The Princesse De Cleves Page 7

  The way in which the Dauphine spoke convinced Mme de Clèves and, despite herself, she felt calmer and better disposed than before.

  When she returned to her mother’s, she learned that her condition had worsened considerably since she had left. Her fever had mounted and rose during the next few days to indicate a serious illness. Mme de Clèves was extremely distressed and did not leave her mother’s room. M. de Clèves also visited almost daily, both because he was concerned for Mme de Chartres and to prevent his wife lapsing into despair, as well as for the pleasure of seeing her, for his love had not diminished.

  M. de Nemours, who had always had a great liking for him, continued to demonstrate it after his return from Brussels. During Mme de Chartres’s illness, he several times managed to see Mme de Clèves on the pretext of visiting her husband or coming to take him out for a walk. He even looked for him at times when he knew he would not be there and, on the excuse of waiting for him, remained in Mme de Chartres’s antechamber, where there were always several persons of quality. Mme de Clèves often came there and, though she was worried, seemed no less beautiful to M. de Nemours. He demonstrated his concern for her in her distress and spoke to her with such a tender and deferential air that she was easily convinced it was not the Dauphine whom he loved.

  She could not help being disturbed at seeing him, yet took pleasure in seeing him. But when he was no longer to be seen, and when she considered that the delight she took in seeing him was the start of a passionate attachment, she almost thought she hated him for the pain that this idea gave her.

  Mme de Chartres’s condition deteriorated to the point where they began to despair for her life. She accepted what the doctors told her about the danger she was in with a courage worthy of her virtue and her piety. When they had left, she dismissed everyone and called for Mme de Clèves.

  ‘My daughter, we must part,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘My pain at having to leave you is intensified by the peril in which you stand and your need for my help. You are attracted to M. de Nemours – I don’t ask you to admit it: I am not now in a state where I could make use of your sincerity to guide you. I noticed your liking for him a long time ago, but at first I did not want to mention it to you, for fear that I might make you aware of it yourself. Now you know it only too well. You are on the brink of the precipice: you will need to make an immense effort against your own inclinations to hold back. Think of your duty to your husband, think of your duty to yourself, and consider that you will lose the reputation you have gained and which I so much desired for you. Be strong and brave, my daughter; retire from the court, force your husband to take you away, do not be afraid that this course will be too harsh or too difficult, however much it appals you at first: in the long run, it will be easier than the unhappiness of an affair. If any arguments other than those of virtue and duty could persuade you to do as I ask, I should tell you that, were there a single thing that might disturb the bliss to which I look forward on leaving this world, it would be to see you fall as other women have done. But, if this misfortune is to occur, I die happy, since I shall not have to witness it.’

  Mme de Clèves dissolved into tears on her mother’s hand, which she was holding between her own, and Mme de Chartres was herself so moved that she said:

  ‘Farewell, my daughter. Let us end this conversation, which is too affecting for us both, and remember, if you can, what I have just told you.’

  As she said this, she turned away, asking her daughter to call her women, not wanting to listen to her or speak any further. Mme de Clèves left her mother’s room in a state that can be imagined and Mme de Chartres thought only of preparing herself for death. She lingered for two days, during which she did not again want to see her daughter, the only thing on earth to which she felt any attachment.

  Mme de Clèves was deeply distressed. Her husband did not leave her side and, as soon as Mme de Chartres was dead, took her to the country, to remove her from a place which could only intensify her suffering, the like of which has never been seen: though affection and gratitude played the greatest part in it, her awareness that she needed her mother to protect her against M. de Nemours was a major consideration. She was distressed at being left to herself at a time when she was so little in control of her feelings and when she would so much have wished for someone to sympathize with her and give her strength. M. de Clèves’s treatment of her made her desire more earnestly than ever not to fail in her duty towards him. Thus she showed him more tenderness and affection than ever before; she did not want him to leave her and felt that, if she attached herself to him, he would protect her against M. de Nemours.

  The latter came to visit M. de Clèves in the country. He also did his best to see Mme de Clèves, but she did not want to receive him and, fully aware that she would be unable not to find him attractive, had firmly resolved to avoid seeing him and to prevent any opportunity of doing so when it depended on her.

  M. de Clèves went to Paris to attend court and promised his wife that he would only be away until the next day; however, he did not return until the day following that.

  ‘I waited for you all yesterday,’ Mme de Clèves said when he arrived, ‘and I must reproach you for not coming back when you promised you would. You know that if I could feel any added grief in my present state, it would be at the death of Mme de Tournon, of which I learned this morning. I should have been moved by it even if I had not known her: the death of a woman so young and beautiful as her, in a mere two days, is always something to excite pity; but, in addition to that, she was one of the people whom I most liked in the world and who seemed as intelligent as she was good.’

  ‘I was very sorry not to come back yesterday,’ M. de Clèves replied. ‘But my presence was so essential to comfort someone in distress that I could not leave him. As for Mme de Tournon, I advise you save your tears, if you are mourning a woman whom you believe to be full of common sense and worthy of your esteem.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ Mme de Clèves said. ‘Several times I have heard you remark that there was no woman at court for whom you had more respect.’

