"Bernard, you are unhappy. Tell me; is it my fault?"

I was unable to reply; I was ashamed of my tears, but the more I tried
to restrain them the more my breast heaved with sobs. With men as
physically strong as I was, tears are generally convulsions; mine were
like the pangs of death.

"Come now! Just tell me what is wrong," cried Edmee, with some of the
bluntness of sisterly affection.

And she ventured to put her hand on my shoulder. She was looking at me
with an expression of wistfulness, and a big tear was trickling down her
cheek. I threw myself on my knees and tried to speak, but that was still
impossible. I could do no more than mutter the word _to-morrow_ several
times.

"'To-morrow?' What of tomorrow?" said Edmee. "Do you not like being
here? Do you want to go away?"

"I will go, if it will please you," I replied. "Tell me; do you wish
never to see me again?"

"I do not wish that at all," she rejoined. "You will stop here, won't
you."

"It is for you to decide," I answered.

She looked at me in astonishment. I was still on my knees. She leant
over the back of my chair.

"Yes; I am quite sure that you are good at heart," she said, as if
she were answering some inner objection. "A Mauprat can be nothing by
halves; and as soon as you have once known a good quarter of an hour, it
is certain you ought to have a noble life before you."

"I will make it so," I answered.

"You mean it?" she said with unaffected joy.

"On my honour, Edmee, and on yours. Dare you give me your hand?"

"Certainly," she said.

She held out her hand to me; but she was still trembling.

"You have been forming good resolutions, then?" she said.

"I have been forming such resolutions," I replied, "that you will never
have to reproach me again. And now, Edmee, when you return to your room,
please do not bolt your door any more. You need no longer be afraid of
me. Henceforth I shall only wish what you wish."

She again fixed on me a look of amazement. Then, after pressing my hand,
she moved away, but turned round several times to look at me again, as
if unable to believe in such a sudden conversion. At last, stopping in
the doorway, she said to me in an affectionate tone:

"You, too, must go and get some rest. You look tired; and for the last
two days you have seemed sad and very much altered. If you do not wish
to make me anxious, you will take care of yourself, Bernard."

She gave me a sweet little nod. In her big eyes, already hollowed by
suffering, there was an indefinable expression, in which distrust and
hope, affection and wonder, were depicted alternately or at times all
together.

"I will take care of myself; I will get some sleep; and I will not be
sad any longer," I answered.

"And you will work?"

"And I will work--but, you, Edmee, will you forgive me for all the pain
I have caused you? and will you try to like me a little?"

"I shall like you very much," she replied, "if you are always as you are
this evening."

On the morrow, at daybreak, I went to the abbe's room. He was already up
and reading.

"Monsieur Aubert," I said to him, "you have several times offered
to give me lessons. I now come to request you to carry out your kind
offer."

I had spent part of the night in preparing this opening speech and in
deciding how I had best comport myself in the abbe's presence. Without
really hating him, for I could quite see that he meant well and that he
bore me ill-will only because of my faults, I felt very bitter towards
him. Inwardly I recognised that I deserved all the bad things he had
said about me to Edmee; but it seemed to me that he might have insisted
somewhat more on the good side of mine to which he had given a merely
passing word, and which could not have escaped the notice of a man so
observant as himself. I had determined, therefore, to be very cold
and very proud in my bearing towards him. To this end I judged with a
certain show of logic, that I ought to display great docility as long as
the lesson lasted, and that immediately afterwards I ought to leave him
with a very curt expression of thanks. In a word, I wished to humiliate
him in his post of tutor; for I was not unaware that he depended for his
livelihood on my uncle, and that, unless he renounced this livelihood
or showed himself ungrateful, he could not well refuse to undertake
my education. My reasoning here was very good; but the spirit which
prompted it was very bad; and subsequently I felt so much regret for my
behaviour that I made him a sort of friendly confession with a request
for absolution.

However, not to anticipate events, I will simply say that the first
few days after my conversation afforded me an ample revenge for the
prejudices, too well founded in many respects, which this man had
against me. He would have deserved the title of "the just," assigned
him by Patience, had not a habit of distrust interfered with his first
impulses. The persecutions of which he had so long been the object had
developed in him this instinctive feeling of fear, which remained with
him all his life, and made trust in others always very difficult to him,
though all the more flattering and touching perhaps when he accorded it.
Since then I have observed this characteristic in many worthy priests.
They generally have the spirit of charity, but not the feeling of
friendship.

I wished to make him suffer, and I succeeded. Spite inspired me. I
behaved as a nobleman might to an inferior. I preserved an excellent
bearing, displayed great attention, much politeness, and an icy
stiffness. I determined to give him no chance to make me blush at
my ignorance, and, to this end, I acted so as to anticipate all his
observations by accusing myself at once of knowing nothing, and by
requesting him to teach me the very rudiments of things. When I had
finished my first lesson I saw in his penetrating eyes, into which I had
managed to penetrate myself, a desire to pass from this coldness to
some sort of intimacy; but I carefully avoided making any response. He
thought to disarm me by praising my attention and intelligence.

