The Princesse De Cleves Page 8

  ‘ “That name,” Sancerre went on, “startled me so much that my first impulse was to remark that I was still more deeply grieved than he was, but I could not find the strength to speak; so he continued, saying that he had been in love with her for six months; that he had always wanted to inform me of it, but that she strictly forbade him, in such emphatic

  terms that he dared not disobey; that her feeling for him had arisen almost at the same time as his for her, but they had concealed their love from everybody: he had never visited her publicly; that it had been his joy to console her for the death of her husband; and, finally, at the time of her death, he was to marry her; but this marriage, in reality the consequence of their love, was to seem the result of duty and obedience, since she had persuaded her father to order her to marry him, to avoid being accused of too sudden a change of heart, after she had been so firmly set against remarriage.”

  ‘ “While Estouteville was telling me this,” Sancerre went on, “I believed him, because his account seemed plausible; and the time when he said he had first fallen in love with Mme de Tournon was the very time when her feelings towards me appeared to have changed; but the moment after, I thought he must be lying or imagining things. I was about to say as much, then felt the need to be clear in my mind and questioned him, implying a doubt. In the end I went so far in trying to gain evidence of my misfortune that he asked if I knew Mme de Tournon’s handwriting. He brought out four of her letters and her portrait, and put them on the bed. At this moment, my brother came in. Estouteville’s face was so stained with tears that he had to retire, to avoid being seen. He said that he would come back in the evening to retrieve what he had left, and I asked my brother to go, on the grounds that I was feeling unwell, but in fact because I was impatient to see the letters that Estouteville had left, hoping to find something in them to contradict what he had said. Instead, what did I find? Such tenderness, such vows, such promises to marry him! What letters they were: she had never written any like them to me.”

  ‘ “So,” he continued, “I am simultaneously feeling the pain of her death and the pain of her unfaithfulness; and while these two types of pain have often been compared, they have never previously been felt by one person at one time. To my shame, I admit that I am still suffering her loss more than her change of heart: I cannot consider her so guilty that I would

  wish her dead. If she were alive, I should have the pleasure of blaming her and be avenged by making her acknowledge the wrong she has done me. But I shall see her no more,” he repeated, “I shall see her no more! There is the greatest misfortune of all. I wish I could give my own life to restore hers – but what a wish! If she did return, she would live only for Estouteville. How happy I was yesterday!” he exclaimed. “How happy! I was the most miserable man in the world, but my grief was reasoned and I found some comfort in the idea that I would never be consoled. Today, I can justify nothing that I feel. I am paying the same debt of sorrow to the feelings she pretended for me, as I thought I owed to an unfeigned attachment. I can neither hate her memory, nor love it; I can neither find consolation, nor mourn.”

  ‘ “At the very least,” he said, abruptly turning towards me, “make sure, I beg you, that I never see Estouteville again: his very name appals me. I know quite well I have no reason to blame him: it was my own fault for concealing my love for Mme de Tournon; had he known of it, he would perhaps not have become attached to her, and she would not have been unfaithful to me. He came to me to confide his sorrow, and I grieve for him. Ah, rightly so,” he cried, “for he loved Mme de Tournon, was loved by her and will never see her again; yet I know that I cannot prevent myself from hating him. So, once again, I implore you to contrive that I may not see him.”

  ‘At this, Sancerre began to weep again, to mourn Mme de Tournon, to address her, saying the most affectionate things imaginable; then he turned to anger, wailing, reproaches and curses against her. Seeing him in such an uncontrollable state, I realized that I needed help to calm his mind. I sent for his brother, whom I had just left at the King’s, spoke to him in the outer room before he entered and described Sancerre’s condition. We gave orders to prevent him seeing Estouteville and spent part of the night attempting to restore him to a more reasonable frame of mind. But this morning, I found him more distressed than ever. His brother stayed with him and I have returned to your side.’

  ‘No one could be more surprised than I am,’ Mme de Clèves said at this point. ‘I considered Mme de Tournon incapable of either love or deceit.’

  ‘Artifice and dissimulation,’ M. de Clèves continued, ‘have never been taken further than by her. Observe that when Sancerre believed her feelings had changed towards him, this was really the case and she had begun to love Estouteville. She told him that he was consoling her for her husband’s death, and that he was the cause of her return to society; yet Sancerre thought it was because we had decided that she should not remain in deep mourning. She explained to Estouteville that he must keep their understanding a secret and that she must seem to be forced to marry him in accordance with her father’s wishes, through concern for her reputation; yet it was so that she could abandon Sancerre without giving him grounds to complain. I must go back,’ M. de Clèves went on, ‘and see this unfortunate man; and I think that you too must return to Paris. It is time that you met people and received all those many, unavoidable visits of condolence.’

  Mme de Clèves agreed and left the next day. She was now easier in her mind about M. de Nemours: everything that Mme de Chartres had said on her deathbed, as well as the pain of losing her, had put her feelings into abeyance, and this made her think that they had been altogether erased.

  On the evening of her arrival, the Dauphine came to see her and, after expressing condolences for her loss, told her that, to distract her from these sad thoughts, she would like to inform her of everything that happened at court during her absence; and she continued with a detailed account.

