Letters of Two Brides
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Honore de Balzac >> Letters of Two Brides
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19 Etext prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com
and John Bickers, jbickers@templar.actrix.gen.nz
Letters of Two Brides
by Honore de Balzac
Translated by R. S. Scott
DEDICATION
To George Sand
Your name, dear George, while casting a reflected radiance on my
book, can gain no new glory from this page. And yet it is neither
self-interest nor diffidence which has led me to place it there,
but only the wish that it should bear witness to the solid
friendship between us, which has survived our wanderings and
separations, and triumphed over the busy malice of the world. This
feeling is hardly likely now to change. The goodly company of
friendly names, which will remain attached to my works, forms an
element of pleasure in the midst of the vexation caused by their
increasing number. Each fresh book, in fact, gives rise to fresh
annoyance, were it only in the reproaches aimed at my too prolific
pen, as though it could rival in fertility the world from which I
draw my models! Would it not be a fine thing, George, if the
future antiquarian of dead literatures were to find in this
company none but great names and generous hearts, friends bound by
pure and holy ties, the illustrious figures of the century? May I
not justly pride myself on this assured possession, rather than on
a popularity necessarily unstable? For him who knows you well, it
is happiness to be able to sign himself, as I do here,
Your friend,
DE BALZAC.
PARIS, June 1840.
LETTERS OF TWO BRIDES
FIRST PART
I
LOUISE DE CHAULIEU TO RENEE DE MAUCOMBE.
PARIS, September.
Sweetheart, I too am free! And I am the first too, unless you have
written to Blois, at our sweet tryst of letter-writing.
Raise those great black eyes of yours, fixed on my opening sentence,
and keep this excitement for the letter which shall tell you of my
first love. By the way, why always "first?" Is there, I wonder, a
second love?
Don't go running on like this, you will say, but tell me rather how
you made your escape from the convent where you were to take your
vows. Well, dear, I don't know about the Carmelites, but the miracle
of my own deliverance was, I can assure you, most humdrum. The cries
of an alarmed conscience triumphed over the dictates of a stern policy
--there's the whole mystery. The sombre melancholy which seized me
after you left hastened the happy climax, my aunt did not want to see
me die of a decline, and my mother, whose one unfailing cure for my
malady was a novitiate, gave way before her.
So I am in Paris, thanks to you, my love! Dear Renee, could you have
seen me the day I found myself parted from you, well might you have
gloried in the deep impression you had made on so youthful a bosom. We
had lived so constantly together, sharing our dreams and letting our
fancy roam together, that I verily believe our souls had become welded
together, like those two Hungarian girls, whose death we heard about
from M. Beauvisage--poor misnamed being! Never surely was man better
cut out by nature for the post of convent physician!
Tell me, did you not droop and sicken with your darling?
In my gloomy depression, I could do nothing but count over the ties
which bind us. But it seemed as though distance had loosened them; I
wearied of life, like a turtle-dove widowed of her mate. Death smiled
sweetly on me, and I was proceeding quietly to die. To be at Blois, at
the Carmelites, consumed by dread of having to take my vows there, a
Mlle. de la Valliere, but without her prelude, and without my Renee!
How could I not be sick--sick unto death?
How different it used to be! That monotonous existence, where every
hour brings its duty, its prayer, its task, with such desperate
regularity that you can tell what a Carmelite sister is doing in any
place, at any hour of the night or day; that deadly dull routine,
which crushes out all interest in one's surroundings, had become for
us two a world of life and movement. Imagination had thrown open her
fairy realms, and in these our spirits ranged at will, each in turn
serving as magic steed to the other, the more alert quickening the
drowsy; the world from which our bodies were shut out became the
playground of our fancy, which reveled there in frolicsome adventure.
The very /Lives of the Saints/ helped us to understand what was so
carefully left unsaid! But the day when I was reft of your sweet
company, I became a true Carmelite, such as they appeared to us, a
modern Danaid, who, instead of trying to fill a bottomless barrel,
draws every day, from Heaven knows what deep, an empty pitcher,
thinking to find it full.