"You are troubling yourself unnecessarily, monsieur," I replied. "I
stand in no need of encouragement. I have not the least faith in my
intelligence, but of my attention I certainly am very sure; but since
it is solely for my own good that I am doing my best to apply myself to
this work, there is no reason why you should compliment me on it."

With these words I bowed to him and withdrew to my room, where I
immediately did the French exercise that he had set me.

When I went down to luncheon, I saw that Edmee was already aware of the
execution of the promise I had made the previous evening. She at once
greeted me with outstretched hand, and frequently during luncheon called
me her "dear cousin," till at last M. de la Marche's face, which was
usually expressionless, expressed surprise or something very near it. I
was hoping that he would take the opportunity to demand an explanation
of my insulting words of the previous day; and although I had resolved
to discuss the matter in a spirit of great moderation, I felt very much
hurt at the care which he took to avoid it. This indifference to an
insult that I had offered implied a sort of contempt, which annoyed
me very much; but the fear of displeasing Edmee gave me strength to
restrain myself.

Incredible as it may seem, my resolve to supplant him was not for one
moment shaken by this humiliating apprenticeship which I had now to
serve before I could manage to obtain the most elementary notions of
things in general. Any other than I, filled like myself with remorse
for wrongs committed, would have found no surer method of repairing them
than by going away, and restoring to Edmee her perfect independence and
absolute peace of mind. This was the only method which did not occur
to me; or if it did, it was rejected with scorn, as a sign of apostasy.
Stubbornness, allied to temerity, ran through my veins with the blood
of the Mauprats. No sooner had I imagined a means of winning her whom
I loved than I embraced it with audacity; and I think it would not have
been otherwise even had her confidences to the abbe in the park shown
me that her love was given to my rival. Such assurance on the part of a
young man who, at the age of seventeen, was taking his first lesson in
French grammar, and who, moreover, had a very exaggerated notion of the
length and difficulty of the studies necessary to put him on a level
with M. de la March, showed, you must allow, a certain moral force.

I do not know if I was happily endowed in the matter of intelligence.
The abbe assured me that I was; but, for my own part, I think that my
rapid progress was due to nothing but my courage. This was such as to
make me presume too much on my physical powers. The abbe had told me
that, with a strong will, any one of my age could master all the rules
of the language within a month. At the end of the month I expressed
myself with facility and wrote correctly. Edmee had a sort of occult
influence over my studies; at her wish I was not taught Latin; for she
declared that I was too old to devote several years to a fancy branch
of learning, and that the essential thing was to shape my heart and
understanding with ideas, rather than to adorn my mind with words.

Of an evening, under pretext of wishing to read some favourite book
again, she read aloud, alternately with the abbe, passages from
Condillac, Fenelon, Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, Jean Jacques, and even
from Montaigne and Montesquieu. These passages, it is true, were chosen
beforehand and adapted to my powers. I understood them fairly well, and
I secretly wondered at this; for if during the day I opened these same
books at random, I found myself brought to a standstill at every line.
With the superstition natural to young lovers, I willingly imagined that
in passing through Edmee's mouth the authors acquired a magic clearness,
and that by some miracle my mind expanded at the sound of her voice.
However, Edmee was careful to disguise the interest she took in teaching
me herself. There is no doubt that she was mistaken in thinking that
she ought not to betray her solicitude: it would only have roused me to
still greater efforts in my work. But in this, imbued as she was with
the teachings of _Emile_, she was merely putting into practice the
theories of her favourite philosopher.

As it was, I spared myself but little; for my courage would not admit of
any forethought. Consequently I was soon obliged to stop. The change
of air, of diet, and of habits, my lucubrations, the want of vigorous
exercise, my intense application, in a word, the terrible revolution
which my nature had to stir up against itself in order to pass from the
state of a man of the woods to that of an intelligent being, brought on
a kind of brain fever which made me almost mad for some weeks, then an
idiot for some days, and finally disappeared, leaving me a mere wreck
physically, with a mind completely severed from the past, but sternly
braced to meet the future.

One night, when I was at the most critical stage of my illness, during a
lucid interval, I caught sight of Edmee in my room. At first I thought
I was dreaming. The night-light was casting an unsteady glimmer over the
room. Near me was a pale form lying motionless on an easy chair. I could
distinguish some long black tresses falling loosely over a white dress.
I sat up, weak though I was and scarcely able to move, and tried to
get out of bed. Patience, however, suddenly appeared by the bedside and
gently stopped me. Saint-Jean was sleeping in another arm-chair. Every
night there used to be two men watching me thus, ready to hold me down
by force whenever I became violent during my delirium. Frequently the
abbe was one; sometimes the worthy Marcasse, who, before leaving
Berry to go on his annual round through the neighbouring province, had
returned to have a farewell hunt in the outhouses of the chateau, and
who kindly offered to relieve the servants in their painful task of
keeping watch over me.

As I was wholly unconscious of my illness, it was but natural that
the unexpected presence of the hermit in my room should cause me
considerable astonishment, and throw me into a state of great agitation.
My attacks had been so violent that evening that I had no strength left.
I abandoned myself, therefore, to my melancholy ravings, and, taking the
good man's hand, I asked him if it was really Edmee's corpse that he had
placed in the arm-chair by my bedside.

