# The Writings of Prosper Mérimée/Volume 1/Arsène Guillot/Chapter 2
### II

One morning, as Madame de Piennes was dressing, a servant tapped lightly at the door of the dressing-room, and handed to Mademoiselle Josephine a visiting card which a young man had sent up.
"Max in Paris!" cried Madame de Piennes, glancing at the card; "hurry, mademoiselle, tell M. de Salligny to wait for me in the drawing-room."
A moment later laughter and suppressed cries were heard in the drawing-room, and ​Mademoiselle Josephine returned with a heightened colour, and her cap very much awry.
"What is the matter, mademoiselle?" demanded Madame de Piennes.
"Nothing, madam, only M. de Salligny says that I have grown fat."
In reality the plumpness of Mademoiselle Josephine might have surprised M. de Salligny who had been travelling for more than two years. In days of old he had been a favourite of Mademoiselle Josephine, and very attentive to her mistress. Nephew of an intimate friend of Madame de Piennes, he had been seen constantly at her house in the train of his aunt. Moreover, it was almost the only respectable house where he was seen. Max de Salligny had the reputation of a worthless fellow, a gambler, quarreller, wine-bibber, but the best fellow in the world withal. He was the despair of his aunt, Madame Aubrée, who adored him nevertheless. Many times had she tried to draw him from the life which he led, but always had his evil habits triumphed over her wise counsels. Max was two years older than Madame de Piennes. They had known each other from childhood, and before her marriage he appeared to regard her with more than a common interest. Madame Aubrée often said to her: "My dear, if you chose, ​I am sure that you could manage him with your little finger." Madame de Piennes—she was then Élise de Guicard—would perhaps have had courage to attempt the enterprise, for Max was so gay, so witty, so amusing at a house party, so untiring at a ball, that surely he ought to make a good husband; but the parents of Élise were more farseeing. Madame Aubrée herself would not altogether vouch for her nephew; it was ascertained that he had debts and a mistress; suddenly a duel took place over a performer at the Gymnasium. The marriage, which Madame de Piennes had never had very seriously in view, was declared to be impossible. Then M. de Piennes presented himself, a grave and moral man, rich moreover, and of good family. There is little to be said of him, excepting that he had the reputation of a gentleman which he merited. He talked little but when he did open his mouth, it was to say something of importance. Upon doubtful subjects he maintained a discreet silence. If he did not add great charm to assemblies which he frequented, he was nowhere out of place. He was everywhere well enough liked because of his wife, but when he was absent,—upon his estates, as was the case nine months of the year, and notably at the moment when my story begins,—nobody ​noticed it, his wife scarcely more than the rest.
Madame de Piennes, having finished her toilet in five minutes, left her chamber in some agitation, for the arrival of Max de Salligny recalled to her the recent death of the friend whom she had loved the best in the world; it was, I believe, the sole recollection which presented itself to her memory, and vivid enough to arrest any embarrassing conjectures that a person in a less serious frame of mind would have formed over the crumpled cap of Mademoiselle Josephine. Upon nearing the drawing-room she was a little shocked to hear a fine bass voice, gaily singing to its own accompaniment upon the piano this Neapolitan barcarolle:
Addio, Teresa,
Teresa, addio!
Al mio ritorno,
Ti sposero.
She opened the door and interrupted the singer by extending to him her hand:
"My poor Max, how glad I am to see you again!"
Max hurriedly arose and shook her hand, regarding her wildly, without finding a single word to say.
"I was so sorry," continued Madame de ​Piennes, "that I was unable to go to Rome when your good aunt was taken ill. I know the tender care with which you surrounded her, and I thank you very much for the last souvenir of her which you were kind enough to send me."
The face of Max, naturally bright, not to say merry, suddenly became grave.
"She talked so much of you," he said, "even to the last moment. You received her ring I see, and the book she was reading the morning——"
"Yes, Max, I thank you. You announced, in sending that sad present, that you were leaving Rome, but you did not give me your address; I did not know where to write you. My poor friend! to die so far from home! Happily, you hastened to her immediately. You are better than you wish to appear. Max—I know you well."
"My aunt said to me during her illness: 'When I am gone, there will be no one left to scold you but Madame de Piennes.'" (And he could not refrain from smiling.) "'Try to avoid her scolding you too often.' You see, madam, that you acquit yourself badly of your prerogative."
"I hope that I shall have a sinecure now. ​They tell me that you have reformed, settled down and become altogether reasonable?"
"And you are not deceived, madam; I promised my poor aunt to become a good citizen, and——"
"You will keep your promise, I am sure!"
"I shall try. While travelling it is easier than in Paris; however—think of it, madam, I am only here a few hours, and already I have had to resist temptation. As I was on my way here I met an old friend who invited me to dine with a crowd of worthless fellows,—and I refused."
"You did quite right."
"Yes, but need I say to you that I hoped that you would invite me?"
"How unfortunate! I am dining out. But to-morrow——"
"In that case, I no longer answer for myself. Yours the responsibility for the dinner-party which I make."
"Listen, Max: The important point is to begin well. Do not go to that bachelor dinner. I am to dine with Madame Darsenay; come there this evening and we will talk."
"Yes, but Madame Darsenay is a little tiresome; she will ask me a hundred questions. I ​shall not be able to say one word to you; I shall say the improprieties; and besides she has a tall, raw-boned daughter who is perhaps unmarried still——"
"She is a charming girl—and in regard to improprieties, it is one to speak of her as you are doing."
"I am wrong, it is true; but—as I have but just arrived, would I not appear to be a little too attentive?"