My aunt knew nothing of this inner life. How could she, who has made a
paradise for herself within the two acres of her convent, understand
my revolt against life? A religious life, if embraced by girls of our
age, demands either an extreme simplicity of soul, such as we,
sweetheart, do not possess, or else an ardor for self-sacrifice like
that which makes my aunt so noble a character. But she sacrificed
herself for a brother to whom she was devoted; to do the same for an
unknown person or an idea is surely more than can be asked of mortals.
For the last fortnight I have been gulping down so many reckless
words, burying so many reflections in my bosom, and accumulating such
a store of things to tell, fit for your ear alone, that I should
certainly have been suffocated but for the resource of letter-writing
as a sorry substitute for our beloved talks. How hungry one's heart
gets! I am beginning my journal this morning, and I picture to myself
that yours is already started, and that, in a few days, I shall be at
home in your beautiful Gemenos valley, which I know only through your
descriptions, just as you will live that Paris life, revealed to you
hitherto only in our dreams.
Well, then, sweet child, know that on a certain morning--a red-letter
day in my life--there arrived from Paris a lady companion and
Philippe, the last remaining of my grandmother's valets, charged to
carry me off. When my aunt summoned me to her room and told me the
news, I could not speak for joy, and only gazed at her stupidly.
"My child," she said, in her guttural voice, "I can see that you leave
me without regret, but this farewell is not the last; we shall meet
again. God has placed on your forehead the sign of the elect. You have
the pride which leads to heaven or to hell, but your nature is too
noble to choose the downward path. I know you better than you know
yourself; with you, passion, I can see, will be very different from
what it is with most women."
She drew me gently to her and kissed my forehead. The kiss made my
flesh creep, for it burned with that consuming fire which eats away
her life, which has turned to black the azure of her eyes, and
softened the lines about them, has furrowed the warm ivory of her
temples, and cast a sallow tinge over the beautiful face.
Before replying, I kissed her hands.
"Dear aunt," I said, "I shall never forget your kindness; and if it
has not made your nunnery all that it ought to be for my health of
body and soul, you may be sure nothing short of a broken heart will
bring me back again--and that you would not wish for me. You will not
see me here again till my royal lover has deserted me, and I warn you
that if I catch him, death alone shall tear him from me. I fear no
Montespan."
She smiled and said:
"Go, madcap, and take your idle fancies with you. There is certainly
more of the bold Montespan in you than of the gentle la Valliere."
I threw my arms round her. The poor lady could not refrain from
escorting me to the carriage. There her tender gaze was divided
between me and the armorial bearings.
At Beaugency night overtook me, still sunk in a stupor of the mind
produced by these strange parting words. What can be awaiting me in
this world for which I have so hungered?
To begin with, I found no one to receive me; my heart had been
schooled in vain. My mother was at the Bois de Boulogne, my father at
the Council; my brother, the Duc de Rhetore, never comes in, I am
told, till it is time to dress for dinner. Miss Griffith (she is not
unlike a griffin) and Philippe took me to my rooms.
The suite is the one which belonged to my beloved grandmother, the
Princess de Vauremont, to whom I owe some sort of a fortune which no
one has ever told me about. As you read this, you will understand the
sadness which came over me as I entered a place sacred to so many
memories, and found the rooms just as she had left them! I was to
sleep in the bed where she died.
Sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I burst into tears, forgetting I
was not alone, and remembering only how often I had stood there by her
knees, the better to hear her words. There I had gazed upon her face,
buried in its brown laces, and worn as much by age as by the pangs of
approaching death. The room seemed to me still warm with the heat
which she kept up there. How comes it that Armande-Louise-Marie de
Chaulieu must be like some peasant girl, who sleeps in her mother's
bed the very morrow of her death? For to me it was as though the
Princess, who died in 1817, had passed away but yesterday.
I saw many things in the room which ought to have been removed. Their
presence showed the carelessness with which people, busy with the
affairs of state, may treat their own, and also the little thought
which had been given since her death to this grand old lady, who will
always remain one of the striking figures of the eighteenth century.
Philippe seemed to divine something of the cause of my tears. He told
me that the furniture of the Princess had been left to me in her will
and that my father had allowed all the larger suites to remain
dismantled, as the Revolution had left them. On hearing this I rose,
and Philippe opened the door of the small drawing-room which leads
into the reception-rooms.