"It is Edmee's living self," he answered, in a low voice; "but she is
still asleep, my dear monsieur, and we must not wake her. If there is
anything you would like, I am here to attend to you, and right gladly I
do it."

"My good Patience, you are deceiving me," I said; "she is dead, and
so am I, and you have come to bury us. But you must put us in the same
coffin, do you hear? for we are betrothed. Where is her ring? Take it
off and put it on my finger; our wedding-night has come."

He tried in vain to dispel this hallucination. I held to my belief that
Edmee was dead, and declared that I should never be quiet in my shroud
until I had been given my wife's ring. Edmee, who had sat up with me
for several nights, was so exhausted that our voices did not awaken
her. Besides, I was speaking in a whisper, like Patience, with that
instinctive tendency to imitate which is met with only in children or
idiots. I persisted in my fancy, and Patience, who was afraid that it
might turn into madness, went and very carefully removed a cornelian
ring from one of Edmee's fingers and put it on mine. As soon as I felt
it there, I carried it to my lips; and then with my arms crossed on my
breast, in the manner of a corpse in a coffin, I fell into a deep sleep.

On the morrow when they tried to take the ring from me I resisted
violently, and they abandoned the attempt. I fell asleep again and the
abbe removed it during my sleep. But when I opened my eyes I noticed the
theft, and once more began to rave. Edmee, who was in the room, ran
to me at once and pressed the ring over my finger, at the same time
rebuking the abbe. I immediately grew calm, and gazing, on her with
lack-lustre eyes, said:

"Is it not true that you are my wife in death as in life?"

"Certainly," she replied. "Set your mind at rest."

"Eternity is long," I said, "and I should like to spend it in recalling
your caresses. But I send my thoughts back in vain; they bring me no
remembrance of your love."

She leant over and gave me a kiss.

"Edmee, that is very wrong," said the abbe; "such remedies turn to
poison."

"Let me do as I like, abbe," she replied, with evident impatience,
sitting down near my bed; "I must ask you to let me do as I please."

I fell asleep with one of my hands in hers, repeating at intervals:

"How sweet it is in the grave! Are we not fortunate to be dead?"

During my convalescence Edmee was much more reserved, but no less
attentive. I told her my dreams and learnt from her how far my
recollections were of real events. Without her testimony I should always
have believed that I had dreamt everything. I implored her to let me
keep the ring, and she consented. I ought to have added, to show my
gratitude for all her goodness, that I should keep it as a pledge of
friendship, and not as a sign of our engagement; but such a renunciation
was beyond me.

One day I asked for news of M. de la Marche. It was only to Patience
that I dared to put this question.

"Gone," he answered.

"What! Gone?" I replied. "For long?"

"Forever, please God! I don't know anything about it, for I ask no
questions; but I happened to be in the garden when he took leave of her,
and it was all as cold as a December night. Still, _au revoir_ was
said on both sides, but though Edmee's manner was kind and honest as
it always is, the other had the face of a farmer when he sees frosts
in April. Mauprat, Mauprat, they tell me that you have become a great
student and a genuine good fellow. Remember what I told you; when you
are old there will probably no longer be any titles or estate. Perhaps
you will be called 'Father' Mauprat, as I am called 'Father' Patience,
though I have never been either a priest or a father of a family."

"Well, what are you driving at?"

"Remember what I once told you," he repeated. "There are many ways of
being a sorcerer, and one may read the future without being a servant
of the devil. For my part, I give my consent to your marriage with your
cousin. Continue to behave decently. You are a wise man now, and can
read fluently from any book set before you. What more do you want? There
are so many books here that the sweat runs from my brow at the very
sight of them; it seems as if I were again starting the old torment of
not being able to learn to read. But you have soon cured yourself. If M.
Hubert were willing to take my advice, he would fix the wedding for the
next Martinmas."

"That is enough, Patience!" I said. "This is a painful subject with me;
my cousin does not love me."

"I tell you she does. You lie in your throat, as the nobles say. I know
well enough how she nursed you; and Marcasse from the housetop happened
to look through her window and saw her on her knees in the middle of the
room at five o'clock in the morning the day that you were so ill."