  ‘Yes, that is so,’ he answered, ‘but women are incomprehensible and, when I see all the rest, I am amazed at my good fortune in having you.’

  ‘You admire me more than I deserve,’ replied Mme de Clèves, sighing, ‘and it is too soon to find me worthy of you. But please tell me what changed your mind about Mme de Tournon.’

  ‘It changed a long time ago,’ he said, ‘since I learned that she was in love with the Comte de Sancerre and encouraged him to think that she might marry him.’

  ‘I cannot believe,’ Mme de Clèves interjected, ‘that Mme de Tournon, in view of her extraordinary aversion to marriage after her husband’s death, and her public declarations that she would never remarry, should have offered any hope to Sancerre.’

  ‘If it had only been to him,’ replied M. de Clèves, ‘there would be no cause for surprise. What is truly astonishing is that she simultaneously offered the same to Estouteville; but let me tell you the full story.’

  BOOK TWO

  ‘Sancerre, as you know, is one of my closest friends; yet, some two years ago, when he fell in love with Mme de Tournon, he took great care to keep it secret from me, as from everyone else. I had not the slightest suspicion. Mme de Tournon still seemed inconsolable after the death of her husband and lived in strict retirement. Sancerre’s sister was almost the only person whom she visited, and it was at her house that he fell in love.

  ‘One evening when a play was to be performed at the Louvre and the players were only waiting for the King and Mme de Valentinois to arrive, word was sent that she was ill and that the King would not attend after all. We immediately guessed that the “illness” was in reality a dispute between her and the King. We knew how jealous he had been of the Maréchal de Brissac during his stay at court, but the Maréchal had returned to Piedmont a few days before and we could not imagine the cause of the quarrel.

  ‘While I
was discussing it with Sancerre, M. d’Anville came into the theatre and whispered to me that the King was in a pitiful state of rage; that, a few days earlier, during a reconciliation with Mme de Valentinois over their quarrel about the Maréchal de Brissac, the King had given her a ring and begged her to wear it; that, while she was dressing to come to the play, he had noticed she did not have this ring and enquired the reason; that she seemed amazed at being without it and asked her women; but they, either through inadvertence or ignorance, replied that they had not seen it for four or five days.

  ‘ “That corresponded exactly to the time since the Maréchal de Brissac’s departure,” M. d’Anville continued, “so the King did not doubt that she had given the ring to him while they were taking leave of each other. The idea excited his jealousy (which was not fully allayed) to such an extent that he flew into an uncommon rage and soundly reprimanded her. He has just returned home in a state of great distress, but I am not certain whether this is due more to the idea of Mme de Valentinois giving up her ring, or to the fear of having displeased her by his anger.”

  ‘As soon as M. d’Anville had finished telling me this news, I went over to Sancerre to pass it on to him, as a secret that had just been imparted to me, forbidding him to speak about it.

  ‘The next morning, I went quite early to my sister-in-law’s and found Mme de Tournon at her bedside. She did not like Mme de Valentinois and knew very well that my sister-in-law felt the same. Sancerre had been to see Mme de Tournon on leaving the play and informed her of the King’s dispute with the duchess, so Mme de Tournon had come to tell my sister-in-law, either without knowing, or without considering that I was the one who had told the story to her lover.

  ‘As soon as I came into my sister-in-law’s, she told Mme de Tournon that it was safe to pass on the story to me and, without waiting for Mme de Tournon’s permission, recounted word for word everything that I had said to Sancerre the evening before. You can imagine my astonishment. I looked at Mme de Tournon, and thought she seemed embarrassed. Her embarrassment made me suspicious: I had spoken to no one apart from Sancerre and he had left me outside the theatre, without explanation. I also remembered how highly he had praised Mme de Tournon. All these things combined to open my eyes and I had no trouble in drawing the conclusion that he was romantically involved with her, and that he had been to see her after leaving me.

  ‘I was so irritated to find out that he had been hiding this liaison from me, that I made several remarks to let Mme de Tournon realize how indiscreet she had been. I handed her into her carriage and assured her, as I took my leave, that I envied the happiness of the person who had informed her of the quarrel between the King and Mme de Valentinois.

  ‘I immediately set off to find Sancerre and reprimanded him, telling him that I knew of his attachment to Mme de Tournon, not saying how I had learned of it. He was forced to confess, so I told him what had given it away to me. He went on to tell me the details of their affair. He said that, even though he was the youngest in his family and so far from being able to aspire to such a good match, she was nonetheless determined to marry him. I suggested that he hurry her to the altar, since he could expect anything from a woman deceitful enough to have kept up a public face so distant from her true one. He replied that she had been genuinely distressed, but that her feeling for him had overcome her grief, and that she could not suddenly exhibit such a great change in her behaviour. He made several other excuses for her, which showed me how much he was in love, and assured me that he would obtain her consent to my knowing of his passion, since it was she herself, after all, who had informed me of it. He did in fact persuade her to do so, though with great difficulty, and from then on I was taken into their closest confidence.