"Very well, do as you please; but see here. Max,—as the friend of your aunt, I have the right to speak frankly to you—avoid your old associates. Time has naturally broken off the friendships which were worthless to you; do not renew them. I am sure of you so long as you are not under bad influences. At your age—at our age, one should be rational. But enough of good advice and sermonising! What have you been doing since we last met? I know that you travelled through Germany, then Italy; no more. You have written me twice only, if you will remember. Two letters in two years, you must know that that has scarcely kept me informed concerning you."
"Is it possible, madam? I am indeed culpable—but I am so—it must be confessed I suppose—so lazy!—I commenced writing you ​scores of times, but what could I say to you that would interest you? I do not know how to write letters, I—if I had written to you as often as I thought of you, all the paper in Italy would not have sufficed for it."
"Very well; what have you been doing? How have you occupied yourself? I know already that it is not with letter-writing."
"Occupied! You know very well that I do not occupy myself, unfortunately. I have seen, I have strolled about. I had plans of painting, but the sight of so many beautiful pictures has effectually cured me of that useless passion. Ah!—and then old Nibby almost made an antiquarian of me. Yes, he persuaded me to order an excavation made. They found an old pipe, and I don't know how many bits of broken pottery. And then at Naples I took lessons in singing, but I am no more clever for it. I have——"
"I do not much approve of your music, although you have a fine voice and you sing well. That puts you in touch with people whose society you are altogether too fond of."
"I understand you; but at Naples, when I was there at least, there was scarcely any danger. The prima donna weighed three hundred pounds and the second singer had a mouth like an oven. ​and a nose like the tower of Lebanon. In short, two years have passed without me being able to say how. I have done nothing, learned nothing, but I have lived two years almost unperceived."
"I would like to know that you were occupied. I would like to see you have a lively interest in something useful. I fear idleness for you."
"Frankly speaking, madam, my travels did this for me. While I accomplished nothing, I was not absolutely idle. When one sees things of interest, one is not bored; and I, when I am bored, am very apt to do foolish things. True, I have sown my wild oats, and I have likewise forgotten a certain number of expeditious ways which I had of spending my money. My poor aunt paid my debts, and I have made no others, I wish to make no others. I have enough to live as a bachelor; and as I make no pretensions of being richer than I am I shall not be extravagant. You smile; you do not believe in my reformation? You need the proof? Listen then to a fact. To-day, Famin, the friend who invited me to dinner, wished to sell me his horse. A thousand dollars! He is a superb animal! My first impulse was to buy him. Then I said to myself that I was not rich enough to put a ​thousand dollars into a fancy, and I continued to walk."
"It is marvellous, Max. But do you know what it is necessary to do in order to continue undisturbed in that good resolution? It is necessary for you to marry."
"Ah! for me to marry? Why not? But who would have me? I, who have no right to be particular, I should wish for a wife— Oh! no, there is no one left who pleases me."
Madame de Piennes coloured slightly, and he continued without noticing it:
"A woman who would care for me—but don't you know, madam, that that would be almost a reason why I should not care for her?"
"Why so? How foolish!"
"Does not Othello say somewhere,—it is, I believe, to justify himself for the suspicions which he has against Desdemona: 'That woman must have a silly head and depraved tastes to have chosen me, me who am black!' Should I not say in turn: The woman who would care for me must have a strange head?"
"You have been bad enough, Max, to make it needless to picture yourself to be worse than you are. Do not speak so slightingly of yourself, for there are people who might take you at your word. For myself, I am sure, if some ​day—yes, if you were to truly love a woman who would have all of your esteem—then you would appear to her worthy."
Madame de Piennes experienced some difficulty in finishing her badly turned sentence, and Max, who regarded her attentively and with extreme curiosity, did not aid her in the least.
"You mean to say," he finally continued, "that if I were really in love, one would love me in return, because then I should be worth the pains?"
"Yes, then you would be worthy to be loved."
"If it were only necessary to love in order to be loved. That is not altogether true what you say, madam—Pshaw! find me a woman brave enough, and I will marry. If she is not too homely, I am not too old to be inflamed still.—You can answer for me for the rest."
"Where do you come from now?" interrupted Madame de Piennes in a serious tone.
Max talked very laconically of his travels, but nevertheless in a way to indicate that he had not done as certain tourists, of whom the Greeks say: "Empty he went away, empty he has returned." His short observations denoted a sound mind, and one which did not form its opinions at second hand, although he was in ​reality more cultured than he cared to appear. He withdrew presently, noticing that Madame de Piennes glanced at the clock, and promised, not without some embarrassment, that he would go to Madame Darsenay's in the evening.
He did not come, however, and Madame de Piennes was a little vexed about it. In return, he was at her house the following morning to apologise, excusing himself upon the plea of fatigue from his journey, which obliged him to remain at home; but he lowered his eyes and talked with such a hesitating tone that it was not necessary to have the cleverness of Madame de Piennes in reading physiognomies to perceive that he was not telling the truth. When he had concluded she menaced him with her finger, without replying.
"Do you not believe me?" he said.
"No! Fortunately, you do not yet know how to lie. It was not to rest yourself from your fatigue that you did not go to Madame Darsenay's yesterday. You did not stay at home."
"Very well," replied Max with a forced smile, "you are right. I dined at the Rocher-de-Cancale with its rogues, and then went to Famin's for tea; they would not let me go, and then I gambled."
​"And you lost, that goes without saying."
"No, I won."
"So much the worse. I would like better if you had lost, especially if that could have disgusted you forever with a habit as foolish as it is detestable."
She bent over her work, and pursued her task with a somewhat affected industry.
"Were there many people at Madame Darsenay's?" demanded Max timidly.
"No, very few."
"No marriageable young ladies?"
"No."
"I am depending upon you, however, madam. You know what you promised me?"
"We have time enough to think of that."
There was an accent of coldness and constraint in the voice of Madame de Piennes which was not usual with her.
