Another Study of Woman | Page 7

same time, her reserve charmed me. If she
had been the first to speak of marriage in a certain tone, I might perhaps
have noted it as vulgar in that accomplished soul.
"Six months, full and perfect--a diamond of the purest water! That has
been my portion of love in this base world.
"One morning, attacked by the feverish stiffness which marks the
beginning of a cold, I wrote her a line to put off one of those secret
festivals which are buried under the roofs of Paris like pearls in the sea.
No sooner was the letter sent than remorse seized me: she will not
believe that I am ill! thought I. She was wont to affect jealousy and
suspiciousness.--When jealousy is genuine," said de Marsay,
interrupting himself, "it is the visible sign of an unique passion."
"Why?" asked the Princesse de Cadignan eagerly.
"Unique and true love," said de Marsay, "produces a sort of corporeal
apathy attuned to the contemplation into which one falls. Then the
mind complicates everything; it works on itself, pictures its fancies,
turns them into reality and torment; and such jealousy is as delightful as
it is distressing."
A foreign minister smiled as, by the light of memory, he felt the truth
of this remark.
"Besides," de Marsay went on, "I said to myself, why miss a happy
hour? Was it not better to go, even though feverish? And, then, if she
learns that I am ill, I believe her capable of hurrying here and
compromising herself. I made an effort; I wrote a second letter, and
carried it myself, for my confidential servant was now gone. The river
lay between us. I had to cross Paris; but at last, within a suitable
distance of her house, I caught sight of a messenger; I charged him to

have the note sent up to her at once, and I had the happy idea of driving
past her door in a hackney cab to see whether she might not by chance
receive the two letters together. At the moment when I arrived it was
two o'clock; the great gate opened to admit a carriage. Whose? --That
of the stalking-horse!
"It is fifteen years since--well, even while I tell the tale, I, the exhausted
orator, the Minister dried up by the friction of public business, I still
feel a surging in my heart and the hot blood about my diaphragm. At
the end of an hour I passed once more; the carriage was still in the
courtyard! My note no doubt was in the porter's hands. At last, at
half-past three, the carriage drove out. I could observe my rival's
expression; he was grave, and did not smile; but he was in love, and no
doubt there was business in hand.
"I went to keep my appointment; the queen of my heart met me; I saw
her calm, pure, serene. And here I must confess that I have always
thought that Othello was not only stupid, but showed very bad taste.
Only a man who is half a Negro could behave so: indeed Shakespeare
felt this when he called his play 'The Moor of Venice.' The sight of the
woman we love is such a balm to the heart that it must dispel anguish,
doubt, and sorrow. All my rage vanished. I could smile again. Hence
this cheerfulness, which at my age now would be the most atrocious
dissimulation, was the result of my youth and my love. My jealousy
once buried, I had the power of observation. My ailing condition was
evident; the horrible doubts that had fermented in me increased it. At
last I found an opening for putting in these words: 'You have had no
one with you this morning?' making a pretext of the uneasiness I had
felt in the fear lest she should have disposed of her time after receiving
my first note.--'Ah!' she exclaimed, 'only a man could have such ideas!
As if I could think of anything but your suffering. Till the moment
when I received your second note I could think only of how I could
contrive to see you.'--'And you were alone?'--'Alone,' said she, looking
at me with a face of innocence so perfect that it must have been his
distrust of such a look as that which made the Moor kill Desdemona.
As she lived alone in the house, the word was a fearful lie. One single
lie destroys the absolute confidence which to some souls is the very
foundation of happiness.
"To explain to you what passed in me at that moment it must be

assumed that we have an internal self of which the exterior /I/ is but the
husk; that this self, as brilliant as light, is as fragile as a shade --well,
that beautiful self