第42章

The thought rent her soul.And, in truth, woe unto those for whom suspense is not the most horrible time of tempest, while it increases and multiplies the sweetest joys; for they have nothing in them of that flame which quickens the images of things, giving to them a second existence, so that we cling as closely to the pure essence as to its outward and visible manifestation.What is suspense in love but a constant drawing upon an unfailing hope?--a submission to the terrible scourging of passion, while passion is yet happy, and the disenchantment of reality has not set in.The constant putting forth of strength and longing, called suspense, is surely, to the human soul, as fragrance to the flower that breathes it forth.We soon leave the brilliant, unsatisfying colours of tulips and coreopsis, but we turn again and again to drink in the sweetness of orange-blossoms or volkameria-flowers compared separately, each in its own land, to a betrothed bride, full of love, made fair by the past and future.

The Duchess learned the joys of this new life of hers through the rapture with which she received the scourgings of love.As this change wrought in her, she saw other destinies before her, and a better meaning in the things of life.As she hurried to her dressing-room, she understood what studied adornment and the most minute attention to her toilet mean when these are undertaken for love's sake and not for vanity.Even now this making ready helped her to bear the long time of waiting.A relapse of intense agitation set in when she was dressed; she passed through nervous paroxysms brought on by the dreadful power which sets the whole mind in ferment.Perhaps that power is only a disease, though the pain of it is sweet.The Duchess was dressed and waiting at two o clock in the afternoon.At half-past eleven that night M.de Montriveau had not arrived.To try to give an idea of the anguish endured by a woman who might be said to be the spoilt child of civilisation, would be to attempt to say how many imaginings the heart can condense into one thought.As well endeavour to measure the forces expended by the soul in a sigh whenever the bell rang; to estimate the drain of life when a carriage rolled past without stopping, and left her prostrate.

"Can he be playing with me?" she said, as the clocks struck midnight.

She grew white; her teeth chattered; she struck her hands together and leapt up and crossed the boudoir, recollecting as she did so how often he had come thither without a summons.But she resigned herself.Had she not seen him grow pale, and start up under the stinging barbs of irony? Then Mme de Langeais felt the horror of the woman's appointed lot; a man's is the active part, a woman must wait passively when she loves.If a woman goes beyond her beloved, she makes a mistake which few men can forgive; almost every man would feel that a woman lowers herself by this piece of angelic flattery.But Armand's was a great nature; he surely must be one of the very few who can repay such exceeding love by love that lasts forever.

"Well, I will make the advance," she told herself, as she tossed on her bed and found no sleep there; "I will go to him.

I will not weary myself with holding out a hand to him, but Iwill hold it out.A man of a thousand will see a promise of love and constancy in every step that a woman takes towards him.Yes, the angels must come down from heaven to reach men; and I wish to be an angel for him."Next day she wrote.It was a billet of the kind in which the intellects of the ten thousand Sevignes that Paris now can number particularly excel.And yet only a Duchesse de Langeais, brought up by Mme la Princesse de Blamont-Chauvry, could have written that delicious note; no other woman could complain without lowering herself; could spread wings in such a flight without draggling her pinions in humiliation; rise gracefully in revolt;scold without giving offence; and pardon without compromising her personal dignity.

Julien went with the note.Julien, like his kind, was the victim of love's marches and countermarches.

"What did M.de Montriveau reply?" she asked, as indifferently as she could, when the man came back to report himself.

"M.le Marquis requested me to tell Mme la Duchesse that it was all right.

Oh the dreadful reaction of the soul upon herself! To have her heart stretched on the rack before curious witnesses; yet not to utter a sound, to be forced to keep silence! One of the countless miseries of the rich!

More than three weeks went by.Mme de Langeais wrote again and again, and no answer came from Montriveau.At last she gave out that she was ill, to gain a dispensation from attendance on the Princess and from social duties.She was only at home to her father the Duc de Navarreins, her aunt the Princesse de Blamont-Chauvry, the old Vidame de Pamiers (her maternal great-uncle), and to her husband's uncle, the Duc de Grandlieu.

These persons found no difficulty in believing that the Duchess was ill, seeing that she grew thinner and paler and more dejected every day.The vague ardour of love, the smart of wounded pride, the continual prick of the only scorn that could touch her, the yearnings towards joys that she craved with a vain continual longing--all these things told upon her, mind and body; all the forces of her nature were stimulated to no purpose.She was paying the arrears of her life of make-believe.

She went out at last to a review.M.de Montriveau was to be there.For the Duchess, on the balcony of the Tuileries with the Royal Family, it was one of those festival days that are long remembered.She looked supremely beautiful in her languor; she was greeted with admiration in all eyes.It was Montriveau's presence that made her so fair.