After a silence. Max continued with an air of humility:
"You are displeased with me, madam? Why don't you give me a good scolding as my aunt used to do, only to forgive me afterward? Come, do you wish me to give you my word never to gamble again?"
"When one makes a promise it is necessary to feel that he has the strength to keep it."
​"A promise made to you, madam, I should keep; I believe that I have the strength and the courage."
"Well, then, Max, I accept it," she said, extending her hand to him.
"I won two hundred dollars," he continued; "do you wish it for your poor? Never would ill-gotten gains have been put to better use."
She hesitated a moment.
"Why not?" she said to herself; aloud: "Well, Max, you will remember the lesson. I enter you my debtor for two hundred dollars."
"My aunt used to say that the best way to keep out of debt is always to pay cash."
As he spoke he drew out his purse to get the bills. In its half-open folds Madame de Piennes thought that she saw a picture of a woman. Max noticed that she was looking at it, coloured, and hastened to close the purse and present her the money.
"I would like very much to see that purse—if that were possible," she added with an arch smile.
Max was completely disconcerted: he stammered a few unintelligible words, and endeavoured to turn the attention of Madame de Piennes.
Her first thought had been that the purse ​contained the portrait of some Italian beauty; but the evident trouble of Max and the general colour of the miniature—that was all that she had been able to see of it—had presently aroused in her breast another suspicion. She had once given her portrait to Madame Aubrée; and she imagined that Max, in his quality of direct heir, had believed that he had the right to appropriate it. That appeared to her an enormous impropriety. However, she said nothing about it immediately; but when M. de Salligny was about to leave:
"By the way," she said to him, "your aunt had a portrait of me which I would like very much to see."
"I don't know—what portrait? What was it like?" demanded Max in an irresolute voice. This time Madame de Piennes was determined not to notice that he was trying to deceive her.
"Look for it," she said in the most natural tone possible. "You will give me great pleasure."
Aside from the incident of the portrait she was well enough pleased with the docility of Max, and promised herself again to save a lost sheep.
The next day, Max had recovered the por​trait and brought it to her with an air of indifference. He remarked that the resemblance had never been great, and that the painter had given her a stiffness of pose, and a severity of expression which were not at all natural. From that time his visits to Madame de Piennes were shorter, and he had with her an air of coolness that she had never seen before. She attributed that mood to the first efforts which he was making to keep his promise to her, and to resist his evil inclinations.
A fortnight after the arrival of M. de Salligny, Madame de Piennes went as usual to see her protégée, Arsène Guillot, whom she had not forgotten in the meantime, nor you either, madam, as I hope. After asking her several questions concerning her health and the instructions she was receiving, she observed that the sick girl was more prostrated than she had been for several days, and offered to read to her, to avoid tiring her with the effort of talking. The poor girl would doubtless have preferred to talk, rather than listen to the sort of reading proposed to her, for you may well believe that it was from a very serious book, and Arsène had never read anything but the lightest novels. It was a religious book that Madame de Piennes selected; but I shall not name it, in the first place to avoid ​wronging its author, and in the second place because you might accuse me of wishing to draw some bad inference against such works in general. It suffices to say that the book in question was written by a young man of nineteen, and especially dedicated to the reconciliation of hardened sinners; that Arsène was extremely depressed, and that she had not been able to close her eyes the night before. At the third page, there happened what would inevitably have happened with any other book, serious or not: I mean to say that Mademoiselle Guillot closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. Madame de Piennes noticed it, and congratulated herself upon the calming effect which she had produced. At first she lowered her voice to avoid awakening the patient by stopping too suddenly, then she laid down the book and arose quietly to withdraw upon tiptoe; but the nurse usually spent her time with the janitress when Madame de Piennes was present, for her visits somewhat resembled those of a confessor. Madame de Piennes wished to await the return of the nurse; and as she was of all people the worst enemy of idleness, she looked about for something to employ her time while she remained with the sleeper. In an alcove of the chamber there was a table supplied with writing materials; she seated her​self at it and began to write a note. As she was searching for a bit of sealing wax in the table drawer, some one entered the chamber precipitately, which awakened the sick girl.
"My God! What do I see?" cried Arsène in a voice so altered that Madame de Piennes trembled.
"Well, this is a pretty thing that I hear! What does it all mean? To throw herself out of the window like an imbecile! Did anybody ever see any one so foolish as this girl!"
I know not if I use the exact terms; it is at least the sense of the language used by the person who had come into the room, and who by the voice, Madame de Piennes recognised at once to be Max de Salligny. Several exclamations followed, a few suppressed cries from Arsène, and then a loud kiss. Presently Max resumed:
"Poor Arsène, in what condition do I find you? Do you know that I would never have deserted you, if Julie had told me your last address? But did any one ever see such folly!"
"Oh! Salligny! Salligny! how happy I am! How sorry I am for what I have done! You will no longer find me pretty. You will not care for me any more?"
"How silly you are," said Max. "Why did you not write me that you were in need of ​money? What has become of your Russian? Has he left you, your Cossack?"
When she recognised the voice of Max, Madame de Piennes had at first been almost as much astonished as Arsène. Her surprise had prevented her from showing herself immediately; then she had begun to reflect whether to show herself or not, and when one reflects and listens at the same time, one does not decide quickly. The consequence was that she heard the edifying dialogue which I have just reported; but then she recognised that if she were to remain in the alcove she was exposed to the necessity of hearing more. She decided upon her course, and stepped into the chamber with the calm and dignified bearing which a self-possessed woman rarely loses, and which she commands at need.
"Max," she said, "you are injuring that poor girl; leave the room. Come and talk with me in an hour."
Max had turned as pale as death when Madame de Piennes appeared in the last place in the world where he would have expected to meet her; his first impulse was to obey, and he took a step toward the door.
