CHAPTER XIX
THE INTERVIEW
I was preparing, to go to the Luxembourg, where I expected to meet Irene, when I received a note from Madame de Fersen, asking me to call on her about two o'clock.
Since her arrival in Paris I had never met her alone.
To what should I attribute the wish she expressed? To her desire to see me? To her secret vexation at the rumours spread regarding my intimacy with Madame de V——? Catherine might think these rumours well founded, since she had surprised me alone with Madame de V—— at the concert at Lord P——'s house.
I could not say, but I waited for our interview with restless happiness and irresistible agitation.
I was going to see Catherine once more, to see her alone! At this thought my heart beat with hope and ecstasy at last; a word from her would reward me for my self-denial, for the generous sacrifice I had made, for the assiduous cares to which her beloved child almost owed her return to health.
From this interview I would draw fresh strength to devote myself still further; and then, I had so much to say to her! I felt so proud of my love, so happy to feel my heart still young enough to appreciate the pure joys which enchanted me; to feel that confidence in the strength, in the sincerity, of my attachment which enabled me to hope that some day my love would be reciprocated.
At the appointed hour, I went to Madame de Fersen's.
She received me in a small parlour which she usually occupied, but which I had not yet seen.
"What a long time since I have seen you!" I cried with effusion as I held out my hand.
Madame de Fersen coldly gave me hers, and answered:
"I believe I had the pleasure of seeing you last night at the Variétés, monsieur."
"You call that seeing one another!" I replied, with sad astonishment. "Ah, I was right when I feared that the 'conversations of the saloon' would soon be forgotten by you!"
"I shall never forget our pleasant voyage," answered Madame de Fersen, in the same cold tone. "I am greatly obliged to you for the trouble you have taken in coming to see me this morning. I wish to thank you a thousand times, monsieur, for your kindness in yielding to my daughter's capricious fancies. She is now quite well, and I fear— I do not wish any longer to take advantage of your goodness towards her, monsieur."
Madame de Fersen's tone was icy, almost scornful. What she said seemed so true, so natural, so little influenced by resentment, that I was thunderstruck. I suffered horribly, and could find no word of reply.
My silence was so marked, that Madame de Fersen found herself obliged to add, very coldly:
"I doubtless appear to you very ungrateful, monsieur?"
"Madame," I said, with deep emotion, "I do not know how I have deserved such a reception."
"And what claim have you to a different reception from me?" proudly inquired Madame de Fersen.
My painful astonishment was at its height; for a moment I deluded myself, and endeavoured to attribute to jealousy this reception so different from what I had anticipated, but I repeat, Madame de Fersen's countenance betrayed no sign of repressed or concealed emotion.
I resolutely took my stand. I could not answer Madame de Fersen's question without reminding her of my noble and generous conduct towards her; and unwilling to lower myself by uttering reproaches, I was silent on that subject, and only said to her, endeavouring to conceal my emotion:
"The object of the interview you requested is doubtless attained. May I ask, madame, if you have any further orders to give me?"
"None, monsieur, but I again wish to express my grateful acknowledgments," said Madame de Fersen, rising.
This harshness shocked me. I was about to answer with some bitterness, when I became aware of something which I had not yet remarked, and which renewed a faint hope.
During our short interview, Madame de Fersen had not once raised her eyes from the embroidery upon which she was working.
Wishing to assure myself of the correctness of my observation, I stayed on some moments without uttering a word.
Catherine remained with her eyes lowered, instead of inquiring by a look the meaning of my silent presence.
"Adieu, madame," I said.
"Adieu, monsieur."
And I left without her granting me one single look of compassion or sorrow.
Her hand alone seemed to tremble slightly on her embroidery as she said adieu.
I took my departure heartbroken.
I had too great and too conscious a distrust of myself and my deserts to have the slightest hope of any success with Catherine.
I could not yield to my customary suspicious impulse, for I had implicit faith in Madame de Fersen's sincerity, and I doubted of ever having aroused any sentiment in her heart. "She feels no tender affection for me, and her friendship even has vanished in the glare of brilliant worldly diversions."
I had been away from her almost always, and the effects and results of absence are unbounded and varied.
At times it strengthens a woman's secret sympathy, by concentrating her thoughts on the man who has attracted her, and whose charm is exaggerated by the distant mirage. A woman finds a proud, sad, and mysterious delight in the bitterness of her solitary regrets; she scorns the indifferent ones who occupy a place near her, which she so ardently wishes to see filled by one precious to her, and she detests those eager in their attentions because they are base enough to be there while the preferred one is far away.
Often, however, absence is forgetfulness, for some hearts are like mirrors, and only reflect objects that are present.
I therefore believed myself entirely forgotten by Madame de Fersen. I had anticipated the possibility of this cruel predicament, and, if it gave me deep sorrow, it did not occasion me great surprise.
In the climax of my despair, I made a thousand projects. I determined to shake off this grief, to give myself up to all life's dissipations, to seek amorous distraction in some fresh entanglement; but it takes time and a strong will for a heart deeply smitten to transfer its worship.
When a man knows he is loved, and is in possession of the woman he loves, he never experiences the slightest remorse at committing an infidelity; but when he is passionately desirous, and still anxiously looking for an avowal, faithlessness is an impossibility. He has the resolution to maintain fidelity only so long as he has not the right to offer it.