  ‘Never have I seen a woman more correct and pleasing in her behaviour towards her lover; however, I continued to be shocked by her pretence of still mourning her husband. Sancerre was so deeply in love and so pleased by her treatment of him that he scarcely dared press her closer to marriage, fearing she would believe he desired it more for her money than because he truly loved her. Despite this, he did raise the matter and she seemed determined to marry him; she even began to emerge from retirement and return to society. She visited my sister-in-law at times when part of the court was there. Sancerre seldom went, but those who did every evening often saw her and found her company delightful.

  ‘Shortly after she had begun to leave her seclusion, Sancerre thought he noticed some cooling in her love for him. He mentioned it to me several times, though I could not see any grounds for concern. But, eventually, when he told me that instead of making arrangements for the marriage, she seemed to be putting it off, I started to think his suspicions might not be ill-founded. I told him he could expect Mme de Tournon’s passion to cool after two years; that, even if undiminished, he should not complain if it were not strong enough to force her into marrying him; that this marriage would be extremely damaging to her in public opinion, because he was not a good enough match for her, and also because of the damage it would cause to her reputation; and, consequently, that the most he could expect was that she would not deceive him or give him any false hopes. I added that, if she did not have the strength of mind to marry him, or if she were to confess that she loved someone else, he should not complain or lose his temper, but show the same respect and gratitude towards her as before.

  ‘ “I am giving you the advice,” I said, “that I should follow myself: for I set such high store by sincerity that I think if my mistress or even my wife were to tell me she was attracted to someone else, I should be upset, but not bitter. I should cease to behave as a lover or a husband, so that I could offer her my advice and sympathy.” ’

  These words made Mme de Clèves blush: she saw some reference in them to her own situation, and was so surprised and confused, that it was some time before she could recover her composure.

  ‘Sancerre spoke to Mme de Tournon,’ M. de Clèves continued, ‘and told her everything that I had advised; but she reassured him so scrupulously and seemed so offended by his suspicions that she entirely removed them. Yet she asked to delay their marriage until after a fairly long journey that he was to make; but she behaved so properly until his departure and appeared so grieved by it that, like him, I believed she truly loved him. He set out some three months ago. During his absence I saw little of Mme de Tournon: you have taken up all my time and all I knew was that he was shortly due to return.

  ‘The day before yesterday, on my arrival in Paris, I learned that she was dead. I sent to enquire at his house to know whether there was any news of him. I was informed that he had come back on the previous day, the very day of Mme de Tournon’s death. I went instantly to see him, easily anticipating his state of mind, but his distress was beyond anything I had imagined.

  ‘I have never seen such heartfelt suffering. He at once embraced me, bursting into tears: “I shall see her no more,” he said, “I shall see her no more, she is dead! I was not worthy of her, but I shall soon follow her!”

  ‘After this, he said nothing; then, from time to time, repeating “she is dead, I shall see her no more!”, he resumed his wailing and his tears, and continued to behave like a man who had lost his senses. He told me that he had received few letters from her while he was away, but he was not surprised at this, since he knew her and was aware that she felt uneasy at entrusting her letters to the courier. He had no doubt that she would have married him on his return, and considered her the most adorable and loyal person that ever lived. He believed himself to have been tenderly loved and was losing her at the very moment when he expected to be united with her for ever. All these thoughts plunged him into a violent distress that totally prostrated him. I admit that I could not help being moved by it myself.

  ‘However, I was obliged to leave him to attend the King, but promised to return shortly. So I did, and have never been more astonished than at the change I found in him from when I had left. He was on his feet, in his room, with a frantic
expression, walking, then stopping, as if he was out of his mind. “Come in, come in,” he said, “come and see the most despairing of men, a thousand times more miserable than before: for I have just learned something about Mme de Tournon that is worse than her death.”

  ‘I thought that grief had completely deranged him, not

  being able to imagine that there was anything worse than the death of a beloved mistress by whom one was loved in turn. I told him that so long as there were some bounds to his sorrow, I could applaud it and sympathize; but that I should have no sympathy were he to give in to despair and abandon all reason.

  ‘ “I should be only too happy to lose it, and life as well,” he exclaimed. “Mme de Tournon was unfaithful to me, and I have learned of her infidelity and treachery the very day after her death, at a moment when my soul was utterly imbued with the deepest pain and most tender passion ever felt by man: at a time when my heart had embraced the image of her as the ultimate in perfection and the most perfect in her conduct towards me, I find that I was mistaken and that she does not deserve my tears; yet I endure the same grief at her death as if she had been faithful to me and suffer her infidelity as if she were still alive. Had I discovered this change in her before her death, I should have been filled with jealousy, fury and anger, inuring me in some way to the sorrow of her loss; but I am now in a state where I can neither be consoled, nor hate her.”

  ‘You may imagine my surprise: I asked Sancerre how he could substantiate any of this. He told me that a short while after I had left his room, Estouteville, a close friend (who, despite that, knew nothing of his love for Mme de Tournon) arrived to visit him. As soon as he sat down, he started to weep and begged Sancerre to forgive him for having concealed what he was about to disclose; he appealed for sympathy: he said he had come to open his heart; and that he saw before him the man who, of all men, was most deeply grieved by the death of Mme de Tournon.