The Marriage Contract | Page 4

you will
promise me to marry "en grand seigneur"; to entail your property; to
have two legitimate children, to give your wife a house and household
absolutely distinct from yours; to meet her only in society, and never to

return from a journey without sending her a courier to announce it. Two
hundred thousand francs a year will suffice for such a life and your
antecedents will enable you to marry some rich English woman hungry
for a title. That's an aristocratic life which seems to me thoroughly
French; the only life in which we can retain the respect and friendship
of a woman; the only life which distinguishes a man from the present
crowd,--in short, the only life for which a young man should even think
of resigning his bachelor blessings. Thus established, the Comte de
Manerville may advise his epoch, place himself above the world, and
be nothing less than a minister or an ambassador. Ridicule can never
touch him; he has gained the social advantages of marriage while
keeping all the privileges of a bachelor."
"But, my good friend, I am not de Marsay; I am plainly, as you yourself
do me the honor to say, Paul de Manerville, worthy father and husband,
deputy of the Centre, possibly peer of France,--a destiny extremely
commonplace; but I am modest and I resign myself."
"Yes, but your wife," said the pitiless de Marsay, "will she resign
herself?"
"My wife, my dear fellow, will do as I wish."
"Ah! my poor friend, is that where you are? Adieu, Paul. Henceforth, I
refuse to respect you. One word more, however, for I cannot agree
coldly to your abdication. Look and see in what the strength of our
position lies. A bachelor with only six thousand francs a year remaining
to him has at least his reputation for elegance and the memory of
success. Well, even that fantastic shadow has enormous value in it. Life
still offers many chances to the unmarried man. Yes, he can aim at
anything. But marriage, Paul, is the social 'Thus far shalt thou go and
no farther.' Once married you can never be anything but what you then
are--unless your wife should deign to care for you."
"But," said Paul, "you are crushing me down with exceptional theories.
I am tired of living for others; of having horses merely to exhibit them;
of doing all things for the sake of what may be said of them; of wasting
my substance to keep fools from crying out: 'Dear, dear! Paul is still

driving the same carriage. What has he done with his fortune? Does he
squander it? Does he gamble at the Bourse? No, he's a millionaire.
Madame such a one is mad about him. He sent to England for a harness
which is certainly the handsomest in all Paris. The four-horse
equipages of Messieurs de Marsay and de Manerville were much
noticed at Longchamps; the harness was perfect'--in short, the thousand
silly things with which a crowd of idiots lead us by the nose. Believe
me, my dear Henri, I admire your power, but I don't envy it. You know
how to judge of life; you think and act as a statesman; you are able to
place yourself above all ordinary laws, received ideas, adopted
conventions, and acknowledged prejudices; in short, you can grasp the
profits of a situation in which I should find nothing but ill-luck. Your
cool, systematic, possibly true deductions are, to the eyes of the masses,
shockingly immoral. I belong to the masses. I must play my game of
life according to the rules of the society in which I am forced to live.
While putting yourself above all human things on peaks of ice, you still
have feelings; but as for me, I should freeze to death. The life of that
great majority, to which I belong in my commonplace way, is made up
of emotions of which I now have need. Often a man coquets with a
dozen women and obtains none. Then, whatever be his strength, his
cleverness, his knowledge of the world, he undergoes convulsions, in
which he is crushed as between two gates. For my part, I like the
peaceful chances and changes of life; I want that wholesome existence
in which we find a woman always at our side."
"A trifle indecorous, your marriage!" exclaimed de Marsay.
Paul was not to be put out of countenance, and continued: "Laugh if
you like; I shall feel myself a happy man when my valet enters my
room in the morning and says: 'Madame is awaiting monsieur for
breakfast'; happier still at night, when I return to find a heart--"
"Altogether indecorous, my dear Paul. You are not yet moral enough to
marry."
"--a heart in which to confide my interests