"You are going!—don't go!" cried Arsène, raising herself in her bed with an effort of despair.
​"My child," said Madame de Piennes, taking her hand, "be reasonable; listen to me. Remember what you have promised me!"
Then she cast a calm but imperious look toward Max, who went out immediately. Arsène fell back upon the bed; upon seeing him depart she had fainted.
Madame de Piennes and the nurse, who came in just after, revived her with the skill which women possess in such emergencies. By degrees Arsène regained consciousness. At first she cast a glance around the room, as though searching for him whom she remembered to have seen there but a few moments before; then she turned her great black eyes toward Madame de Piennes, and regarding her fixedly:
"Is he your husband? " she said.
"No," replied Madame de Piennes, colouring slightly, but without the sweetness of her voice being altered; "M. de Salligny is a relative of mine."
She thought that she might allow herself that little untruth, to explain the influence which she had over him.
"Then," said Arsène, "it is you that he loves!"
And she fixed her eyes steadily upon her, burning like two flames of fire.
​"He!" A light flashed upon the brow of Madame de Piennes. For a moment her cheeks were the colour of scarlet, and her voice died upon her lips; but she quickly regained her serenity.
"You are mistaken, my dear child," she said in a grave tone. "M. de Salligny understands that he did wrong to awaken memories which are happily far from your recollection. You have forgotten——"
"Forgotten," cried Arsène, with a smile of the damned, which was pitiful to see.
"Yes, Arsène, you have renounced all of those foolish ideas of a time which will never return. Think, my poor child, it is to that sinful intimacy that you owe all of your misfortunes. Think——"
"He does not love you!" interrupted Arsène without listening to her, "he does not love you, and he understands a mere look! I saw your eyes and his, I am not deceived. In fact—it is just! You are beautiful, young, brilliant. I maimed, disfigured—nigh unto death——"
She could not finish. Sobs choked her voice, so strong, so painful, that the nurse cried that she would go for the doctor; for, she said, the doctor feared nothing so much as these convulsions, and if that were to continue the poor dear would die.
​Little by little, the species of energy that Arsène had found in the keenness of her sorrow gave place to a stuporous collapse, which Madame de Piennes mistook for calmness. She continued her exhortations; but Arsène, immovable, did not listen to all of the good and beautiful reasons which were given her for preferring divine love rather than worldly; her eyes were dry, her teeth pressed convulsively together. While her protectress talked to her of heaven and the hereafter, she dreamed of the present. The sudden arrival of Max had instantly awakened in her breast foolish illusions, but the look of Madame de Piennes had dissipated them still more quickly. After the happy dream of a moment, Arsène awakened to the sad reality, grown a hundredfold more horrible for having been momentarily forgotten.
Your physician will tell you, madam, that shipwrecked sailors, overcome by sleep in the midst of their pangs of hunger, dream that they are feasting at a bountiful table. They awaken still more famished, and wish that they had not slept. Arsène suffered a torture comparable to these shipwrecked mariners. In days of old she had loved Max in such manner as she was capable of loving. It was with him that she would always have preferred going to the thea​tre, or amusing herself at a picnic, it was of him that she talked incessantly to her friends. When Max left she had cried bitterly; but, nevertheless, she received the attentions of a Russian whom Max was delighted to have for a successor, because he took him for a gallant man, that is to say, for a generous one. So long as she was able to lead the mad life of women of her class, her love for Max was but an agreeable memory which sometimes made her sigh. She thought of him as one thinks of the amusements of his childhood, without however wishing to return to them; but when Arsène no longer had lovers, when she found herself abandoned, when she felt the full weight of her misery and shame, then her love for Max was purified in a measure, because it was the sole memory which awakened in her breast neither regrets nor remorse. It even raised her in her own eyes, and the more she felt herself degraded, the more she exalted Max in her imagination. "He was my friend, he loved me," she would say to herself with a sort of pride when she was seized with disgust in reflecting upon her depraved life. In prison at Minturnæ, Marius fortified his courage by saying to himself: "I overcame the Cimbri!" This pampered mistress—alas! she was that no longer—had nothing to oppose to her shame and despair but ​this thought: "Max has loved me—he loves me still!" A moment she had been able to believe it; but now she was stripped even of her memories, the sole possession which remained to her in the world.
While Arsène abandoned herself to her bitter reflections, Madame de Piennes demonstrated to her with animation the necessity of renouncing for ever what she called her criminal errors. A strong conviction blunts the sensibilities; and as a surgeon applies steel and cautery to a wound, without heeding the cries of the patient, so Madame de Piennes pursued her task with pitiless firmness. She told her that that period of happiness in which poor Arsène took refuge in order to escape from herself, was a period of crime and shame for which she was paying the just penalty. These illusions, it was necessary to detest, and to banish them from her heart; the man whom she looked upon as her protector, and almost a tutelary genius, should no longer be to her eyes but a pernicious accomplice, a seducer from whom she should flee for ever.
That word "seducer," of which Madame de Piennes was not able to feel the ridiculousness, almost caused Arsène to smile in the midst of her tears; but her worthy protectress failed to observe it. She continued imperturbably her ​exhortation, and ended with a peroration which redoubled the sobs of the poor girl: "You will never see him more."
The arrival of the doctor and the complete prostration of the patient reminded Madame de Piennes that she had already said enough. She pressed the hand of Arsène, and said to her in leaving:
"Be brave, my child, and God will not forsake you."
She had accomplished a duty; there remained another still more difficult. Another culprit awaited her, whose mind she must open to repentance; and in spite of the confidence which she derived from her religious zeal, in spite of the influence which she exercised over Max, and of which she already had the proof, finally, in spite of the good opinion which she conserved at the bottom of her heart for that libertine, she experienced a strange anxiety in thinking of the combat in which she was about to engage.