In these I found all the well-remembered wreckage; the panels above
the doors, which had contained valuable pictures, bare of all but
empty frames; broken marbles, mirrors carried off. In old days I was
afraid to go up the state staircase and cross these vast, deserted
rooms; so I used to get to the Princess' rooms by a small staircase
which runs under the arch of the larger one and leads to the secret
door of her dressing-room.
My suite, consisting of a drawing-room, bedroom, and the pretty
morning-room in scarlet and gold, of which I have told you, lies in
the wing on the side of the Invalides. The house is only separated
from the boulevard by a wall, covered with creepers, and by a splendid
avenue of trees, which mingle their foliage with that of the young
elms on the sidewalk of the boulevard. But for the blue-and-gold dome
of the Invalides and its gray stone mass, you might be in a wood.
The style of decoration in these rooms, together with their situation,
indicates that they were the old show suite of the duchesses, while
the dukes must have had theirs in the wing opposite. The two suites
are decorously separated by the two main blocks, as well as by the
central one, which contained those vast, gloomy, resounding halls
shown me by Philippe, all despoiled of their splendor, as in the days
of my childhood.
Philippe grew quite confidential when he saw the surprise depicted on
my countenance. For you must know that in this home of diplomacy the
very servants have a reserved and mysterious air. He went on to tell
me that it was expected a law would soon be passed restoring to the
fugitives of the Revolution the value of their property, and that my
father is waiting to do up his house till this restitution is made,
the king's architect having estimated the damage at three hundred
thousand livres.
This piece of news flung me back despairing on my drawing-room sofa.
Could it be that my father, instead of spending this money in
arranging a marriage for me, would have left me to die in the convent?
This was the first thought to greet me on the threshold of my home.
Ah! Renee, what would I have given then to rest my head upon your
shoulder, or to transport myself to the days when my grandmother made
the life of these rooms? You two in all the world have been alone in
loving me--you away at Maucombe, and she who survives only in my
heart, the dear old lady, whose still youthful eyes used to open from
sleep at my call. How well we understood each other!
These memories suddenly changed my mood. What at first had seemed
profanation, now breathed of holy association. It was sweet to inhale
the faint odor of the powder she loved still lingering in the room;
sweet to sleep beneath the shelter of those yellow damask curtains
with their white pattern, which must have retained something of the
spirit emanating from her eyes and breath. I told Philippe to rub up
the old furniture and make the rooms look as if they were lived in; I
explained to him myself how I wanted everything arranged, and where to
put each piece of furniture. In this way I entered into possession,
and showed how an air of youth might be given to the dear old things.
The bedroom is white in color, a little dulled with time, just as the
gilding of the fanciful arabesques shows here and there a patch of
red; but this effect harmonizes well with the faded colors of the
Savonnerie tapestry, which was presented to my grandmother by Louis
XV. along with his portrait. The timepiece was a gift from the
Marechal de Saxe, and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece came from
the Marechal de Richelieu. My grandmother's portrait, painted at the
age of twenty-five, hangs in an oval frame opposite that of the King.
The Prince, her husband, is conspicuous by his absence. I like this
frank negligence, untinged by hypocrisy--a characteristic touch which
sums up her charming personality. Once when my grandmother was
seriously ill, her confessor was urgent that the Prince, who was
waiting in the drawing-room, should be admitted.
"He can come in with the doctor and his drugs," was the reply.
The bed has a canopy and well-stuffed back, and the curtains are
looped up with fine wide bands. The furniture is of gilded wood,
upholstered in the same yellow damask with white flowers which drapes
the windows, and which is lined there with a white silk that looks as
though it were watered. The panels over the doors have been painted,
by what artist I can't say, but they represent one a sunrise, the
other a moonlight scene.
The fireplace is a very interesting feature in the room. It is easy to
see that life in the last century centered largely round the hearth,
where great events were enacted. The copper gilt grate is a marvel of
workmanship, and the mantelpiece is most delicately finished; the
fire-irons are beautifully chased; the bellows are a perfect gem. The
tapestry of the screen comes from the Gobelins and is exquisitely
mounted; charming fantastic figures run all over the frame, on the
feet, the supporting bar, and the wings; the whole thing is wrought
like a fan.
