The Princesse De Cleves Page 14

  The Vidame de Chartres had not forgotten his conversation with M. de Nemours. He still held to the idea that the adventure the prince had described was his own and he observed him so closely that he might perhaps have uncovered the truth, had it not been that the arrival of the Duc d’Albe and M. de Savoie caused such changes and activity in the court that it prevented him seeing anything that might have enlightened him. The desire for enlightenment, or rather a natural tendency to tell all that one knows to the person one loves, induced him to mention to Mme de Martigues the extraordinary case of this woman who had confessed to her husband the passion that she felt for another. He assured her that M. de Nemours was the one who had inspired this overwhelming love and he begged her to help him by observing the prince. Mme de Martigues was delighted to learn what the Vidame told her, and the curiosity that she had always observed in the Dauphine about everything concerning M. de Nemours made her still more eager to discover the truth.

  A few days before the one chosen for the marriage ceremony, the Dauphine held a dinner for her father-in-law, the King, and for the Duchesse de Valentinois. Mme de Clèves, who had been busy dressing, went to the Louvre later than usual. On her way she met a gentleman who had come to look for her at the Dauphine’s request, and when she entered the room, the Dauphine called to her, from the bed on which she was lying, to say that she had been very impatient to see her.

  ‘I suppose, madame,’ Mme de Clèves replied, ‘that I should not thank you for this impatience, and that it is caused by something other than the simple desire to see me.’

  ‘Indeed, it is,’ answered the Dauphine, ‘but despite that you should be obliged to me, since I am about to tell you a story that I am certain you will be pleased to learn.’

  Mme de Clèves knelt by the bed and, luckily for her, her face was in shadow.

  ‘You remember,’ the Dauphine said, ‘how eager we were to discover what had caused the change in M. de Nemours: I think I know the answer, and it will surprise you. He is desperately in love and himself deeply loved by one of the most beautiful women at court.’

  These words, which Mme de Clèves could not think would apply to herself, since she believed no one knew of her love for M. de Nemours, caused her an anguish that can well be imagined.

  ‘I can see nothing surprising in that,’ she replied, ‘in a man of M. de Nemours’s age and one so handsome as he is.’

  ‘That is not what you ought to find surprising,’ the Dauphine went on, ‘but when you learn that this woman who loves M. de Nemours has never given him any indication of it, and her fear that she might not be able to remain in control of her passion has induced her to confess it to her husband, so that he might remove her from the court. And it is M. de Nemours himself who passed on what I have just said.’

  At first Mme de Clèves had suffered at the idea she was not implicated in the story, but the Dauphine’s last words caused her to suffer despair at the certainty that she was only too directly involved. She was unable to reply and remained with her head against the bed while the Dauphine continued to speak, so caught up in what she was saying that she did not notice Mme de Clèves’s confusion. When she was more in control of herself, she said:

  ‘Madame, this story seems somewhat improbable to me, and I would like to know who told it to you.’

  ‘It was Mme de Martigues,’ the Dauphine replied, ‘and she had it from the Vidame de Chartres. You know that he is in love with her; he told it to her as a secret that he learned from the Duc de Nemours himself. It is true that M. de Nemours did not tell him the lady’s name and did not even admit that he himself was the object of her love; but the Vidame de Chartres has no doubt about it.’

  As the Dauphine was saying this, somebody came over to the bed. Mme de Clèves’s head was turned in such a way that she could not see who it was; but she knew perfectly well when the Dauphine exclaimed, in a tone of merriment and surprise:

  ‘Here is the man himself, and I mean to ask him about it.’

  Mme de Clèves correctly guessed that it was the Duc de Nemours, even without turning towards him. She quickly moved closer to the Dauphine and whispered that she should be careful not to say anything about the matter; he had confided it to the Vidame de Chartres, and it might lead to a quarrel between them. The Dauphine laughed and answered that she was too discreet for that, then turned back to M. de Nemours. He was dressed for the evening’s reception and, speaking with his innate charm of manner, said:

  ‘I believe, madame, that I may, without temerity, presume you were speaking of me when I entered, that you intended to ask me something and that Mme de Clèves is opposed to your doing so.’

  ‘You are right,’ the Dauphine replied. ‘But I shall not comply with her wishes as I usually do. I want you to tell me if a story that I have heard is true and if you are not the person who is in love with, and loved by a woman of the court who has been careful to conceal her feelings from you, but has confessed them to her husband.’

  It is impossible to imagine Mme de Clèves’s confusion and embarrassment: if death had come to relieve her from that state, she would have welcomed it. But M. de Nemours was, if anything, more embarrassed. What he had just heard from the Dauphine who, he had reason to believe, was not indifferent to him, in the presence of Mme de Clèves, the person at court in whom she had the greatest trust and who also returned it, caused such a tumult of confused ideas in his mind that he was quite unable to control his expression. The distress he witnessed in Mme de Clèves, through his fault, and the thought that he had given her good cause to hate him, overwhelmed him to such an extent that he was speechless. The Dauphine, seeing him unable to reply, said to Mme de Clèves:

  ‘Look at him! Look at him, and tell me if he is not the person concerned.’