Before entering upon that terrible struggle, she wished to renew her strength, and entering the church, she demanded of God renewed inspiration for defending her cause.
When she reached home she was told that M. de Salligny was in the drawing-room, where he had been waiting for her for a long time. She ​found him pale, agitated, full of uneasiness. They seated themselves. Max dared not to open his mouth; and Madame de Piennes, agitated herself, without knowing positively why, remained silent for some time, and only furtively regarding her companion. At last she began:
"Max," she said, "I am not going to reproach you——"
He raised his head proudly enough. Their glances met, and he lowered his eyes immediately.
"Your good heart," she continued, "tells you more at this moment than I should be able to do. It is a lesson which Providence has wished to give you; I hope, I am convinced—it will not be lost."
"Madam," interrupted Max, "I scarcely know what has happened. That unfortunate girl threw herself out of the window, as I was told; but I have not the vanity, I should say the sorrow—to believe that the former relations between us have been the means of determining that act of madness."
"Say rather, Max, that when you were doing evil, you did not foresee the consequences. When you led that young girl astray, you did not think that one day she would attempt her life."
"Madam," cried Max with some vehemence, "permit me to say to you that it was not I who ​first led Arsène Guillot astray. When I met her she was already started upon her career. She was my mistress, I do not deny it. I will even acknowledge that I loved her—as one can love a person of that class. I believe that she had for me a little stronger attachment than for another. But all relations between us came to an end long ago, and without her expressing any great regret. The last time that I had any news of her I wished to give her some money; but she refused it. She was ashamed to demand more of me, for she had a certain amount of pride. Misery forced her to that terrible resolution. I am very sorry for it. But I repeat to you, madam, that in all that, I have nothing with which to reproach myself."
Madame de Piennes crumpled some work upon the table, then she resumed:
"Doubtless, from a worldly point of view you are guiltless, you have incurred no responsibility, but there is a morality other than that of the world, and it is by its rules that I would like to see you guided. At this time you are not in a condition to listen to me, perhaps. Let us leave that. To-day, that which I have to ask of you is a promise which you will not refuse, I am sure. That unhappy girl is moved to repentance. She has listened with attention to the ​counsels of a venerable priest who wished to see her. We have every reason to hope for her. You must not see her again, for her heart is still hesitating between good and evil, and unfortunately, you have neither the will, nor perhaps the power to be of use to her. By seeing her you would do her much harm. That is why I ask you to promise that you will not go to see her again."
Max made a movement of surprise.
"You will not refuse me. Max; if your aunt were living she would make you the same plea. Imagine that it is she who speaks to you."
"For the love of God, madam, what is this you demand of me? What wrong do you wish me to do to that poor girl? Is it not, on the other hand, an obligation for me, who have known her in the time of her follies, not to abandon her now that she is ill, and very dangerously ill, if what I am told is true?"
"That is doubtless the moral of the world, but it is not my own. The more dangerous her malady the more important it is that you should not see her again."
"But, madam, consider that in her condition it would be impossible, even to a prudery the most easily alarmed. Why, madam, if I had a dog that was ill, and I knew that it would give him a certain pleasure to see me, I should deem ​myself guilty of an unkindness if I were to allow him to die alone. It is not possible that you think otherwise, you who are so kind and so good. Think of it, madam; for my part, I should consider it downright cruelty."
"Just now I asked you to make me that promise in the name of your good aunt—in behalf of the friendship which you have for me. Now, it is on account of that unhappy girl herself that I ask it. If you really love her——"
"Ah! madam, I beg of you do not compare thus, things incapable of comparison. Believe me, madam, it pains me exceedingly to refuse any request of yours whatsoever, but in this case, I believe that honour compels me. That word displeases you? Forget it. Only, madam, in my turn, let me implore you for pity of that unfortunate girl—and also a little for pity of me. If I have done wrong—if I have been the means of contributing to her ruin—I should now take care of her. It would be terrible to abandon her. I should never forgive myself. No, I can not abandon her. You will not exact that of me, madam."
"She would not lack for care from others. But, answer me, Max: do you love her?"
"Do I love her! Do I love her! No, I do not love her. That is a word which is out of ​place here. Love her! Alas! no. I only sought in her society distraction from a more serious sentiment which it was necessary to combat. That appears to you ridiculous, incomprehensible? The purity of your mind would not admit that one could seek a remedy like that. Well, that is not the worst deed of my life. If the rest of us had not sometimes the means of diverting our passions—perhaps now—perhaps it would be I who had thrown myself out of the window. But I do not know what I am saying, and you must not listen to me. I scarcely comprehend myself."
"I asked you if you loved her," resumed Madame de Piennes with lowered eyes and some hesitation, "because if you had a—a friendship for her, you would doubtless have courage to do her a little evil in order to do her a great good afterward. To be sure, the sorrow of not seeing you would be hard for her to bear; but it would be much more serious now to turn her from the path into which she has been almost miraculously led. It is important for her salvation, Max, that she should entirely forget a time which your presence would recall too vividly to her mind."
Max shook his head without replying. He was not a believer, and the word "salvation," which had so much weight with Madame de ​Piennes did not appeal so strongly to his mind. But upon that point it was not necessary to dispute with her. He always carefully avoided revealing to her his doubts, and this time, as usual, he kept silent; it was easy to see however that he was not convinced.
"I will talk to you in the language of the world," pursued Madame de Piennes, "since unfortunately it is the only one which you can comprehend. We will argue, in fact, upon a mathematical calculation. She has nothing to gain by seeing you, but much to lose. Now, make your choice."
