticoes trellised by ornate flowers, with beds in each opening; on the next side was a statue of Love distributing crowns; beside this statue was an altar, from which a flame threw its light; at the base of this altar was a goblet, crowns, and garlands; a temple of delicate architecture rounded out the ornaments of this side: next to this was a somber cavern; the god of mystery watched the entrance: the floor, covered by a plush tapestry, resembled grass. Spirits hung, suspended from the ceiling by garlands; and on the side across from the porticoes was a canopy under which was massed a pile of diamonds and a bed framed by love itself.
It was there that the temple’s priestess went and threw herself down, all nonchalance. I tossed myself at her feet; she leaned against me then grabbed my arms, and in an instant, as everything here must be reflected at all angles, I saw our glass island densely populated with joyous lovers.
Oh, and desires multiply when they gaze on themselves. “Are you really,” I asked her, “going to let my head go without a crown? So close to the throne, may I not test its accompaniments? Can you refuse me that?”
“And your vows to the Comtesse?” She stood.
“I was a mortal when I made them, but you have made me a god. To adore you: That is my only vow.”
“Come,” she said, “the shadow of mystery should hide my weakness, come…”
At the same time she approached the cavern. We had hardly crossed its threshold when some force, skilfully employed, ensnared us. Carried by the same movement, we fell, limply overthrown, onto a heap of cushions. Darkness reigned together with Silence in this new sanctuary. Our sighs served us in place of language. More tenderly, multiplying, more ardent, they were the interpreters of our sensations, they marked the degrees; and in the end, some time later, they warned us that we should render a more graceful praise unto Love. She took a crown and posed it atop my head, and she had hardly raised her gorgeous, watering eyes when she said, “And so! Will you ever love the Comtesse as much as me?”
I had taken a breath to respond when the confidant from earlier burst in and told me, “Get out quick, day has broken, there is already noise in the chateau.”
All happened as quickly as an alarm clock destroys a dream, and I found myself out in the hallway before I could recover my senses. I wanted to return to the apartment, but where to look? All information condemned me, all I had done was a huge indiscretion. It seemed that the most prudent path was to descend into the garden, where I decided to rest until I could return as though I had simply taken a morning walk.
The freshness and pure air of that moment calmed my imagination step by step and chased away the magic within it: Instead of an enchanted nature I saw nothing but a naïve one. I felt truth return to my mind; my thoughts emerged without trouble and followed each other with order; at last I breathed.
Nothing was more pressing to me than to ask myself if I was the lover of she whom I had just left, and I was surprised that I could find no answer. Who could have known yesterday, at the opera, that I could ask myself such a question? Me, who thought I knew that she was madly in love, and had been madly in love for two years, with the Marquis de Z; me, who believed myself so taken by the Comtesse that it should have been impossible for me to be unfaithful to her! What! Yesterday! Madame de T. … Is it true, then? Had she parted with the Marquis? Had she taken me to be his replacement, or only to punish him? What adventure! What a night! I did not know whether I would receive an encore; I doubted, then I was persuaded, no, convinced; and then at last I believed nothing at all. While I floated so among incertitudes, I heard a noise nearby. I raised my eyes, but surely they lied to me, I could not believe...It was the Marquis. “Didn’t expect me on such a morning, huh? Ah, well, how’s it going?”
“So you know I was here?”
“Yes, truly: Someone told me yesterday, as soon as you were on your way. Well, did you enjoy your role? The husband found your arrival sufficiently ridiculous? What about when he left you two alone? Oh, I saw everything; I have brought you a lovely carriage, which will be exactly as you like it: It’s well-stocked. It was necessary that Madame de T. have a squire, you served her well, and you amused her on the way; it’s all she wanted; and my observations…”
“Oh, no, no, I served splendidly; and on this occasion, Madame de T. could tell you that I put a zeal to it that was above your powers of observation.”
He went on to shatter the mystery of the evening and to give me the keys to all he hadn’t explained. I instantly sensed my new role. Each word found its place. “But why come so early,” I asked. “It seems to me that it would have been more prudent…”
“Everything was and is planned; it seems like pure chance has led me here: I am supposed to have gone to visit a neighbor. Madame de T. didn’t tell you then? I’m upset at her for such a breach of trust, after all you’ve done for us.”
“Doubtless, she has her reasons; and maybe if she had said something I wouldn’t have enjoyed my role so much.”
“There, dear man, so it was pleasant? Recount to me the details. Go on, recount.”
“Ah! A moment. I didn’t know that all this was a comedy; and, though I may have in some way played the main…”
“You didn’t have the best role, trust me.”
“No, no, I assure you; there is no bad role among good actors.”
“I understand; you were very taken with the whole business.”
“Marvelously.”
“And Madame de T.?”
“She was sublime. She can act every genre.”
“Do you have any idea how one could tame such a lady? She gave me some trouble, certainly; but I’ve brought her character to the point that she may be the most reliably faithful woman in Paris.”
“Bravo!”
“Yes, that’s my talent: All her inconstancy was nothing but frivolousness, disorderliness and imagination: It was necessary to conquer her very soul.”
“And that is surely the best role.”
