The Red Lily | Page 8

husband, and
perhaps later in a secret and freer choice.
She had not really selected her husband. She did not know: she had
permitted herself to be married by her father, who, then a widower,
embarrassed by the care of a girl, had wished to do things quickly and
well. He considered the exterior advantages, estimated the eighty years
of imperial nobility which Count Martin brought. The idea never came
to him that she might wish to find love in marriage.
He flattered himself that she would find in it the satisfaction of the
luxurious desires which he attributed to her, the joy of making a display
of grandeur, the vulgar pride, the material domination, which were for
him all the value of life, as he had no ideas on the subject of the
happiness of a true woman, although he was sure that his daughter
would remain virtuous.
While thinking of his absurd yet natural faith in her, which accorded so
badly with his own experiences and ideas regarding women, she smiled
with melancholy irony. And she admired her father the more.
After all, she was not so badly married. Her husband was as good as

any other man. He had become quite bearable. Of all that she read in
the ashes, in the veiled softness of the lamps, of all her reminiscences,
that of their married life was the most vague. She found a few isolated
traits of it, some absurd images, a fleeting and fastidious impression.
The time had not seemed long and had left nothing behind. Six years
had passed, and she did not even remember how she had regained her
liberty, so prompt and easy had been her conquest of that husband, cold,
sickly, selfish, and polite; of that man dried up and yellowed by
business and politics, laborious, ambitious, and commonplace. He liked
women only through vanity, and he never had loved his wife. The
separation had been frank and complete. And since then, strangers to
each other, they felt a tacit, mutual gratitude for their freedom. She
would have had some affection for him if she had not found him
hypocritical and too subtle in the art of obtaining her signature when he
needed money for enterprises that were more for ostentation than real
benefit. The man with whom she dined and talked every day had no
significance for her.
With her cheek in her hand, before the grate, as if she questioned a
sibyl, she saw again the face of the Marquis de Re. She saw it so
precisely that it surprised her. The Marquis de Re had been presented to
her by her father, who admired him, and he appeared to her grand and
dazzling for his thirty years of intimate triumphs and mundane glories.
His adventures followed him like a procession. He had captivated three
generations of women, and had left in the heart of all those whom he
had loved an imperishable memory. His virile grace, his quiet elegance,
and his habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth far beyond the
ordinary term of years. He noticed particularly the young Countess
Martin. The homage of this expert flattered her. She thought of him
now with pleasure. He had a marvellous art of conversation. He amused
her. She let him see it, and at once he promised to himself, in his heroic
frivolity, to finish worthily his happy life by the subjugation of this
young woman whom he appreciated above every one else, and who
evidently admired him. He displayed, to capture her, the most learned
stratagems. But she escaped him very easily.
She yielded, two years later, to Robert Le Menil, who had desired her

ardently, with all the warmth of his youth, with all the simplicity of his
mind. She said to herself: "I gave myself to him because he loved me."
It was the truth. The truth was, also, that a dumb yet powerful instinct
had impelled her, and that she had obeyed the hidden impulse of her
being. But even this was not her real self; what awakened her nature at
last was the fact that she believed in the sincerity of his sentiment. She
had yielded as soon as she had felt that she was loved. She had given
herself, quickly, simply. He thought that she had yielded easily. He was
mistaken. She had felt the discouragement which the irreparable gives,
and that sort of shame which comes of having suddenly something to
conceal. Everything that had been whispered before her about other
women resounded in her burning ears. But, proud and delicate, she took
care to hide the value of the gift she was making. He never suspected
her moral uneasiness, which lasted only a few days, and was replaced
by perfect tranquillity. After three years