These imprudent assertions of Patience, Edmee's tender cares, the
departure of M. de la Marche, and, more than anything else, the weakness
of my brain, enabled me to believe what I wished; but in proportion as
I regained my strength Edmee withdrew further and further within the
bounds of calm and discreet friendship. Never did man recover his
health with less pleasure than I mine; for each day made Edmee's visits
shorter; and when I was able to leave my room I had merely a few hours a
day near her, as before my illness. With marvellous skill she had given
me proof of the tenderest affection without ever allowing herself to be
drawn into a fresh explanation concerning our mysterious betrothal. If I
had not yet sufficient greatness of soul to renounce my rights, I had at
least developed enough honour not to refer to them; and I found myself
on exactly the same terms with her as at the time when I had fallen ill.
M. de la Marche was in Paris; but according to her he had been summoned
thither by his military duties and ought to return at the end of the
winter on which we were entering. Nothing that the chevalier or the abbe
said tended to show that there had been a quarrel between Edmee and him.
They rarely spoke of the lieutenant-general, but when they had to speak
of him they did so naturally and without any signs of repugnance. I
was again filled with my old doubts, and could find no remedy for them
except in the kingdom of my own will. "I will force her to prefer me," I
would say to myself as I raised my eyes from my book and watched Edmee's
great, inscrutable eyes calmly fixed on the letters which her father
occasionally received from M. de la Marche, and which he would hand to
her as soon as he had read them. I buried myself in my work again. For
a long time I suffered from frightful pains in the head, but I overcame
them stoically. Edmee again began the course of studies which she had
indirectly laid down for my winter evenings. Once more I astonished the
abbe by my aptitude and the rapidity of my conquests. The kindness he
had shown me during my illness had disarmed me; and although I was still
unable to feel any genuine affection for him, knowing well that he was
of little service to me with my cousin, I gave him proof of much more
confidence and respect than in the past. His talks were as useful to me
as my reading. I was allowed to accompany him in his walks in the park
and in his philosophical visits to Patience's snow-covered hut. This
gave me an opportunity of seeing Edmee more frequently and for longer
periods. My behaviour was such that all her mistrust vanished, and she
no longer feared to be alone with me. On such occasions, however, I
had but little scope for displaying my heroism; for the abbe, whose
vigilance nothing could lull to sleep, was always at our heels. This
supervision no longer annoyed me; on the contrary, I was pleased at it;
for, in spite of all my resolutions, the storms of passion would still
sweep my senses into a mysterious disorder; and once or twice when I
found myself alone with Edmee I left her abruptly and went away, so that
she might not perceive my agitation.

Our life, then, was apparently calm and peaceful, and for some time
it was so in reality; but soon I disturbed it more than ever by a vice
which education developed in me, and which had hitherto been hidden
under coarser but less fatal vices. This vice, the bane of my new period
of life, was vanity.

In spite of their theories, the abbe and my cousin made the mistake
of showing too much pleasure at my rapid progress. They had so little
expected perseverance from me that they gave all the credit to my
exceptional abilities. Perhaps, too, in the marked success of the
philosophical ideas they had applied to my education they saw something
of a triumph for themselves. Certain it is, I was not loath to let
myself be persuaded that I had great intellectual powers, and that I
was a man very much above the average. My dear instructors were soon to
gather the sad fruit of their imprudence, and it was already too late to
check the flight of my immoderate conceit.

Perhaps, too, this abominable trait in my character, kept under by the
bad treatment I had endured in childhood, was now merely revealing its
existence. There is reason to believe that we carry within us from our
earliest years the seeds of those virtues and vices which are in time
made to bear fruit by the action of our environment. As for myself, I
had not yet found anything whereon my vanity could feed; for on what
could I have prided myself at the beginning of my acquaintance with
Edmee? But no sooner was food forthcoming than suffering vanity rose up
in triumph, and filled me with as much presumption as previously it had
inspired me with bashfulness and boorish reserve. I was, moreover, as
delighted at being able at last to express my thoughts with ease as a
young falcon fresh from the nest trying its wings for the first time.
Consequently, I became as talkative as I had been silent. The others
were too indulgent to my prattle. I had not sense enough to see that
they were merely listening to me as they would to a spoilt child.
I thought myself a man, and what is more, a remarkable man. I grew
arrogant and superlatively ridiculous.

My uncle, the chevalier, who had not taken any part in my education, and
who only smiled with fatherly good-nature at the first steps I took in
my new career, was the first to notice the false direction in which I
was advancing. He found it unbecoming that I should raise my voice
as loudly as his own, and mentioned the matter to Edmee. With great
sweetness she warned me of this, and, lest I should feel annoyed at her
speaking of it, told me that I was quite right in my argument, but that
her father was now too old to be converted to new ideas, and that I
ought to sacrifice my enthusiastic affirmations to his patriarchal
dignity. I promised not to repeat the offence; and I did not keep my
word.

The fact is, the chevalier was imbued with many prejudices. Considering
the days in which he lived, he had received a very good education for a
country nobleman; but the century had moved more rapidly than he. Edmee,
ardent and romantic; the abbe, full of sentiment and systems, had moved
even more rapidly than the century; and if the vast gulf which lay
between them and the patriarch was scarcely perceptible, this was owing
to the respect which they rightly felt for him, and to the love he had
for his daughter. I rushed forward at full speed, as you may imagine,
into Edmee's ideas, but I had not, like herself, sufficient delicacy of
feeling to maintain a becoming reticence. The violence of my character
found an outlet in politics and philosophy, and I tasted unspeakable
pleasure in those heated disputes which at that time in France, not
only at all public meetings but also in the bosoms of families, were
preluding the tempests of the Revolution. I doubt if there was a single
house, from palace to hovel, which had not its orator--rugged, fiery,
absolute, and ready to descend into the parliamentary arena. I was the
orator of the chateau of Sainte-Severe, and my worthy uncle, accustomed
to a resemblance of authority over those about him, which prevented him
from seeing the real revolt of their minds, could ill endure such candid
opposition as mine. He was proud and hot-tempered, and, moreover, had a
difficulty in expressing himself which increased his natural impatience,
and made him feel annoyed with himself. He would give a furious kick to
the burning logs on the hearth; he would smash his eye-glasses into a
thousand pieces; scatter clouds of snuff about the floor, and shout so
violently as to make the lofty ceilings of his mansion ring with his
resonant voice. All this, I regret to say, amused me immensely; and with
some sentence but newly spelt out from my books I loved to destroy the
frail scaffolding of ideas which had served him all his life. This was
great folly and very foolish pride on my part; but my love of opposition
and my desire to display intellectually the energy which was wanting in
my physical life were continually carrying me away. In vain would Edmee
cough, as a hint that I should say no more, and make an effort to save
her father's _amour propre_ by bringing forward some argument in his
favour, though against her own judgement; the lukewarmness of her help,
and my apparent submission to her only irritated my adversary more and
more.

