"My darling I forbid you to go back on foot, I'm going to have the carriage harnessed, it's too cold, you could catch your death." Françoise de Lucques had just then spoken these words to her friend Christiane as she saw her out of the door and now that she had gone she felt some remorse for her clumsy phrase that would have been quite insignificant had it been said to somebody else but which might make the invalid uneasy about the state of her health. Sitting by the fire where she was warming her feet and her hands by turns, she kept asking herself the question that was torturing her: would it ever be possible for Christiane to be cured of her lingering illness.The lamps had not yet been brought in. She was in half darkness. But now as she warmed her hands once more the fire illuminated their grace and their spirit. In their resigned beauty as melancholy exiles from this vulgar world one could read emotions as clearly as in an expressive look. Habitually distracted they stretched out with a soft languidness. But this evening at the risk of crushing the delicate stem that carried them so nobly they opened out like woefully tortured flowers. And soon tears fallen from her eyes in the darkness appeared one by one at the moment they touched her hands which, held out before the flames, were in full light. A servant came in, it was the post, a single letter in florid handwriting that Françoise did not recognize. (Even though her husband loved Christiane as much as she did and consoled Françoise gently for her grief whenever he observed it, she did not wish to sadden him unnecessarily at the sight of her tears were he to come back in suddenly and she wanted to have time to wipe her eyes in the darkness.) She asked for the lamps to not be brought in for another five minutes and she held the letter up to the fire to throw some light on it. The fire was casting out plenty of flame so that as she bent forward to shed light on them Françoise was able to make out the words and this is what she read.
Madame,
I have loved you for a long time but I can neither tell you nor not
tell you. Please excuse me. Inexplicably everything that I have been told
about your intellectual life, the unique distinction of your soul, has
convinced me that in you alone, after a life of bitter pain, will I meet
with any sweetness, after a life of adventurousness could I find peace,
after a life of uncertainty and gloom could I find the path towards light.
And without knowing it you have been my spiritual companion. But that is
not enough for me. It is your body I want and not being able to possess
it, in my despair and frenzy, I am writing this letter to calm myself,
just as one crumples a paper while one is waiting, just as one writes a
name on the bark of a tree, just as one cries out a name into the wind or
over the sea. To lift the corner of your lips with my mouth, I would give
my life. The thought that it could be possible and that it is impossible
inflame me equally. Whenever you receive any letters from me you will know
that in that moment I am mad with desire. You are so kind, have pity on
me, I am dying from not having you.
Françoise had just finished reading the letter when the servant came
in with the lamps, furnishing, one might say, some sanction of reality to
the letter she had read as if in a dream, in the flickering and uncertain
light of the flames. Now the soft but steady and clear light from the
lamps brought out from the intermediate penumbra between the realities of
this world and the dreams of the other, our inner life, giving it a sort
of stamp of authenticity according to its substance and according to its
life. First of all Françoise wanted to show the letter to her husband. But
then she thought it would be more generous to spare him the worry and that
she owed to the unknown person to whom she could not give anything else,
silence at least, while she waited for it all to be forgotten. But the
next morning she received a letter in the same convoluted handwriting with
these words: "I will be with you at nine o'clock this evening. I want at
least to see you." Then Françoise began to feel frightened. Christiane had
to leave the next day to go and spend two weeks in the country where the
more bracing air might do her some good. She wrote to Christiane begging
her to come and dine with her as her husband was going to be out that
evening. She told the servants not to let anybody come in and had all the
shutters firmly closed. She did not tell Christiane anything but at nine
o'clock she told her that she had a migraine and asked her to go into the
drawing-room with the door overlooking her bedroom and to not let anyone
come in. In her room she went down on her knees and prayed. At quarter
past nine feeling rather faint she went into the dining-room to look for a
little rum. On the table there was a large sheet of white paper with these
words in printed letters: "Why do you not want to see me? I love you so
much. One day you will regret the hours that I could have spent with you.
I beseech you. Let me see you, but if you order me to go I will do so
immediately." Françoise was terrified. She thought about telling the
servants to come bringing weapons. Then she felt ashamed about the idea
and judging that there was no more efficient authority that could
influence the unknown person than her own, she wrote at the bottom of the
sheet of paper: "Leave immediately. I order you." And she rushed into her
bedroom, threw herself on her prie-Dieu and with no other thought in her
head she prayed fervently to the Blessed Virgin. After half an hour she
went to look for Christiane who was reading in the drawing-room as she had
asked her to. She wanted to take a little drink and asked her to accompany
her into the dining-room. She went in trembling, supported by Christiane
and almost fainted as she opened the door then took a few hesitant steps
inside, almost in a dead swoon. At every step it felt like she would not
have the strength to take another one and that she was going to faint. All
of a sudden she found herself stifling a cry. On the table was a new sheet
of paper on which she read: "I obey. I will never come back again. You
will never see me again." Fortunately Christiane, who was fully occupied
with her friend's attack of dizziness, could not see it, and Françoise had
time to snatch it up quickly but with an air of indifference, and put it
into her pocket. "You had better not go home too late", she said to
Christiane shortly, "if you are going away tomorrow morning. Goodbye my
dear. I might not get to see you tomorrow morning, so if you don't see me
it's because I've stayed in bed to get over my migraine." (Her doctor had
forbidden farewells to avoid causing Christiane too much emotional
upheaval). But Christiane, who fully understood her condition and
therefore perfectly understood why Françoise dared not come and why they
had forbidden her farewells wept as she said goodbye to Françoise, who had
now completely overcome her grief and had remained calm so as to reassure
Christiane. Françoise could not sleep. In the note from the unknown
person the words: "You will not see me again" troubled her more than
anything else. He had said "see again", so she must have already seen him.