"Madam," said Max with a voice of emotion, "you no longer doubt, I hope, that there can be any other sentiment on my part in regard to Arsène but an interest—quite natural. What danger would there be? None whatever. Do you distrust me? Do you think that I wish to injure the good counsels which you give her? No, indeed! I, who detest sad scenes, who avoid them with a sort of abhorrence, do you believe that I seek the sight of a dying girl with culpable intentions? I repeat it, madam, it is for me a sense of duty, an expiation, a punishment if you will, which I seek concerning her."
At those words Madame de Piennes raised her head and regarded him fixedly with an air ​of exaltation which gave to her features an expression of sublimity.
"An expiation, you say, a punishment?—Very well, yes! Unknown to you. Max, you obey perhaps an admonition from on high, and you are right in resisting me. Yes, I consent to it. See that girl, and may she become the means of your salvation, as you have nearly been that of her ruin."
Probably Max did not comprehend as well as you, madam, the meaning of the term, admonition from on high. This sudden change of resolution astonished him; he knew not to what to attribute it; he knew not if he ought to thank Madame de Piennes for having yielded in the end; but for the moment his great preoccupation was to divine if his obstinacy had wearied, or indeed convinced, the person whom he feared above all things to displease.
"Only, Max," pursued Madame de Piennes, "I have to demand of you, or rather I exact of you——"
She paused a moment, and Max nodded his head, indicating that he submitted to everything.
"I exact," she resumed, "that you only see her in my presence."
He gave a start of surprise, but he hastened to add that he would obey.
​"I do not trust you absolutely," she continued, with a smile. "I still fear that you will spoil my work, and I wish so much to succeed. Under my supervision, on the other hand, you might become a valuable aid and then, as I hope, your obedience would be rewarded."
As she said these words she extended her hand to him. It was agreed that Max should go the following day to see Arsène Guillot, and that Madame de Piennes should precede him to prepare her for the visit.
You understand her design. At first she had thought that she would find Max fully repentant, and that she could easily draw from the example of Arsène the text of an eloquent sermon against his evil passions; but, contrary to her expectations, he refused to accept any responsibility. It was necessary to change her exordium, and, at a decisive moment to change a studied address is an enterprise almost as perilous as to change the order of battle in the midst of an ambush. Madame de Piennes had not been able to improvise a manœuvre. Instead of preaching to Max she had discussed with him a question of expediency. Suddenly a new idea presented itself to her mind. The remorse for his complicity would touch him, she thought. The Christian death of a woman whom he had loved ​(and unfortunately she could not doubt but it was near) would doubtless carry a decisive blow. It was with such a hope that she suddenly deter- mined to permit Max to see Arsène. She also gained an excuse for postponing the exhortation which she had planned; for I think that I have already said to you that in spite of her keen desire to save a man whose errors she deplored, she shrank involuntarily from the thought of engaging with him in so serious a discussion.
She had counted much upon the goodness of her cause; still she doubted of her success, and to fail was to despair of the salvation of Max, it was to condemn herself to a change of sentiment concerning him. The devil, perhaps, to prevent her from guarding herself against the warm affection which she bore for a friend of childhood, the devil had taken pains to justify that affection upon the strength of a Christian hope. All weapons are acceptable to the Tempter, and such practices are familiar to him; that is why the Portuguese say quite elegantly: "De boâs intençôes esta a inferno cheio": "Hell is paved with good intentions." You say in French that it is paved with women's tongues, and that amounts to the same thing; for women, in my opinion, always mean well.
You recall me to my story. The following ​day, then, Madame de Piennes went to see her protégée whom she found very weak, very much depressed, but nevertheless more calm and resigned than she had expected. She talked of M. de Salligny, but with more consideration than the day before. Arsène, in truth, ought absolutely to give him up and no longer to think of him but to deplore their mutual blindness. She ought further, and it was a part of her repentance, she ought to show her penitence to Max himself, to set him the example of a changed life, and to secure for his future the peace of conscience which she herself enjoyed. To these Christian exhortations Madame de Piennes did not fail to add certain worldly arguments, such as, for example, that Arsène, truly loving M. de Salligny, ought to wish for his welfare above all things, and that by her change of conduct she would merit the esteem of a man who had not really as yet been able to accord it to her.
Anything severe or sorrowful in her discourse was suddenly effaced when Madame de Piennes in finishing announced to her that she would see Max again and that he would soon be there. At the lively colour which suddenly suffused her cheeks, so long pale from suffering, at the extraordinary brilliancy of her eyes, Madame de Piennes almost repented of giving her consent ​to that interview; but it was too late to change her resolution. She employed the few minutes remaining to her before the arrival of Max in pious and energetic exhortations, but they were listened to with marked inattention, for Arsène only seemed interested in arranging her hair and smoothing the crumpled ribbon of her cap.
At last M. de Salligny appeared, contracting all of his features to give them an air of cheerfulness and assurance. He asked how she was feeling in a tone of voice which he strove to make natural, but which no cold in the head would have been able to give him. On her side, Arsène was no more at her ease; she stammered, she was unable to utter a single sentence, but she took the hand of Madame de Piennes and carried it to her lips as though to thank her. What was said during the next quarter of an hour was what is said everywhere between embarrassed people. Madame de Piennes alone maintained her accustomed calm demeanour, or rather, being better prepared she was more self-controlled. She frequently replied for Arsène, who found that her interpreter expressed her thoughts rather badly. The conversation languishing, Madame de Piennes remarked that the invalid was coughing a good deal, reminded her that the doctor had forbidden her to talk, and address​ing herself to Max she told him that he would do better to read aloud for a time, rather than tire Arsène with his questions. Max seized a book with alacrity and seated himself near the window, for the light in the room was a little dim. He read without much comprehension. Doubtless Arsène did not comprehend any more, but she had the air of listening with a lively interest. Madame de Piennes worked at a piece of embroidery which she had brought, the nurse pinched herself to avoid falling asleep. The eyes of Madame de Piennes wandered incessantly from the bed to the window, never did Argus keep so good a watch with his hundred eyes. At the end of a few minutes she leaned toward the ear of Arsène:
"How well he reads!" she whispered.