"Let him have his say," he would cry; "Edmee, you must not interfere; I
want to beat him on all points. If you continually interrupt us, I shall
never be able to make him see his absurdity."

And then the squall would blow stronger from both sides, until at last
the chevalier, seriously offended, would walk out of the room, and go
and vent his ill-humour on his huntsman or his hounds.

What most contributed to the recurrence of these unseemly wrangles and
to the growth of my ridiculous obstinacy was my uncle's extreme goodness
and the rapidity of his recovery. At the end of an hour he had entirely
forgotten my rudeness and his own irritation. He would speak to me as
usual and inquire into all my wishes and all my wants with that fatherly
solicitude which always kept him in a benevolent mood. This incomparable
man could never had slept had he not, before going to bed, embraced all
his family, and atoned, either by a word or a kindly glance, for any
ebullitions of temper which the meanest of his servants might have had
to bear during the day. Such goodness ought to have disarmed me and
closed my mouth forever. Each evening I vowed that it should; but each
morning I returned, as the Scriptures say, to my vomit again.

Edmee suffered more and more every day from this development of my
character. She cast about for means to cure it. If there was never
_fiancee_ stronger-minded and more reserved than she, never was there
mother more tender. After many discussions with the abbe she resolved to
persuade her father to change the routine of our life somewhat, and to
remove our establishment to Paris for the last weeks of the carnival.
Our long stay in the country; the isolation which the position of
Sainte-Severe and the bad state of the roads had left us since the
beginning of winter; the monotony of our daily life--all tended to
foster our wearisome quibbling. My character was being more and more
spoilt by it; and though it afforded my uncle even greater pleasure than
myself, his health suffered as a result, and the childish passions daily
aroused were no doubt hastening his decay. The abbe was suffering from
_ennui_; Edmee was depressed. Whether in consequence of our mode of life
or owing to causes unknown to the rest, it was her wish to go, and we
went; for her father was uneasy about her melancholy, and sought only to
do as she desired. I jumped for joy at the thought of seeing Paris; and
while Edmee was flattering herself that intercourse with the world
would refine the grossness of my pedantry, I was dreaming of a triumphal
progress through the world which had been held up to such scorn by our
philosophers. We started on our journey one fine morning in March; the
chevalier with his daughter and Mademoiselle Leblanc in one post-chaise;
myself in another with the abbe, who could ill conceal his delight at
the thought of seeing the capital for the first time in him life; and my
valet Saint-Jean, who, lest he should forget his customary politeness,
made profound bows to every individual we passed.




XII

Old Bernard, tired from talking so long, had promised to resume his
story on the morrow. At the appointed hour we called upon him to keep
his word; and he continued thus:


This visit marked a new phase in my life. At Sainte-Severe I had been
absorbed in my love and my work. I had concentrated all my energies upon
these two points. No sooner had I arrived at Paris than a thick curtain
seemed to fall before my eyes, and, for several days, as I could not
understand anything, I felt astonished at nothing. I formed a very
exaggerated estimate of the passing actors who appeared upon the scene;
but I formed no less exaggerated an estimate of the ease with which
I should soon rival these imaginary powers. My enterprising and
presumptuous nature saw challenges everywhere and obstacles nowhere.

Though I was in the same house as my uncle and cousin, my room was on a
separate floor, and henceforth I spent the greater part of my time with
the abbe. I was far from being dazed by the material advantages of my
position; but in proportion as I realized how precarious or painful were
the positions of many others, the more conscious I became of the comfort
of my own. I appreciated the excellent character of my tutor, and the
respect my lackey showed me no longer seemed objectionable. With the
freedom that I enjoyed, and the unlimited money at my command, and the
restless energy of youth, it is astonishing that I did not fall into
some excess, were it only gambling, which might well have appealed to
my combative instincts. It was my own ignorance of everything that
prevented this; it made me extremely suspicious, and the abbe, who was
very observant, and held himself responsible for my actions, managed
most cleverly to work upon my haughty reserve. He increased it in regard
to such things as might have done me harm, and dispelled it in contrary
cases. Moreover, he was careful to provide me with sufficient reasonable
distractions, which while they could not take the place of the joys
of love, served at least to lessen the smart of its wounds. As to
temptations to debauchery, I felt none. I had too much pride to yearn
for any woman in which I had not seen, as in Edmee, the first of her
sex.

