Array The griffin classics - The Collected Works of Honore de Balzac

What restrains me? Where is the mysterious power which prevents me from telling Felipe, dear fellow, how supremely happy he has made me by the outpouring of his love — so pure, so absolute, so boundless, so unobtrusive, and so overflowing?

Mme. de Mirbel is painting my portrait, and I intend to give it to him, my dear. What surprises me more and more every day is the animation which love puts into life. How full of interest is every hour, every action, every trifle! and what amazing confusion between the past, the future, and the present! One lives in three tenses at once. Is it still so after the heights of happiness are reached? Oh! tell me, I implore you, what is happiness? Does it soothe, or does it excite? I am horribly restless; I seem to have lost all my bearings; a force in my heart drags me to him, spite of reason and spite of propriety. There is this gain, that I am better able to enter into your feelings.

Felipe’s happiness consists in feeling himself mine; the aloofness of his love, his strict obedience, irritate me, just as his attitude of profound respect provoked me when he was only my Spanish master. I am tempted to cry out to him as he passes, “Fool, if you love me so much as a picture, what will it be when you know the real me?”

Oh! Renee, you burn my letters, don’t you? I will burn yours. If other eyes than ours were to read these thoughts which pass from heart to heart, I should send Felipe to put them out, and perhaps to kill the owners, by way of additional security.

Monday.

Oh! Renee, how is it possible to fathom the heart of man? My father ought to introduce me to M. Bonald, since he is so learned; I would ask him. I envy the privilege of God, who can read the undercurrents of the heart.

Does he still worship? That is the whole question.

If ever, in gesture, glance, or tone, I were to detect the slightest falling off in the respect he used to show me in the days when he was my instructor in Spanish, I feel that I should have strength to put the whole thing from me. “Why these fine words, these grand resolutions?” you will say. Dear, I will tell you.

My fascinating father, who treats me with the devotion of an Italian cavaliere servente for his lady, had my portrait painted, as I told you, by Mme. de Mirbel. I contrived to get a copy made, good enough to do for the Duke, and sent the original to Felipe. I despatched it yesterday, and these lines with it:

“Don Felipe, your single-hearted devotion is met by a blind

confidence. Time will show whether this is not to treat a man as

more than human.”

It was a big reward. It looked like a promise and — dreadful to say — a challenge; but — which will seem to you still more dreadful — I quite intended that it should suggest both these things, without going so far as actually to commit me. If in his reply there is “Dear Louise!” or even “Louise,” he is done for!

Tuesday.

No, he is not done for. The constitutional minister is perfect as a lover. Here is his letter: —

“Every moment passed away from your sight has been filled by me

with ideal pictures of you, my eyes closed to the outside world

and fixed in meditation on your image, which used to obey the

summons too slowly in that dim palace of dreams, glorified by your

presence. Henceforth my gaze will rest upon this wondrous ivory —

this talisman, might I not say? — since your blue eyes sparkle with

life as I look, and paint passes into flesh and blood. If I have

delayed writing, it is because I could not tear myself away from

your presence, which wrung from me all that I was bound to keep

most secret.

“Yes, closeted with you all last night and to-day, I have, for the

first time in my life, given myself up to full, complete, and

boundless happiness. Could you but see yourself where I have

placed you, between the Virgin and God, you might have some idea

of the agony in which the night has passed. But I would not offend

you by speaking of it; for one glance from your eyes, robbed of

the tender sweetness which is my life, would be full of torture

for me, and I implore your clemency therefore in advance. Queen of

my life and of my soul, oh! that you could grant me but one-

thousandth part of the love I bear you!

“This was the burden of my prayer; doubt worked havoc in my soul

as I oscillated between belief and despair, between life and

death, darkness and light. A criminal whose verdict hangs in the

balance is not more racked with suspense than I, as I own to my

temerity. The smile imaged on your lips, to which my eyes turned

ever and again, and alone able to calm the storm roused by the

dread of displeasing you. From my birth no one, not even my

mother, has smiled on me. The beautiful young girl who was

designed for me rejected my heart and gave hers to my brother.

Again, in politics all my efforts have been defeated. In the eyes

of my king I have read only thirst for vengeance; from childhood

he has been my enemy, and the vote of the Cortes which placed me

in power was regarded by him as a personal insult.

“Less than this might breed despondency in the stoutest heart.

Besides, I have no illusion; I know the gracelessness of my

person, and am well aware how difficult it is to do justice to the

heart within so rugged a shell. To be loved had ceased to be more

than a dream to me when I met you. Thus when I bound myself to

your service I knew that devotion alone could excuse my passion.

“But, as I look upon this portrait and listen to your smile that

whispers of rapture, the rays of a hope which I had sternly

banished pierced the gloom, like the light of dawn, again to be

obscured by rising mists of doubt and fear of your displeasure, if

the morning should break to day. No, it is impossible you should

love me yet — I feel it; but in time, as you make proof of the

strength, the constancy, and depth of my affection, you may yield

me some foothold in your heart. If my daring offends you, tell me

so without anger, and I will return to my former part. But if you

consent to try and love me, be merciful and break it gently to one

who has placed the happiness of his life in the single thought of

serving you.”

My dear, as I read these last words, he seemed to rise before me, pale as the night when the camellias told their story and he knew his offering was accepted. These words, in their humility, were clearly something quite different from the usual flowery rhetoric of lovers, and a wave of feeling broke over me; it was the breath of happiness.

The weather has been atrocious; impossible to go to the Bois without exciting all sorts of suspicions. Even my mother, who often goes out, regardless of rain, remains at home, and alone.

Wednesday evening.

I have just seen him at the Opera, my dear; he is another man. He came to our box, introduced by the Sardinian ambassador.

Having read in my eyes that this audacity was taken in good part, he seemed awkwardly conscious of his limbs, and addressed the Marquise d’Espard as “mademoiselle.” A light far brighter than the glare of the chandeliers flashed from his eyes. At last he went out with the air of a man who didn’t know what he might do next.

“The Baron de Macumer is in love!” exclaimed Mme. de Maufrigneuse.

“Strange, isn’t it, for a fallen minister?” replied my mother.

I had sufficient presence of mind myself to regard with curiosity Mmes. de Maufrigneuse and d’Espard and my mother, as though they were talking a foreign language and I wanted to know what it was all about, but inwardly my soul sank in the waves of an intoxicating joy. There is only one word to express what I felt, and that is: rapture. Such love as Felipe’s surely makes him worthy of mine. I am the very breath of his life, my hands hold the thread that guides his thoughts. To be quite frank, I have a mad longing to see him clear every obstacle and stand before me, asking boldly for my hand. Then I should know whether this storm of love would sink to placid calm at a glance from me.