She had the windows checked: not a single shutter had been touched. He
could not have come in that way so he must have bribed the building's
concierge. She decided to dismiss him, then, uncertain, she held back.
The next day Christiane's doctor, who she had asked for news as soon as
she had left, came to see her. He did not hide from her the fact that the
condition of her friend, without being irremediably endangered might
become critical at any moment and that he was not sure of the exact
treatment he should make her follow. "Oh, it is a great misfortune that
she isn't married," he said. "That sort of new life on its own could have
a beneficial influence on her debilitating state. Also fresh pleasures
might be the only thing to improve such a profound condition."
"Get married!" cried Françoise, "but who would want to marry her now
that she is so ill?"
"Then she should take a lover," the doctor continued, "she could marry
him if he were to cure her."
"Don't say such horrible things doctor," Françoise cried.
"I'm not saying anything horrible," the doctor replied sadly. "When a
woman is suffering from such a condition and is celibate, a life that is
completely different might be the only thing that can save her. I don't
think that in the last reckoning one should worry about propriety or
hesitate. But I'll come back and see you tomorrow, I've got too much to do
today, and we'll talk about it again."
Now that she was alone Françoise considered the doctor's words for a
moment but straight away she was unable to stop herself thinking again
about the mysterious correspondent who had been so cunningly audacious, so
fearless when it was a question of seeing her and then, when he had to,
the way he had obeyed by giving way so humbly and gently. The idea of the
extraordinary decision that he must have made to attempt such a move out
of love for her, enraptured her. She had already asked herself several
times over who he could be and now she fancied that he might be a military
man. She had always been attracted to them and her old ardours, fires that
her virtue had refused to feed, but which had inflamed her dreams and
sometimes caused strange reflections to pass over her chaste eyes, were
rekindled. In days gone by she had often had a desire to be loved by one
of those soldiers whose sword-belts take so long to remove, dragoons who
at the corner of the street let their sabres drag along behind them as
they turn their head, and when you press too close to them on a sofa they
risk pricking your legs with their spurs, who conceal beneath an all too
coarse cloth for you to easily feel it beating, a carefree, adventurous
and gentle heart.
Soon, just as wind that is damp with rain strips, detaches, disperses
and leaves to rot the petals of the sweetest smelling flowers, her grief
at feeling her friend was lost drowned all such voluptuous thoughts in a
flood of tears. The countenance of our souls changes as frequently as the
countenance of the sky. Our poor lives float helplessly between the
currents of voluptuousness where they dare not stay and the harbour of
virtue that they lack the strength to attain.
A telegram arrived. Christiane's illness had got worse. Françoise left
and arrived the next day at Cannes. At the villa that Christiane was
renting the doctor would not allow Françoise to see her. She was still too
weak for now. "Madame", the doctor said finally, "I don't want to betray
anything to you about your friend's life, which I am completely ignorant
of any way. But I think it is my duty to tell you something which could
perhaps help you, who know her better than I do, to understand the painful
secret that seems to be weighing on her final hours, and through that
bring her some solace, even a remedy perhaps, who knows. She keeps asking
over and over again for a little box, sends everybody away and has long
communions with it, which invariably end with a sort of fit of hysteria.
The box is over there but I haven't dared open it. But given the patient's
extreme state of weakness which at any moment could assume great and
immediate seriousness, I think that perhaps it would be for the best if
you had a look at what is in it. Then at least we'll know if it's
morphine. There are no needle marks on the body but she could be taking it
orally. We can't refuse to give her the box, such is her emotion if we
resist that it could quickly become dangerous for her, even fatal. But it
would be of great interest to us to find out what we keep bringing her all
the time."
Françoise reflected for a few moments. Christiane had never confided to
her any secrets of her heart and she certainly would have done had she had
any. It was surely morphine or some similar poison, and it was of the
utmost urgency that the doctor knew immediately. With a feeling of unease
she opened it, saw nothing at first, unfolded a piece of paper, stood
dumbstruck for a second, let out a cry and collapsed. The doctor rushed to
her, she had only fainted. The box that had slipped from her hands lay
next to her along with the piece of paper that had fallen out of it. The
doctor read: "Go away, I order you." Françoise quickly came to, suddenly
felt a painful and violent spasm, then said to the doctor in a voice that
was almost calm: "Just imagine, in my agitation I thought I saw laudanum.