We used all to meet at dinner, and as a rule we paid visits in the
evening. By observing the world from a corner of a drawing-room, I
learnt more of it in a few days than I should have done in a whole
year from guesses and inquiries. I doubt whether I should ever have
understood society, if I had always been obliged to view it from a
certain distance. My brain refused to form a clear image of the ideas
which occupied the brains of others. But as soon as I found myself in
the midst of this chaos, the confused mass was compelled to fall into
some sort of order and reveal a large part of its elements. This path
which led me into life was not without charms for me, I remember, at its
beginning. Amid all the conflicting interests of the surrounding world I
had nothing to ask for, aim at, or argue about. Fortune had taken me by
the hand. One fine morning she had lifted me out of an abyss and put me
down on a bed of roses and made me a young gentleman. The eagerness of
others was for me but an amusing spectacle. My heart was interested
in the future only on one mysterious point, the love which I felt for
Edmee.

My illness, far from robbing me of my physical vigour, had but increased
it. I was no longer the heavy, sleepy animal, fatigued by digestion and
stupefied by weariness. I felt the vibrations of all my fibres filling
my soul with unknown harmonies; and I was astonished to discover within
myself faculties of which I had never suspected the use. My good kinfolk
were delighted at this, though apparently not surprised. They had
allowed themselves to augur so well of me from the beginning that it
seemed as if they had been accustomed all their lives to the trade of
civilizing barbarians.

The nervous system which had just been developed in me, and which made
me pay for the pleasures and advantages it brought by keen and constant
sufferings during the rest of my life, had rendered me specially
sensitive to impressions from without; and this quickness to feel the
effect of external things was helped by an organic vigour such as is
only found among animals or savages. I was astounded at the decay of
the faculties in other people. These men in spectacles, these women with
their sense of smell deadened by snuff, these premature graybeards,
deaf and gouty before their time, were painful to behold. To me society
seemed like a vast hospital; and when with my robust constitution I
found myself in the midst of these weaklings, it seemed to me that with
a puff of my breath I could have blown them into the air as if they had
been so much thistle-down.

This unfortunately led me into the error of yielding to that rather
stupid kind of pride which makes a man presume upon his natural gifts.
For a long time it induced me to neglect their real improvement, as if
this were a work of supererogation. The idea that gradually grew up in
me of the worthlessness of my fellows prevented me from rising above
those whom I henceforth looked upon as my inferiors. I did not
realize that society is made up of so many elements of little value in
themselves, but so skilfully and solidly put together that before adding
the least extraneous particle a man must be a qualified artificer. I did
not know that in this society there is no resting-place between the role
of the great artist and that of the good workman. Now, I was neither one
nor the other, and, if the truth must be told, all my ideas have never
succeeded in lifting me out of the ordinary ruck; all my strength has
only enabled me with much difficulty to do as others do.

In a few weeks, then, I passed from an excess of admiration to an excess
of contempt for society. As soon as I understood the workings of its
springs they seemed to me so miserably regulated by a feeble generation
that the hopes of my mentors, unknown to themselves, were doomed to
disappointment. Instead of realizing my own inferiority and endeavouring
to efface myself in the crowd, I imagined that I could give proof of
my superiority whenever I wished; and I fed on fancies which I blush to
recall. If I did not show myself egregiously ridiculous, it was thanks
to the very excess of this vanity which feared to stultify itself before
others.

At that time Paris presented a spectacle which I shall not attempt to
set before you, because no doubt you have often eagerly studied it in
the excellent pictures which have been painted by eye-witnesses in the
form of general history or private memoirs. Besides, such a picture
would exceed the limits of my story, for I promised to tell you only the
cardinal events in my moral and philosophical development. In order to
give you some idea of the workings of my mind at this period it will
suffice to mention that the War of Independence was breaking out in
America; that Voltaire was receiving his apotheosis in Paris; that
Franklin, the prophet of a new political religion, was sowing the seed
of liberty in the very heart of the Court of France; while Lafayette
was secretly preparing his romantic expedition. The majority of young
patricians were being carried away either by fashion, or the love
of change, or the pleasure inherent in all opposition which is not
dangerous.

Opposition took a graver form and called for more serious work in the
case of the old nobles, and among the members of the parliaments. The
spirit of the League was alive again in the ranks of these ancient
patricians and these haughty magistrates, who for form's sake were still
supporting the tottering monarchy with one arm, while with the other
they gave considerable help to the invasions of philosophy. The
privileged classes of society were zealously lending a hand to the
imminent destruction of their privileges by complaining that these had
been curtailed by the kings. They were bringing up their children in
constitutional principles, because they imagined they were going to
found a new monarchy in which the people would help them to regain
their old position above the throne; and it is for this reason that the
greatest admiration for Voltaire and the most ardent sympathies with
Franklin were openly expressed in the most famous salons in Paris.