Dearly should I like to know who was the giver of this dainty work of
art, which was such a favorite with her. How often have I seen the old
lady, her feet upon the bar, reclining in the easy-chair, with her
dress half raised in front, toying with the snuff-box, which lay upon
the ledge between her box of pastilles and her silk mits. What a
coquette she was! to the day of her death she took as much pains with
her appearance as though the beautiful portrait had been painted only
yesterday, and she were waiting to receive the throng of exquisites
from the Court! How the armchair recalls to me the inimitable sweep of
her skirts as she sank back in it!
These women of a past generation have carried off with them secrets
which are very typical of their age. The Princess had a certain turn
of the head, a way of dropping her glance and her remarks, a choice of
words, which I look for in vain, even in my mother. There was subtlety
in it all, and there was good-nature; the points were made without any
affectation. Her talk was at once lengthy and concise; she told a good
story, and could put her meaning in three words. Above all, she was
extremely free-thinking, and this has undoubtedly had its effect on my
way of looking at things.
From seven years old till I was ten, I never left her side; it pleased
her to attract me as much as it pleased me to go. This preference was
the cause of more than one passage at arms between her and my mother,
and nothing intensifies feeling like the icy breath of persecution.
How charming was her greeting, "Here you are, little rogue!" when
curiosity had taught me how to glide with stealthy snake-like
movements to her room. She felt that I loved her, and this childish
affection was welcome as a ray of sunshine in the winter of her life.
I don't know what went on in her rooms at night, but she had many
visitors; and when I came on tiptoe in the morning to see if she were
awake, I would find the drawing-room furniture disarranged, the card-
tables set out, and patches of snuff scattered about.
This drawing-room is furnished in the same style as the bedroom. The
chairs and tables are oddly shaped, with claw feet and hollow
mouldings. Rich garlands of flowers, beautifully designed and carved,
wind over the mirrors and hang down in festoons. On the consoles are
fine china vases. The ground colors are scarlet and white. My
grandmother was a high-spirited, striking brunette, as might be
inferred from her choice of colors. I have found in the drawing-room a
writing-table I remember well; the figures on it used to fascinate me;
it is plaited in graven silver, and was a present from one of the
Genoese Lomellini. Each side of the table represents the occupations
of a different season; there are hundreds of figures in each picture,
and all in relief.
I remained alone for two hours, while old memories rose before me, one
after another, on this spot, hallowed by the death of a woman most
remarkable even among the witty and beautiful Court ladies of Louis
XV.'s day.
You know how abruptly I was parted from her, at a day's notice, in
1816.
"Go and bid good-bye to your grandmother," said my mother.
The Princess received me as usual, without any display of feeling, and
expressed no surprise at my departure.
"You are going to the convent, dear," she said, "and will see your
aunt there, who is an excellent woman. I shall take care, though, that
they don't make a victim of you; you shall be independent, and able to
marry whom you please."
Six months later she died. Her will had been given into the keeping of
the Prince de Talleyrand, the most devoted of all her old friends. He
contrived, while paying a visit to Mlle. de Chargeboeuf, to intimate
to me, through her, that my grandmother forbade me to take the vows. I
hope, sooner or later, to meet the Prince, and then I shall doubtless
learn more from him.
Thus, sweetheart, if I have found no one in flesh and blood to meet
me, I have comforted myself with the shade of the dear Princess, and
have prepared myself for carrying out one of our pledges, which was,
as you know, to keep each other informed of the smallest details in
our homes and occupations. It makes such a difference to know where
and how the life of one we love is passed. Send me a faithful picture
of the veriest trifles around you, omitting nothing, not even the
sunset lights among the tall trees.
October 19th.
It was three in the afternoon when I arrived. About half-past five,
Rose came and told me that my mother had returned, so I went
downstairs to pay my respects to her.
My mother lives in a suite on the ground floor, exactly corresponding
to mine, and in the same block. I am just over her head, and the same
secret staircase serves for both. My father's rooms are in the block
opposite, but are larger by the whole of the space occupied by the
grand staircase on our side of the building. These ancestral mansions
are so spacious, that my father and mother continue to occupy the
ground-floor rooms, in spite of the social duties which have once more
devolved on them with the return of the Bourbons, and are even able to
receive in them.