  However, M. de Nemours, overcoming his first confusion and seeing how important it was to extricate himself from such a pass, suddenly regained control of his thoughts and his expression:

  ‘I admit, madame,’ he said, ‘that no one could be more surprised, or upset than I am by the Vidame de Chartres’s betrayal, in passing on the secret of what happened to one of my friends after I had confided it to him. I could have my revenge on him,’ he continued, smiling calmly in a way that almost dispelled the Dauphine’s suspicions. ‘He has told me things, in confidence, which are of no small significance. But I cannot think, madame,’ he continued, ‘why you do me the honour of implicating me in this matter. The Vidame cannot say that it concerns me, since I told him the opposite. I might claim to be a man in love; but as for being a man loved, I do not think, madame, that this is a thing you can attribute to me.’

  The prince was pleased at being able to say something to the Dauphine that had a connection with what he had previously intimated to her, to turn her mind away from any ideas that she might have. She also thought that she understood what he meant, but continued to play on his embarrassment.

  ‘I was concerned, madame,’ he told her, ‘for my friend’s interests and because he might justifiably reproach me with having repeated a secret that is dearer to him than life itself. Even so, he confided no more than a part of the story to me, and did not name the person whom he loves. I only know that he is the man most in love and most to be pitied in the world.’

  ‘Do you consider he should be pitied,’ the Dauphine retorted, ‘because he is loved?’

  ‘Do you think that he is, madame,’ he answered, ‘and that someone who truly loved him would tell her husband about it? Doubtless she knows nothing of love and what she feels for him is mere gratitude for the passion he feels for her. My friend cannot flatter himself that he has anything to hope; but, unhappy though he is, he is happy at least in having inspired this fear of loving him and he would not change his place for that of the most fortunate lover in the world.’

  ‘Your friend’s passion is easily satisfied,’ the Dauphine said, ‘and I am starting to think that you are not referring to yourself. In fact,’ she went on, ‘I am almost inclined to agree
with Mme de Clèves when she claims that this story cannot be true.’

  ‘Indeed, I think it cannot be,’ said Mme de Clèves, who had not yet spoken. ‘And, even if it were so, how could anyone have learned about it? It is hardly likely that a woman who was capable of such an extraordinary action, should be weak enough to talk about it; and it is improbable that her husband would mention it, either, or he would be a husband very undeserving of the trust she had shown him.’

  M. de Nemours, realizing that Mme de Clèves suspected her husband, was quite happy to confirm her suspicions. He knew that M. de Clèves was the most formidable rival in his path.

  ‘Jealousy,’ he said, ‘and a curiosity, perhaps, to discover more about the matter than he has been told, can lead a husband to do some very rash things.’

  Mme de Clèves had reached the end of her strength and her resolve; and, unable to bear this conversation any longer, she was about to say that she felt ill when, happily for her, the Duchesse de Valentinois entered and told the Dauphine that the King was on his way. The Dauphine retired to her chamber to dress and, as Mme de Clèves was on the point of following her, M. de Nemours came over.

  ‘I should give my life, madame,’ he said, ‘to speak to you for a moment. But, among all the important things I have to tell you, I consider none more so than to beg you to believe that if I said anything that the Dauphine might apply to herself, I did so for reasons that do not concern her.’

  Mme de Clèves pretended not to hear this; she left without looking at him and began to follow the King who had then entered. As there was a large throng of people, she tripped on the train of her dress and stumbled: she used this as an excuse to escape from a place where she did not feel she had the strength to stay, and returned home.

  M. de Clèves arrived at the Louvre and was surprised not to find his wife there: they informed him of her accident. He went home at once to learn how she was, found her in bed and realized that she was not badly hurt. When he had spent some time at her side, he was surprised to observe she was feeling profoundly unhappy.

  ‘What is wrong, madame?’ he said. ‘I think you must be suffering some other pain, apart from the one you complain of?’

  ‘I am as deeply wounded as I could possibly be,’ she replied. ‘What have you done with the extraordinary – or, rather, the insane – trust that I showed by confiding in you? Did I not deserve your secrecy, or even if not, was it not in your own interest? Did your curiosity to know a name that I cannot reveal to you, impel you to confide in someone, in an attempt to discover it? This curiosity alone can have driven you to such a cruelly rash act, the consequences of which are as disastrous as can be. The matter is out: it has just been told to me, without knowing that I was the person mainly concerned.’

  ‘What are you saying, madame?’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you accuse me of having told someone about what passed between us, and are you telling me it is public knowledge? I am not going to defend myself against the charge of having repeated it; you would not believe me, though no doubt you must have applied something to yourself that was being told you about somebody else.’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ she replied, ‘there is no other story in the world similar to mine; there is no other woman capable of what I have done. It cannot have been invented by chance: it was never imagined and the idea never entered another head than my own. The Dauphine has just told me the whole story: she learned it from the Vidame de Chartres, who had it from M. de Nemours.’

  ‘M. de Nemours!’ cried M. de Clèves, with a gesture of passion and despair. ‘What! Does M. de Nemours know that you love him, and that I know it?’