So unusual and, if it must be said, so unnatural a movement of the human
mind had infused fresh life into the vestiges of the Court of Louis
XIV, and replaced the customary coldness and stiffness by a sort of
quarrelsome vivacity. It had also introduced certain serious forms into
the frivolous manners of the regency, and lent them an appearance of
depth. The pure but colourless life of Louis XVI counted for nothing,
and influenced nobody. Never had there been such serious chatter, so
many flimsy maxims, such an affectation of wisdom, so much inconsistency
between words and deeds as might have been found at this period among
the so-called enlightened classes.

It was necessary to remind you of this in order that you might
understand the admiration which I had at first for a world apparently
so disinterested, so courageous, so eager in the pursuit of truth, and
likewise the disgust which I was soon to feel for so much affectation
and levity, for such an abuse of the most hallowed words and the most
sacred convictions. For my own part, I was perfectly sincere; and I
founded my philosophic fervour (that recently discovered sentiment of
liberty which was then called the cult of reason) on the broad base of
an inflexible logic. I was young and of a good constitution, the first
condition perhaps of a healthy mind; my reading, though not extensive,
was solid, for I had been fed on food easy of digestion. The little I
knew served to show me, therefore, that others either knew nothing at
all, or were giving themselves the lie.

At the commencement of our stay in Paris the chevalier had but few
visitors. The friend and contemporary of Turgot and several other
distinguished men, he had not mixed with the gilded youth of his day,
but had lived soberly in the country after loyally serving in the wars.
His circle of friends, therefore, was composed of a few grave gentlemen
of the long robe, several old soldiers, and a few nobles from his own
province, both old and young, who, thanks to a respectable fortune,
were able, like himself, to come and spend the winter in Paris. He had,
moreover, kept up a slight intercourse with a more brilliant set, among
whom Edmee's beauty and refined manners were noticed as soon as she
appeared. Being an only daughter, and passably rich, she was sought
after by various important matrons, those procuresses of quality who
have always a few young proteges whom they wish to clear from debt at
the expense of some family in the provinces. And then, when it became
known that she was engaged to M. de la Marche, the almost ruined scion
of a very illustrious family, she was still more kindly received, until
by degrees the little salon which she had chosen for her father's old
friends became too small for the wits by quality and profession, and
the grand ladies with a turn for philosophy who wished to know the young
Quakeress, the Rose of Berry (such were the names given her by a certain
fashionable woman).

This rapid success in a world in which she had hitherto been unknown by
no mean dazzled Edmee; and the control which she possessed over herself
was so great that, in spite of all the anxiety with which I watched
her slightest movement, I could never discover if she felt flattered at
causing such a stir. But what I could perceive was the admirable good
sense manifested in everything she did and everything she said. Her
manner, at once ingenuous and reserved, and a certain blending of
unconstraint with modest pride, made her shine even among the women who
were the most admired and the most skilled in attracting attention. And
this is the place to mention that at first I was extremely shocked at
the tone and bearing of these women, whom everybody extolled; to me
they seemed ridiculous in their studied posings, and their grand society
manners looked very much like insufferable effrontery. Yes, I, so
intrepid at heart, and but lately so coarse in my manners, felt ill at
ease and abashed in their presence; and it needed all Edmee's reproaches
and remonstrances to prevent me from displaying a profound contempt for
this meretriciousness of glances, of toilets, and allurements which
was known in society as allowable coquetry, as the charming desire to
please, as amiability, and as grace. The abbe was of my opinion. When
the guests had gone we members of the family used to gather round the
fireside for a short while before separating. It is at such a time that
one feels an impulse to bring together one's scattered impressions and
communicate them to some sympathetic being. The abbe, then, would break
the same lances as myself with my uncle and cousin. The chevalier, who
was an ardent admirer of the fair sex, of which he had had but little
experience, used to take upon himself, like a true French knight, to
defend all the beauties that we were attacking so unmercifully. He would
laughingly accuse the abbe of arguing about women as the fox in the
fable argued about the grapes. For myself, I used to improve under the
abbe's criticisms; this was an emphatic way of letting Edmee know how
much I preferred her to all others. She, however, appeared to be more
scandalized than flattered, and seriously reproved me for the tendency
to malevolence which had its origin, she said, in my inordinate pride.

It is true that after generously undertaking the defence of the persons
in question, she would come over to our opinion as soon as, Rousseau in
hand, we told her that the women in Paris society had cavalier manners
and a way of looking a man in the face which must needs be intolerable
in the eyes of a sage. When once Rousseau had delivered judgment,
Edmee would object no further; she was ready to admit with him that the
greatest charm of a woman is the intelligent and modest attention she
gives to serious discussions, and I always used to remind her of the
comparison of a superior woman to a beautiful child with its great eyes
full of feeling and sweetness and delicacy, with its shy questionings
and its objections full of sense. I hoped that she would recognise
herself in this portrait upon the text, and, enlarging the portrait:

"A really superior woman," I said, looking at her earnestly, "is one
who knows enough to prevent her from asking a ridiculous or unseasonable
question, or from ever measuring swords with men of merit. Such a woman
knows when to be silent, especially with the fools whom she could laugh
at, or the ignorant whom she could humiliate. She is indulgent towards
absurdities because she does not yearn to display her knowledge, and
she is observant of whatsoever is good, because she desires to improve
herself. Her great object is to understand, not to instruct. The great
art (since it is recognised that art is required even in the commerce of
words) is not to pit against one another two arrogant opponents,
eager to parade their learning and to amuse the company by discussing
questions the solution of which no one troubles about, but to illumine
every unprofitable disputation by bringing in the help of all who can
throw a little light on the points at issue. This is a talent of which
I can see no signs among the hostesses who are so cried up. In their
houses I always find two fashionable barristers, and a thunderstruck
audience, in which no one dares to be judge. The only art these ladies
have is to make the man of genius ridiculous, and the ordinary man dumb
and inert. One comes away from such houses saying, 'Those were fine
speeches,' and nothing more."

I really think that I was in the right here; but I cannot forget that my
chief cause of anger against these women arose from the fact that they
paid no attention to people, however able they might think themselves,
unless they happened to be famous--the _people_ being myself, as you may
easily imagine. On the other hand, now that I look back on those days
without prejudice and without any sense of wounded vanity, I am certain
that these women had a way of fawning on public favourites which was
much more like childish conceit than sincere admiration or candid
sympathy. They became editors, as it were, of the conversation,
listening with all their might and making peremptory signals to the
audience to listen to every triviality issuing from an illustrious
mouth; while they would suppress a yawn and drum with their fans at
all remarks, however excellent, as soon as they were unsigned by a
fashionable name. I am ignorant of the airs of the intellectual women
of the nineteenth century; nay, I do not know if the race still exists.
Thirty years have passed since I mixed in society; but, as to the past,
you may believe what I tell you. There were five or six of these
women who were absolutely odious to me. One of them had some wit, and
scattered her epigrams right and left. These were at once hawked about
in all drawing-rooms, and I had to listen to them twenty times in a
single day. Another had read Montesquieu, and gave lessons in law to the
oldest magistrates. A third used to play the harp execrably, but it was
agreed that her arms were the most beautiful in France, and we had to
endure the harsh scraping of her nails over the strings so that she
might have an opportunity of removing her gloves like a coy little girl.
What can I say of the others, except that they vied with one another in
all those affectations and fatuous insincerities, by which all the men
childishly allowed themselves to be duped. One alone was really pretty,
said nothing, and gave pleasure by her very lack of artificiality. To
her I might have been favourably inclined because of her ignorance, had
she not gloried in this, and tried to emphasize her difference from the
others by a piquant ingenuousness. One day I discovered that she had
plenty of wit, and straightway I abhorred her.

Edmee alone preserved all the freshness of sincerity and all the
distinction of natural grace. Sitting on a sofa by the side of M. de
Malesherbes, she was for me the same being that I had gazed on so many
times in the light of the setting sun, as she sat on the stone seat at
the door of Patience's cottage.




XIII

You will readily believe that all the homage paid to my cousin fanned
into fresh flames the jealousy which had been smouldering in my breast.
Since the day when, in obedience to her command, I began to devote
myself to work, I could hardly say whether I had dared to count on
her promise that she would become my wife as soon as I was able to
understand her ideas and feelings. To me, indeed, it seemed that the
time for this had already arrived; for it is certain that I understood
Edmee, better perhaps than any of the men who were paying their
addresses to her in prose and verse. I had firmly resolved not to
presume upon the oath extorted from her at Roche-Mauprat; yet, when I
remembered her last promise, freely given at the chapel window, and the
inferences which I could have drawn from her conversation with the abbe
which I had overheard in the parlour at Sainte-Severe; when I remembered
her earnestness in preventing me from going away and in directing my
education; the motherly attentions she had lavished on me during my
illness--did not all these things give me, if not some right, at least
some reason to hope? It is true that her friendship would become icy as
soon as my passion betrayed itself in words or looks; it is true that
since the first day I saw her I had not advanced a single step towards
close affection; it is also true that M. de la Marche frequently came to
the house, and that she always showed him as much friendship as myself,
though with less familiarity and more respect in it, a distinction which
was naturally due to the difference in our characters and our ages, and
did not indicate any preference for one or the other. It was possible,
therefore, to attribute her promise to the prompting of her conscience;
the interest which she took in my studies to her worship of human
dignity as it stood rehabilitated by philosophy; her quiet and continued
affection for M. de la March to a profound regret, kept in subjection
by the strength and wisdom of her mind. These perplexities I felt very
acutely. The hope of compelling her love by submission and devotion had
sustained me; but this hope was beginning to grow weak; for though, as
all allowed, I had made prodigious efforts and extraordinary progress,
Edmee's regard for me had been very far from increasing in the same
proportion. She had not shown any astonishment at what she called my
lofty intellect; she had always believed in it; she had praised it
unreasonably. But she was not blind to the faults in my character,
to the vices of my soul. She had reproached me with these with an
inexorable sweetness, with a patience calculated to drive me to despair;
for she seemed to have made up her mind that, whatever the future might
bring, she would never love me more and never less.