The Deserted Woman | Page 7

the alluring charms of an
adventure that tempts the imagination and sets vague hopes springing
up in the soul; to the sense of coming events and mysterious felicity
and fear at hand, while as yet there is no substance of fact on which
these phantoms of caprice can fix and feed? Over these fancies thought
hovers, conceiving impossible projects, giving in the germ all the joys
of love. Perhaps, indeed, all passion is contained in that thought-germ,
as the beauty, and fragrance, and rich color of the flower is all packed
in the seed.
M. de Nueil did not know that Mme. de Beauseant had taken refuge in
Normandy, after a notoriety which women for the most part envy and
condemn, especially when youth and beauty in some sort excuse the
transgression. Any sort of celebrity bestows an inconceivable prestige.
Apparently for women, as for families, the glory of the crime effaces
the stain; and if such and such a noble house is proud of its tale of
heads that have fallen on the scaffold, a young and pretty woman
becomes more interesting for the dubious renown of a happy love or a
scandalous desertion, and the more she is to be pitied, the more she
excites our sympathies. We are only pitiless to the commonplace. If,
moreover, we attract all eyes, we are to all intents and purposes great;
how, indeed, are we to be seen unless we raise ourselves above other
people's heads? The common herd of humanity feels an involuntary

respect for any person who can rise above it, and is not over-particular
as to the means by which they rise.
It may have been that some such motives influenced Gaston de Nueil at
unawares, or perhaps it was curiosity, or a craving for some interest in
his life, or, in a word, that crowd of inexplicable impulses which, for
want of a better name, we are wont to call "fatality," that drew him to
Mme. de Beauseant.
The figure of the Vicomtesse de Beauseant rose up suddenly before
him with gracious thronging associations. She was a new world for him,
a world of fears and hopes, a world to fight for and to conquer.
Inevitably he felt the contrast between this vision and the human beings
in the shabby room; and then, in truth, she was a woman; what woman
had he seen so far in this dull, little world, where calculation replaced
thought and feeling, where courtesy was a cut-and-dried formality, and
ideas of the very simplest were too alarming to be received or to pass
current? The sound of Mme. de Beauseant's name revived a young
man's dreams and wakened urgent desires that had lain dormant for a
little.
Gaston de Nueil was absent-minded and preoccupied for the rest of the
evening. He was pondering how he might gain access to Mme. de
Beauseant, and truly it was no very easy matter. She was believed to be
extremely clever. But if men and women of parts may be captivated by
something subtle or eccentric, they are also exacting, and can read all
that lies below the surface; and after the first step has been taken, the
chances of failure and success in the difficult task of pleasing them are
about even. In this particular case, moreover, the Vicomtesse, besides
the pride of her position, had all the dignity of her name. Her utter
seclusion was the least of the barriers raised between her and the world.
For which reasons it was well-nigh impossible that a stranger, however
well born, could hope for admittance; and yet, the next morning found
M. de Nueil taking his walks abroad in the direction of Courcelles, a
dupe of illusions natural at his age. Several times he made the circuit of
the garden walls, looking earnestly through every gap at the closed
shutters or open windows, hoping for some romantic chance, on which
he founded schemes for introducing himself into this unknown lady's
presence, without a thought of their impracticability. Morning after
morning was spent in this way to mighty purpose; but with each day's

walk, that vision of a woman living apart from the world, of love's
martyr buried in solitude, loomed larger in his thoughts, and was
enshrined in his soul. So Gaston de Nueil walked under the walls of
Courcelles, and some gardener's heavy footstep would set his heart
beating high with hope.
He thought of writing to Mme. de Beauseant, but on mature
consideration, what can you say to a woman whom you have never
seen, a complete stranger? And Gaston had little self-confidence. Like
most young persons with a plentiful crop of illusions still standing, he
dreaded the mortifying contempt of silence more than death itself, and
shuddered at the thought of sending his first tender