  ‘You always choose M. de Nemours, rather than anyone else,’ she answered. ‘I have told you that I shall never give you an answer to your suspicions. I am not sure whether M. de Nemours knows my part in this story, or the one that you have attributed to him; but he told it to the Vidame de Chartres, saying that he had it from one of his friends, who had not named the woman. This friend of M. de Nemours must belong to your circle: you confided in him, in an attempt to satisfy your curiosity.’

  ‘Is there a friend in the world to whom one would wish to confide such a secret?’ M. de Clèves replied. ‘And would anyone want to satisfy his curiosity at the cost of telling someone else a thing that he would wish to conceal even from himself? It is rather for you, madame, to consider to whom you have been speaking: it is more likely that the secret was revealed by you than by me. Unable to endure your plight alone, you sought the commiseration of some confidante who has betrayed you.’

  ‘Do not crush me entirely!’ she cried. ‘Do not be cruel enough to accuse me of an offence you have yourself committed. Can you possibly suspect me, and having brought myself to speak to you, would I be able to speak to somebody else?’

  Mme de Clèves had given such convincing proof of her honesty by confessing to her husband, and she so vehemently denied confiding in anyone, that he did not know what to think. On the other hand, he was certain that he had said nothing himself; this was not a thing that could be guessed at, it must be known; so the knowledge came necessarily from one of them; but what caused him the sharpest anguish was knowing that the secret was in the possession of a third party and would soon, surely, be public.

  Mme de Clèves was thinking along much the same lines: she considered it equally impossible that her husband should have talked, and that he should not have done so. What M. de Nemours had said, about curiosity leading a husband to do something rash, seemed so readily applicable to M. de Clèves’s case that she had to believe it was not a remark inspired by mere chance; and this likelihood persuaded her that M. de Clèves had abused her trust in him. They were both so preoccupied with their own thoughts that they remained a long time without speaking, and only broke this silence to repeat things that they had already said many times; and they were left more distant and more estranged in heart and mind than they had ever been.

  It is easy to imagine the state in which they spent the night. M. de Clèves had exhausted all fortitude in supporting the misery of seeing a wife whom he adored swayed by her passion for another man. He had no further strength, and thought he should not even find it in circumstances which were so damaging to his honour and his good name. He did not know what to think of his wife; he could not decide what conduct he should prescribe for her, or how he should conduct himself; on all sides, he could see only gulfs and precipices. At length, after a long period of fretting and perplexity, realizing that he had shortly to go to Spain, he resolved to do nothing that might fuel suspicion or knowledge of his wretched state. He went to Mme de Clèves and told her that the question was not to discover which of them had given away the secret, but to show that what was being said was an invention, and that she was not involved; that it was up to her to persuade M. de Nemours and the others of this; that she had only to behave towards him with the distance and coldness that she ought to show a man who expressed love for her; that, in this way, she could easily dispel any idea he might have that she was attracted to him; that she should not therefore be distressed by whatever he might previously have thought because if, from then on, she gave no sign of weakness, all such thoughts would rapidly disappear; and that, above all, she must go to the Louvre and to every assembly, as she was in the habit of doing.

  At this, M. de Clèves left his wife without waiting for her reply. She thought that there was a lot of truth in what he said, and her anger towards M. de Nemours made her believe that she would find it very easy to do as he suggested; but she anticipated that it would be hard to attend all the marriage ceremonies and appear with a calm face and an untroubled mind. However, since she was to wear the Dauphine’s dress, and this was an honour for which she had been preferred over several other ladies at court, it was impossible to refuse without causing a great deal of gossip and looking for explanations. So she resolved to be firm with herself, though she took the remainder of that day to prepare and abandon herself to all the feelings that were troubling her mind. She sh
ut herself up alone in her chamber. Of all her ills, the one that most overwhelmed her, was having cause to blame M. de Nemours, and finding no reason to excuse him. She could not doubt that he had told the story to the Vidame de Chartres: he had admitted as much; nor could she doubt also, from the manner in which he had spoken of it, that he knew the matter concerned her. How could she forgive such imprudence, and what had become of the prince’s unusual discretion, which she had found so appealing?

  ‘He was discreet,’ she thought, ‘so long as he believed in his misfortune; but one glimpse of happiness, however uncertain, put an end to discretion. He could not imagine himself to be loved, without wishing to let it be known. He said everything that it was possible for him to say: I did not confess that he was the man I loved, but he suspected it and revealed his suspicions. Had he been certain of it, he would have behaved in the same way. I was wrong to imagine that any man could be found who was able to conceal something that flattered his reputation. Yet it is for the sake of this man, whom I believed so different to other men, that I have become like others of my sex, when I am so far from resembling them. I have lost the love and respect of a husband who ought to have ensured my happiness. I shall soon be generally regarded as someone possessed by a foolish and uncontrollable passion. The man for whom I feel this is no longer unaware of it; yet it was to avoid this misfortune that I risked my peace of mind, and even my life.’

  These sad thoughts were drowned in a gush of tears; but whatever sorrow might overwhelm her, she knew she would have had the strength to bear it, if she had been contented with M. de Nemours’s conduct.