Arsène gave her a look which contrasted strangely with the smile upon her lips:
"Oh! yes," she replied.
Then her eyes drooped, and a great tear would appear from time to time upon her lashes and roll down her cheeks without her heeding it. Max did not once turn his head. After he had read a few pages Madame de Piennes said to Arsène.
"We are going to let you rest, my child. I ​fear that we may have tired you a little. We will come back to see you presently."
She arose and Max arose like her shadow. Arsène bade him farewell without scarcely regarding him.
"I am pleased with you, Max," said Madame de Piennes, whom he had accompanied to her door, "and still more with her. That poor girl is filled with resignation. She sets you a good example."
"To suffer and be silent, madam, is it very difficult to learn?"
"The most important thing to learn is to school one's mind against evil thoughts."
Max saluted her and hurried away.
When Madame de Piennes went to see Arsène the following day she found her contemplating a bouquet of rare flowers which had been placed upon the table beside her bed.
"M. de Salligny sent them to me," she said. "He sent some one to inquire for me, but he has not been here."
"The flowers are very beautiful," said Madame de Piennes a little drily.
"I used to be very fond of flowers," said the invalid, sighing as she said it; "and he spoiled me. M. de Salligny spoiled me by giving me all the most beautiful ones that he could find. But ​that makes no difference now. These are too fragrant. You may have this bouquet, madam; he will not care if I give it to you."
"No, my dear; it gives you pleasure to look at the flowers," said Madame de Piennes, in a gentler tone, for she had been greatly affected by the note of profound sadness in the voice of poor Arsène. "I will take the fragrant ones, you keep the camellias."
"No, I detest camellias. They remind me of the only quarrel that we ever had—when I was with him."
"Think no more of those follies, my dear child."
"One day," continued Arsène, looking steadily at Madame de Piennes, "one day I found a beautiful red camellia in a glass of water in his room. I wished to take it, he would not let me, he even forbade me to touch it. I insisted, I said very insulting things to him. He took it, locked it in a closet and put the key in his pocket. I acted like a fiend incarnate, I even smashed a porcelain vase of which he was very fond. It was of no use. I saw very well that he had received it from some woman of respectability. I have never known where that camellia came from."
As she spoke, Arsène regarded Madame de ​Piennes with a fixed and almost spiteful look, which caused her to drop her eyes involuntarily. There was a long silence, broken only by the oppressed breathing of the invalid. Madame de Piennes had a confused recollection of an incident in regard to a camellia. One day, when she was dining with Madame Aubrée, Max had said to her that his aunt had been congratulating him upon his birthday, and asked her to give him a bouquet also. She had laughingly taken a camellia from her hair and given it to him. But why had such an insignificant act been so impressed upon her memory? Madame de Piennes was unable to explain it to herself. She was almost alarmed by it. Scarcely had she recovered from her confusion of mind in regard to it when Max entered and she felt herself growing red in the face.
"Thank you for your flowers," said Arsene; "but they sicken me. They will not be lost; I have given them to madam. Do not make me talk, that is forbidden. Will you read me something?"
Max seated himself and began to read. This time nobody listened, I think. Each one, including the reader, followed the thread of his own thoughts.
When Madame de Piennes arose to depart. ​she was leaving the bouquet upon the table, but Arsène reminded her of her forgetfulness. She took it consequently, annoyed with herself for having shown, perhaps, some affectation by not accepting that trifle in the first place.
"What harm could there be in that?" she thought. But there was already harm since it made her ask herself that simple question.
Max followed her home unbidden. They seated themselves, and, averting their eyes from each other, they were silent long enough to be embarrassed by it.
"That poor girl," said Madame de Piennes at last, "grieves me profoundly. It appears as though all hope were at an end."
"Did you see the doctor?" demanded Max. "What did he say?"
Madame de Piennes shook her head. "She has but a few more days to live. They administered the last sacraments to her this morning."
"Her face haunts one," said Max, advancing into the embrasure of a window, probably to hide his emotion.
"No doubt, it is cruel to die at her age," resumed Madame de Piennes sadly; "but had she lived longer, who knows but it would have been a misfortune to her? In saving her from a violent death Providence wished to give her time ​for repentance. It is a great mercy, which she herself fully appreciates now. The Abbé Dubignon is much pleased with her; it is not necessary to pity her so much, Max!"
"I don't know that it is necessary to pity those who die young," he replied a little gruffly. "For myself, I should like to die young; what most affects me is to see her suffer so."
"Physical suffering is often of benefit to the soul."
Max, without replying, went and placed himself at the other end of the room in an obscure corner, partially hidden by thick curtains. Madame de Piennes worked, or pretended to work, upon a piece of tapestry which she had in her hands; but it seemed to her that she felt the regard of Max like a heavy weight upon her. That regard which she shunned, she imagined she felt wandering over her hands, her shoulders, and across her brow. It seemed to her to rest upon her foot, and she hastened to hide it beneath her robe. There is perhaps some truth in that which is called magnetic fluid, madam.
"Do you know Admiral de Rigny?" Max suddenly demanded.
"Yes, slightly."
"I shall perhaps have a favour to ask of you concerning him—a letter of recommendation."
​"For what?"
"For several days I have been making plans," he continued with affected cheerfulness. "I am trying to be converted, and I would like to do some pious act, but am embarrassed how to begin it."
Madame de Piennes glanced at him a little severely.
"This is my position," he continued. "I am very sorry that I am not versed in military practice, but that can be learned—and, even as I have the honour of telling you, I have an extraordinary desire to go to Greece and there strive to kill a few Turks for the highest glory of the Cross."