“Ain’t that the truth? You’ve got no conception of her attachment to me. Indeed, she’s charming; you’ve been convinced of that. But between us, I don’t know anything in her that isn’t a flaw; it’s like nature, in giving her everything, refused her that divine flame which would make a unified whole of her gifts. She can cause everything to be born, everything to be felt, and she experiences nothing: She’s a block of marble.”
“I guess I can’t disagree, because to me, I can’t...But you seem to know that woman as though you were her husband. Indeed, it’s deceptive; and if I hadn’t dined yesterday with the real…”
“Ah, on that note, did it go well?”
“Never has anyone been more of a husband than that one.”
“Oh! Such a great adventure! But you haven’t laughed at it enough for my tastes. Do you not sense all the comedy of your role? I’m convinced that the theater of the world offers the strangest things, that the most diverting scenes pass across reality’s own stage. Let us go back into the house; I’m impatient to share a laugh with Madame de T. It’ll make her day. And I told her I’d arrive early. Decency required that this whole business commence via the husband; now it’ll end with him. If I were you, I’d want to gas him up a bit. He probably took you for her lover.”
“You can judge my success by the reception he gives me. It’s nine o’clock: Let’s go straight to his house.” I wanted to avoid the guest apartment I was supposed to have stayed in, and for good reason. There’s a clear trail and one full of danger: The door, still open, allowed us a view of the servant assigned to accompany me within, who slept on a futon, an expired candle next to him. He awakened to our noise and presented my bedrobe to the Marquis, reproaching him for the hour at which he’d returned. I was on pins and needles; but the Marquis was so used to abusing him that he saw nothing in him but a dreamer at whom he was always ready to laugh. I gave orders regarding my departure to my own servant, who had no idea of the layers of subtext therein, and we passed into Monsieur’s home.
One can imagine well who was welcomed: wasn’t me; that was understandable. But my friend was stopped and greeted with grandeur. Monsieur wanted to bring him to Madame’s room, for she had said she had an appointment with him. As for me, he said he didn’t dare invite me to come along, because he apparently found me so tired that he was sure the country air on the ride home would do me a lot of good. So I resigned myself to return to town. The Marquis offered me his carriage; I accepted. All had gone wonderfully, and we were all three content. Nevertheless, I wanted to see Madame de T. one more time: It was a rapture I could not refuse myself. My impatience was shared by my friend, who didn’t buy the husband’s talk of rest, but who was far from grasping why I wanted to go.
He told me, as we left Monsieur de T.’s house, “Isn’t this all so admirable? Could his speech to you have been any better? In truth, he’s a strong, gallant man; and, all considered, I’m very at ease with their reconciliation. This is a gorgeous house; and I’m sure you’ve been convinced, as the mediator of the reunion, that he couldn’t choose better than his woman.” No one could have felt the truth of his words better than me. “But however pleasant it may be here, my man, giddy up; the mystery is more essential than ever. I know from Madame de T. herself that her secret couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Believe, friend, that she counts on me; and you can see that her sleep isn’t one bit disturbed.”
“Oh! But you’ve got to admit that it doesn’t take a second to put a woman to sleep.”
“Or a husband, dear, a lover sorely needed.” That husband agreed at last that I could enter and see Madame de T. And so we entered.
“I announce to you, Madame,” Monsieur said as we walked in, “you two best friends.” And he left.
“I shuddered to think,” she said to me, “that you would leave before my alarm sounded, and I know now that you are tactful, for you foresaw the anguish that would have caused me.” She examined us; but she was soon reassured by the solidity of the Marquis, who remained ever pleasant to me. She laughed with me as much as was needed to console me, and without degrading herself before me. She addressed the Marquis with tenderness, me with honesty and decency; empty banter, and not at all pleasant.
“Madame,” said the Marquis, “he has completed his role just as well as he began it.”
She responded gravely: “I was sure of the success of all that I entrusted to him.”
He recounted to her all that had come to pass between the two of us and her husband. She looked me over approvingly and without laughing. “For me,” the Marquis said, “I swear I’d conclude nothing less. I’m positively enchanted with all this: It’s a friend we’ve made, Madame. I would repeat again, our observations…”
“Hey!” Madame de T. interrupted, “Believe you me, I meant all that I said to him.”
Monsieur de T. was announced, and we found ourselves all together. He ridiculed and dismissed me, my supposed friend the Marquis joked about and mocked me; and I yielded to it all, consumed by admiration for Madame de T., whom we all had enjoyed and without any damage to her dignity.
After laughing at this scene for a few moments, I felt that the time had come for me to leave. I excused myself, Madame de T. followed me, pretending she wanted to chaperone me out. “Goodbye, Monsieur; I’ve given you plenty of pleasures; but you’ve repaid me with a good dream. And now your real love calls you back, she who was always the worthiest object. Though I have robbed her of some of her mystique, send my thanks to her, tenderly, delicately, and sensibly. Goodbye, one more time. You are charming...don’t shit on me to the Comtesse.” She squeezed my hand and left me.
I jumped into the waiting carriage. I searched all over for the moral of the whole grand adventure, and I found nothing.
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