  ‘But the thing I most want to tell you,’ she went on, ‘is that it is now established that M. de Nemours is passionately in love. But not only has he withheld the secret from his most intimate friends, they cannot even guess who may be the woman he loves. Yet this passion is strong enough to make him neglect or, more precisely, give up his hopes of a crown.’

  The Dauphine then told her everything that had happened with regard to the English throne, continuing:

  ‘All this I learned from M. d’Anville, who told me this morning that the King sent for M. de Nemours yesterday evening, on receipt of letters from Lignerolles, begging permission to return and telling the King that he can no longer defend M. de Nemours’s dilatoriness to the English Queen: she is starting to be offended by it, since, even though she had given no definite response, she had said enough for him to venture on the journey. The King read this letter to M. de Nemours and he, instead of replying seriously as he had at the start, only laughed, joked and made fun of Lignerolles’s expectations. He said that he would be condemned as rash by the whole of Europe if he were to risk going to England as someone who pretended to the Queen’s hand, unless he were assured of success, adding, “I also think I should be wasting my time on this journey now, when the King of Spain is doing his utmost to marry this Queen. He is perhaps not a rival much to be feared in love, but I would suggest that when it comes to marriage, Your Majesty would not advise me to cross swords with him.” “I should advise you to do so in this instance,” the King replied. “But you will have no quarrel with him, for I know he has other ideas; and, even if he did not, Queen Mary suffered too much from the Spanish yoke for anyone to believe that her sister would wish to put it on her own shoulders, or would be dazzled by the brilliance of so many united crowns.” “If she is not dazzled,” M. de Nemours answered, “then apparently she would like to find happiness in love. Some years ago, she loved Lord Courtenay: he was also loved by Queen Mary, who would have married him with the approval of the whole country, had she not known that the youth and beauty of h
er sister Elizabeth touched him more deeply than hope of the crown. Your Majesty knows that her passionate jealousy on this score induced her to put them both in prison, then to exile Lord Courtenay and, finally, decided her to marry the King of Spain. Now that Elizabeth is on the throne, I am sure she will soon remember that nobleman, and choose one she has already loved, who deserves her and has suffered so much for her, rather than another whom she has never seen.”

  ‘ “I would agree,” replied the King, “if Courtenay were still alive; but a few days ago I learned of his death in exile in Padua. I can see,” he added, on leaving M. de Nemours, “that your marriage will have to be concluded by proxy as one would with the Dauphin’s, sending ambassadors to marry the English Queen.”

  ‘M. d’Anville and the Vidame, who were present with M. de Nemours, are convinced that this same overwhelming passion has distracted him from so great an endeavour. The Vidame, who is closer to him than anybody, told Mme de Martigues that he is altered beyond recognition. What is still more surprising is that no one has observed any relationship or any particular times at which he escapes notice, so that the Vidame does not think he has an understanding with the person he loves: if M. de Nemours is unrecognizable, it is because he appears to be in love with a woman who does not love him in return.’

  What torment the Dauphine’s words were for Mme de Clèves! How could she fail to recognize herself in this unknown person, or to be filled with gratitude and affection on learning, from an unimpeachable source, that the duke, who already had a place in her heart, was hiding his passion from everyone and neglecting the opportunity of gaining a throne, for love of her? So her feelings and agitation of mind cannot be described. Had the Dauphine looked at her carefully, she would easily have seen that her words were not a matter of indifference to Mme de Clèves; but, having no suspicion of the truth, she went on regardless:

  ‘As I mentioned, I had all this from M. d’Anville, though he thinks that I know more about it than he does: he has such a high opinion of my charms that he is convinced I am the only person who could bring about such a change in M. de Nemours.’

  These last words of the Dauphine’s caused Mme de Clèves to feel a different kind of agitation from the one she had experienced a few moments before.

  ‘I could well agree with M. d’Anville,’ she replied. ‘It seems more than likely, madame, that it would take no less a princess than yourself to make him despise the Queen of England.’

  ‘I should admit it if I knew it,’ retorted the Dauphine, ‘and I should know it if it were true. That sort of passion does not escape those who inspire it: they are the first to notice. M. de Nemours never showed more than a slight partiality towards me, yet there is such a great difference between his manner when he was with me previously and his manner now that I can assure you it is not I who am the cause of his indifference to the English throne.’

  ‘But I am forgetting the time,’ the Dauphine added. ‘I ought to go and see Madame. You know that the peace treaty has almost been signed: what you do not know is that the King of Spain was unwilling to accept a single article except on condition that he might be allowed to marry the princess14 himself, in place of his son Don Carlos. The King was very loath to agree, but at last did so, and is just about to announce the news to Madame. I believe that she will be inconsolable: the prospect of marrying a man of the Spanish King’s age and character is hardly agreeable, especially to her, when she possesses all the joy of youth, as well as beauty, and was expecting to marry a young prince to whom she felt attracted even without having met him. I do not know if the King will find her submissive as he might wish: he has asked me to see her, because he knows that she loves me and thinks I may have some influence with her. After that, I have a quite different call to make: I shall go and celebrate with Madame, the King’s sister. Everything is settled for her to marry M. de Savoie and he will arrive shortly. Never has anyone of her age been so delighted to marry. The court will be thronged with more and more beautiful people than have ever been seen and, despite your loss, you must come to help us demonstrate to the foreign guests that we possess the finest beauties.’

