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

I cannot tell you to what a state of agitation I am reduced by dreaming of this idea, and the time I have given to planning its execution. I wanted you badly. What happy hours we should have chattered away, lost in the mazes of uncertainty, enjoying in anticipation all the delights and horrors of a first meeting in the silence of night, under the noble lime-trees of the Chaulieu mansion, with the moonlight dancing through the leaves! As I sat alone, every nerve tingling, I cried, “Oh! Renee, where are you?” Then your letter came, like a match to gunpowder, and my last scruples went by the board.

Through the window I tossed to my bewildered adorer an exact tracing of the key of the little gate at the end of the garden, together with this note:

“Your madness must really be put a stop to. If you broke your

neck, you would ruin the reputation of the woman you profess to

love. Are you worthy of a new proof of regard, and do you deserve

that I should talk with you under the limes at the foot of the

garden at the hour when the moon throws them into shadow?”

Yesterday at one o’clock, when Griffith was going to bed, I said to her:

“Take your shawl, dear, and come out with me. I want to go to the bottom of the garden without anyone knowing.”

Without a word, she followed me. Oh! my Renee, what an awful moment when, after a little pause full of delicious thrills of agony, I saw him gliding along like a shadow. When he had reached the garden safely, I said to Griffith:

“Don’t be astonished, but the Baron de Macumer is here, and, indeed, it is on that account I brought you with me.”

No reply from Griffith.

“What would you have with me?” said Felipe, in a tone of such agitation that it was easy to see he was driven beside himself by the noise, slight as it was, of our dresses in the silence of the night and of our steps upon the gravel.

“I want to say to you what I could not write,” I replied.

Griffith withdrew a few steps. It was one of those mild nights, when the air is heavy with the scent of flowers. My head swam with the intoxicating delight of finding myself all but alone with him in the friendly shade of the lime-trees, beyond which lay the garden, shining all the more brightly because the white facade of the house reflected the moonlight. The contrast seemed, as it were, an emblem of our clandestine love leading up to the glaring publicity of a wedding. Neither of us could do more at first than drink in silently the ecstasy of a moment, as new and marvelous for him as for me. At last I found tongue to say, pointing to the elm-tree:

“Although I am not afraid of scandal, you shall not climb that tree again. We have long enough played schoolboy and schoolgirl, let us rise now to the height of our destiny. Had that fall killed you, I should have died disgraced...”

I looked at him. Every scrap of color had left his face.

“And if you had been found there, suspicion would have attached either to my mother or to me...”

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

“If you walk along the boulevard, I shall hear your step; and when I want to see you, I will open my window. But I would not run such a risk unless some emergency arose. Why have you forced me by your rash act to commit another, and one which may lower me in your eyes?”

The tears which I saw in his eyes were to me the most eloquent of answers.

“What I have done to-night,” I went on with a smile, “must seem to you the height of madness...”

After we had walked up and down in silence more than once, he recovered composure enough to say:

“You must think me a fool; and, indeed, the delirium of my joy has robbed me of both nerve and wits. But of this at least be assured, whatever you do is sacred in my eyes from the very fact that it seemed right to you. I honor you as I honor only God besides. And then, Miss Griffith is here.”

“She is here for the sake of the others, not for us,” I put in hastily.

My dear, he understood me at once.

“I know very well,” he said, with the humblest glance at me, “that whether she is there or not makes no difference. Unseen of men, we are still in the presence of God, and our own esteem is not less important to us than that of the world.”

“Thank you, Felipe,” I said, holding out my hand to him with a gesture which you ought to see. “A woman, and I am nothing, if not a woman, is on the road to loving the man who understands her. Oh! only on the road,” I went on, with a finger on my lips. “Don’t let your hopes carry you beyond what I say. My heart will belong only to the man who can read it and know its every turn. Our views, without being absolutely identical, must be the same in their breadth and elevation. I have no wish to exaggerate my own merits; doubtless what seem virtues in my eyes have their corresponding defects. All I can say is, I should be heartbroken without them.”

“Having first accepted me as your servant, you now permit me to love you,” he said, trembling and looking in my face at each word. “My first prayer has been more than answered.”

“But,” I hastened to reply, “your position seems to me a better one than mine. I should not object to change places, and this change it lies with you to bring about.”

“In my turn, I thank you,” he replied. “I know the duties of a faithful lover. It is mine to prove that I am worthy of you; the trials shall be as long as you choose to make them. If I belie your hopes, you have only — God! that I should say it — to reject me.”

“I know that you love me,” I replied. “ So far ,” with a cruel emphasis on the words, “you stand first in my regard. Otherwise you would not be here.”

Then we began to walk up and down as we talked, and I must say that so soon as my Spaniard had recovered himself he put forth the genuine eloquence of the heart. It was not passion it breathed, but a marvelous tenderness of feeling which he beautifully compared to the divine love. His thrilling voice, which lent an added charm to thoughts, in themselves so exquisite, reminded me of the nightingale’s note. He spoke low, using only the middle tones of a fine instrument, and words flowed upon words with the rush of a torrent. It was the overflow of the heart.

“No more,” I said, “or I shall not be able to tear myself away.”

And with a gesture I dismissed him.

“You have committed yourself now, mademoiselle,” said Griffith.

“In England that might be so, but not in France,” I replied with nonchalance. “I intend to make a love match, and am feeling my way — that is all.”

You see, dear, as love did not come to me, I had to do as Mahomet did with the mountain.

Friday.

Once more I have seen my slave. He has become very timid, and puts on an air of pious devotion, which I like, for it seems to say that he feels my power and fascination in every fibre. But nothing in his look or manner can rouse in these society sibyls any suspicion of the boundless love which I see. Don’t suppose though, dear, that I am carried away, mastered, tamed; on the contrary, the taming, mastering, and carrying away are on my side...

In short, I am quite capable of reason. Oh! to feel again the terror of that fascination in which I was held by the schoolmaster, the plebeian, the man I kept at a distance!

The fact is that love is of two kinds — one which commands, and one which obeys. The two are quite distinct, and the passion to which the one gives rise is not the passion of the other. To get her full of life, perhaps a woman ought to have experience of both. Can the two passions ever co-exist? Can the man in whom we inspire love inspire it in us? Will the day ever come when Felipe is my master? Shall I tremble then, as he does now? These are questions which make me shudder.