I found my mother, dressed for the evening, in her drawing-room, where
nothing is changed. I came slowly down the stairs, speculating with
every step how I should be met by this mother who had shown herself so
little of a mother to me, and from whom, during eight years, I had
heard nothing beyond the two letters of which you know. Judging it
unworthy to simulate an affection I could not possibly feel, I put on
the air of a pious imbecile, and entered the room with many inward
qualms, which however soon disappeared. My mother's tack was equal to
the occasion. She made no pretence of emotion; she neither held me at
arm's-length nor hugged me to her bosom like a beloved daughter, but
greeted me as though we had parted the evening before. Her manner was
that of the kindliest and most sincere friend, as she addressed me
like a grown person, first kissing me on the forehead.
"My dear little one," she said, "if you were to die at the convent, it
is much better to live with your family. You frustrate your father's
plans and mine; but the age of blind obedience to parents is past. M.
de Chaulieu's intention, and in this I am quite at one with him, is to
lose no opportunity of making your life pleasant and of letting you
see the world. At your age I should have thought as you do, therefore
I am not vexed with you; it is impossible you should understand what
we expected from you. You will not find any absurd severity in me; and
if you have ever thought me heartless, you will soon find out your
mistake. Still, though I wish you to feel perfectly free, I think
that, to begin with, you would do well to follow the counsels of a
mother, who wishes to be a sister to you."
I was quite charmed by the Duchess, who talked in a gentle voice,
straightening my convent tippet as she spoke. At the age of thirty-
eight she is still exquisitely beautiful. She has dark-blue eyes, with
silken lashes, a smooth forehead, and a complexion so pink and white
that you might think she paints. Her bust and shoulders are marvelous,
and her waist is as slender as yours. Her hand is milk-white and
extraordinarily beautiful; the nails catch the light in their perfect
polish, the thumb is like ivory, the little finger stands just a
little apart from the rest, and the foot matches the hand; it is the
Spanish foot of Mlle. de Vandenesse. If she is like this at forty, at
sixty she will still be a beautiful woman.
I replied, sweetheart, like a good little girl. I was as nice to her
as she to me, nay, nicer. Her beauty completely vanquished me; it
seemed only natural that such a woman should be absorbed in her regal
part. I told her this as simply as though I had been talking to you. I
daresay it was a surprise to her to hear words of affection from her
daughter's mouth, and the unfeigned homage of my admiration evidently
touched her deeply. Her manner changed and became even more engaging;
she dropped all formality as she said:
"I am much pleased with you, and I hope we shall remain good friends."
The words struck me as charmingly naive, but I did not let this
appear, for I saw at once that the prudent course was to allow her to
believe herself much deeper and cleverer than her daughter. So I only
stared vacantly and she was delighted. I kissed her hands repeatedly,
telling her how happy it made me to be so treated and to feel at my
ease with her. I even confided to her my previous tremors. She smiled,
put her arm round my neck, and drawing me towards her, kissed me on
the forehead most affectionately.
"Dear child," she said, "we have people coming to dinner to-day.
Perhaps you will agree with me that it is better for you not to make
your first appearance in society till you have been in the
dressmaker's hands; so, after you have seen your father and brother,
you can go upstairs again."
I assented most heartily. My mother's exquisite dress was the first
revelation to me of the world which our dreams had pictured; but I did
not feel the slightest desire to rival her.
My father now entered, and the Duchess presented me to him.
He became all at once most affectionate, and played the father's part
so well, that I could not but believe his heart to be in it. Taking my
two hands in his, and kissing them, with more of the lover than the
father in his manner, he said:
"So this is my rebel daughter!"
And he drew me towards him, with his arm passed tenderly round my
waist, while he kissed me on the cheeks and forehead.
"The pleasure with which we shall watch your success in society will
atone for the disappointment we felt at your change of vocation," he
said. Then, turning to my mother, "Do you know that she is going to
turn out very pretty, and you will be proud of her some day?--Here is
your brother, Rhetore.--Alphonse," he said to a fine young man who
came in, "here is your convent-bred sister, who threatens to send her
nun's frock to the deuce."
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