  At this, the Dauphine left Mme de Clèves, and the next day Madame’s marriage was publicly announced. On the

  days that followed, the King and the Queens came to visit Mme de Clèves. M. de Nemours, who had been waiting with the utmost impatience for her return and who was most anxious to find an opportunity of speaking to her alone, waited before going to her house for the time when everyone was retiring and when it seemed unlikely that anyone else would arrive. His plan was successful and he entered just as the last visitors were taking their leave.

  Mme de Clèves was on her bed. It was a warm day and the sight of M. de Nemours heightened her colour in a way that did not detract from her beauty. He sat opposite her, with the misgivings and diffidence that are born of true passion. For a time, he could say nothing. Mme de Clèves was equally speechless, so that there was a rather long silence between them. Finally, M. de Nemours broke it, to offer his condolences in her sorrow. Mme de Clèves, very pleased to continue the conversation along these lines, spoke for quite a time about her loss and finally said that, even when time had assuaged the violence of her suffering, she would have been so deeply affected by it that her temperament would have changed.

  ‘Great suffering and violent passion,’ M. de Nemours interjected, ‘produce great alteration in the mind. In my own case, I cannot recognize myself since my return from Flanders. Many people have remarked on the change in me, and the Dauphine herself mentioned it to me only yesterday.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Mme de Clèves, ‘that she has noticed it and I believe I heard her say something on the matter.’

  ‘I am not sorry, madame, that she should have observed it,’ replied M. de Nemours, ‘but I wish she were not alone in having done so. There are those to whom we dare give no sign of the love that we feel for them, except in things that do not touch them directly; and, though one dares not show them that they are loved, one would at least like them to see that one does not wish to be loved by anyone else. One would hope them to know that there is no beauty, whatever her rank in society, whom one would not look upon with indifference, and that there is no crown that one would wish to purchase at the price of not seeing them again. Ordinarily,’ he went on, ‘women assess the extent of our feeling for them by our persistence in trying to please them and in seeking them out. But that requires little effort, provided they are personable; the real test is not to give way to the pleasure of being with them; it lies in avoiding them, for fear of revealing to others, and almost to themselves, the feeling that we have for them. And what still more clearly distinguishes true devotion is to become entirely the opposite of what one has been, and to abandon ambition and pleasure, when one’s whole life has been devoted to those things.’

  Mme de Clèves had no difficulty in understanding that this speech was referring to her. It occurred to her that she ought to reply and not to endure it. It occurred to her also that she should not understand or give any sign that she applied what he said to herself. She felt she should speak and thought she should say nothing. M. de Nemours’s words almost equally pleased and offended her; they confirmed all that the Dauphine had led her to think; she found something in them that was on the one hand gallant and respectful, yet on the other forward and only too plain. Her partiality for the prince created an unease in her that she could not control. The most obscure discourse of an attractive man is more disturbing than an open declaration of love from one who is not. So she gave no reply, and M. de Nemours might have noticed her silence – and perhaps interpreted it in his favour – had the arrival of M. de Clèves not put an end to the conversation and to his visit.

  He had come to give his wife news of Sancerre, though she was not very curious to know the end of his story. She was so preoccupied with what had just taken place that she could hardly conceal the fact that her mind was elsewhere. When she was free to pursue
her own thoughts, she realized full well that she had been wrong to think she no longer felt anything but indifference towards M. de Nemours. His speech had made as deep an impression as ever he could have wished and entirely convinced her of his love. His actions corresponded too well with his words for there to be any doubt in the princess’s mind. She no longer deluded herself with the hope that she could avoid loving him; she only considered how to ensure that he should never guess her feelings. It was a hard task: she already knew how hard; she knew that the only road to success lay in avoiding his presence; and, since her mourning was a reason for her to be more retiring than usual, she used this excuse to stop going to places where he might see her. She was plunged into deep sadness: her mother’s death seemed the cause and no one looked for any other.

  M. de Nemours was desperate at hardly seeing her any more and, knowing that he would not find her at those assemblies or entertainments attended by the whole court, he could not bring himself to take part. Instead, he pretended to have a great passion for hunting and went out to hunt on the days when there were receptions at the Queens’ houses. A slight illness was his pretext for a long stay at home and for not going to all the places where he realized Mme de Clèves would not be.

  M. de Clèves fell ill at around the same time. Mme de Clèves did not leave his room during his illness; but, when he was better, when he started to receive visitors, among them M. de Nemours who, on the excuse of his being still weak, spent the greater part of the day there, she found that she could not remain with him; yet she could not bring herself to go out the first times that he came. It had been too long since she had seen him for her to find the strength not to see him. The prince managed to let her know, in words that appeared merely commonplace (but that she understood even so, because they related to what he had said on his visit to her), that he went hunting so that he could be alone with his thoughts, and that he did not go to any public assembly because she was not there.