"To Greece!" cried Madame de Piennes, dropping her ball.
"To Greece. Here, I am doing nothing; I am weary of everything; I am good for nothing, I can do nothing of any use; there is nobody in the world to whom I am of any account. Why should I not go to reap laurels or sacrifice my life for a good cause? Moreover, I scarcely see any other means of winning glory and having my name inscribed in the Temple of Fame, as I so much desire. Picture to yourself, madam, what an honour for me when you read in the paper: 'Word is received from Tripoli ​that M. Max de Salligny, a young Philhellene of the greatest promise'—one can well say that in a paper—'of the greatest promise, has just perished, a victim to his enthusiasm for the sacred cause of religion and liberty. The ferocious Kourschid Pacha has carried his forgetfulness of the proprieties to the extent of having him beheaded.' That is really the worst part of me in everybody's opinion, is it not, madam?"
And he broke into a forced laugh.
"Are you talking seriously. Max? You would go to Greece?"
"Very seriously, madam, only I shall strive to have my obituary notice appear at the latest possible date."
"What would you do in Greece? The Greeks are not lacking for soldiers. You would make an excellent soldier, I am sure; but——"
"A superb grenadier of five feet six!" he exclaimed, raising himself upon his feet; "the Greeks would be very hard to please if they did not wish for a recruit like this. Joking aside, madam," he added, dropping into an armchair, "it is, I believe, the best thing for me to do. I can not stay in Paris"—he pronounced these words with a certain degree of violence—"here I am unhappy, here I should do a hundred foolish things—I have not the strength to resist— But ​we will talk of this again ; I do not leave immediately—but I shall go. Oh! yes, it is necessary; I have taken my oath upon it. Do you know that for two days I have been studying Greek? 'Ζωήμον σὰς ἁγαπῶ.' It is a beautiful language, is it not?"
Madame de Piennes had read Lord Byron and remembered that Greek phrase, the refrain of one of his fugitive poems. The translation, as you know, is found in a foot-note; it is: "My life, I love you." It is a fashion of speech peculiar to that country. Madame de Piennes cursed her too good memory; she was careful not to ask the meaning of that Greek phrase, and only feared that her countenance might betray the fact that she had understood.
Max had wandered to the piano, and his fingers falling upon the keys as by accident, performed a few melancholy chords. Suddenly, he took his hat ; and turning to Madame de Piennes asked if she were going to Madame Darsenay's that evening.
"I think so," she replied, with some hesitation.
He pressed her hand and immediately took his departure, leaving her a prey to an agitation that she had never before experienced.
All of her ideas were so confused, and fol​lowed each other with so much rapidity that she was unable to fix upon any one of them. It was like the series of impressions which appear and disappear as suddenly when one views the land- scape from a car window. But, as, in the midst of the most fleeting panorama the eye which does not perceive all the details nevertheless gets a general impression of the whole, so, in the midst of the chaotic thoughts which besieged her, Madame de Piennes experienced a sensation of terror and felt as though she were being borne upon a steep plane to the brink of a frightful precipice. That Max was in love with her she had no doubt. That love (she called it: "that affection") was of long standing; but hitherto she had not been alarmed by it. Between a devout person like herself and a libertine like Max there was an insurmountable barrier which had reassured her until now. Although she was not insensible to the pleasure or the vanity of inspiring a serious sentiment in a man as frivolous as was Max in her estimation, she had never thought that that affection could some day become dangerous to her peace of mind. Now that the scapegrace had mended his ways she began to fear him. His conversion, which she attributed to herself, might become for her and for him a cause of sorrow and torture. At times ​she tried to persuade herself that the dangers which she vaguely foresaw had no real foundation. That journey, suddenly resolved upon, the change which she had remarked in the conduct of M. de Salligny might strictly be explained by the love which he still bore for Arsène Guillot; but, strange to say! that thought was to her more insupportable than the others, and it was almost a relief to her to demonstrate to her own mind its improbability.
Madame de Piennes spent the entire evening in creating phantoms, destroying them and rereating them again. She did not wish to go to Madame Darsenay's, and, in order to be more sure of herself she allowed her coachman to go out, and resolved to retire at an early hour; but as soon as she had taken that high-minded resolution, and there was no longer a means of retractting it, she represented to herself that it was a weakness unworthy of her, and repented of it. She feared above all things, that Max would suspect the cause; and as she could not disguise from herself the real motive for staying at home, she already looked upon herself as guilty, for that sole preoccupation concerning M. de Salligny appeared to her a crime. She prayed for a long time, but without being comforted by it. I know not at what hour she succeeded in falling ​asleep; what is certain is that when she awakened, her ideas were as confused as the evening before, and she was as far as ever from forming a resolution.
As she was at breakfast—for one always breakfasts, madam, especially when one has dined poorly—she read in the paper that—I know not what—Pacha had sacked a city in Roumelia. Women and children had been massacred; many Philhellenes had perished arms in hand, or had been slowly put to death by horrible tortures. That newspaper article was little calculated to give Madame de Piennes a taste for the journey to Greece for which Max was preparing himself. She was meditating sadly over what she was reading, when a servant handed her a note from him. The evening before he had been greatly bored at Madame Darsenay's; and, disquieted not to have found Madame de Piennes there, he wrote her for news of herself, and to ask at what hour she was going to see Arsène Guillot. Madame de Piennes had not the courage to write, and sent word that she would go at the accustomed hour. Then the idea came to her to go at once, in order to avoid meeting Max; but, upon reflection, she decided that that was a childish and shameful falsehood, worse than her weakness of yesterday. She therefore forti​fied her courage, said a fervent prayer, and, when it was time, she went out and walked with a firm step to the chamber of Arsène.