How silly of me. Do you think", Françoise asked, "that Christiane can be
saved?"
"Yes and no," answered the doctor. "If we can check this state of
debility, as she has no injury to the body she could have a full recovery.
But there is no way of knowing whether anything can stop it. It is
unfortunate that we can't discover the probable sickness of the heart from
which she is suffering. If it was within the power of a living person to
console her and heal her, I think it could be accomplished even though it
might cost that person an act of scrupulous charity."
Françoise had a telegram sent off straight away. She asked her
confessor to come on the next train. Christiane spent the next day and
night in a state of almost complete wakefulness. They had kept Françoise's
arrival from her. The next morning she was so poorly, was so agitated
after the doctor had attended to her he had Françoise brought in.
Françoise approached her, asked her how she was so as not to alarm her,
sat down close by her bed and gently consoled her with careful and
affectionate words. "I feel so weak," Christiane said, "bring your
forehead close, I want to kiss you." Françoise had instinctively drawn
back but fortunately Christiane had not seen. She quickly controlled
herself, kissed her tenderly and lingeringly on her cheeks. Christiane
seemed improved, more animated, wanted to eat. Then somebody came and
spoke a word in Françoise's ear. Her confessor Abbé de Tresves, had just
arrived. She went to talk to him in an adjoining room, deftly, without
letting Christiane suspect anything. "Abbé, if a man is dying of love for
a woman who belongs to someone else, and if he has sufficient virtue not
to try to seduce her, if the love of this woman is the only thing that can
save him from imminent and certain death, would it be excusable for her to
offer herself to him?" Françoise said presently.
"Why do you not answer that yourself?" replied the Abbé. "By profiting
from the weakness of an invalid, that would be to sully, to despoil, to
impede, to obliterate the sacrifice of his life that has been made out of
generosity of heart for the purity of the one he loves. That is a
righteous death and to act in the manner you describe would be to shut out
the Kingdom of God to the one who has deserved it by triumphing so nobly
over his passions. And more than anything else, for the much to be pitied
object of his love, that would mean the forfeiture of one day rejoining
the one who, without her, had cherished her honour beyond death and beyond
love."
Somebody came to send for Françoise and the Abbé, Christiane was dying
and was asking for confession and absolution. The next day she was dead.
Françoise never again received any letters from the unknown correspondent.
***
[Different but related text]
Certainly before having decided upon virtue, at the age before certainty, she had had a very lively taste for military men. She loved artillerymen from whom it took a long time - oh such a long time! - to unbuckle their sword-belts, dragoons who in the street in the evenings let their sabres drag along behind them as they turned their head, and who if you press too close to them on a sofa risk pricking your legs with their spurs, all of them in short, lancers, cuirassiers, cavalrymen who conceal beneath an all too heavy cloth for you to easily feel it beating, a carefree, adventurous, pure and gentle heart. Then the fear that her parents would find out, be in despair, the wish to keep herself in the good position she occupied in society, over and above all the irresolute nobility of her character which would have stopped her just as much as would renouncing an adventure imposed by chance as to embark on an adventure that was merely offered, preserved her virginity intact. She got married, and then became a widow two after years. Now her senses took their revenge, not directly but treacherously by weakening her convictions, corrupting her imagination by blanketing her most disinterested opinions with a seductive and deceptive velvet, by perfuming with a scent of love the most austere circumstances, pouring enough fire into her to make mirages of desire glow in the desert of her heart - and by the gradual degradation of her willpower made her feel against her morality the most costly losses as if they had made her feel a defeat that was more serious in appearance, on the battlefield of behaviour. Extreme artistic, literary and musical culture, with the help of which she had refined to the most painful voluptuousness, a rare natural distinction of mind, during long periods of leisure time that a virtuous widowhood allows, had grouped, harmonized, increased all her inclinations. They formed all her strength, all her energy, all her value. Gradually all of this was in the process of crossing to the enemy. It was then that, after the little war we had with the Iriates, a captain of twenty-three years, Honoré, was in three years major, colonel, general in chief. He had never consented to have his photograph taken, but some periodicals and a few portraits by the masters had made his mysterious good looks popular without making them banal! The languid smile of his red lips that he bit nonchalantly as one might chew a flower, the absolute perfection of his features, the melancholy, the light and shade, the gentle authority of his vigorous gaze, his hair that was short at the sides but abundant beneath his képi, shining and fine like the hair of children, the slimness of his figure with emphasized hips, his inimitable, abstract, and evocative grace like that of a Botticelli, with a [blank] as elegant as that of Brummel and just as sensually intoxicating as that of a courtesan, all of this blended together in him into a flexible perfection that was so voluptuous and a power that was so captivating that they seemed like enemies before him. Thought habitually circles the eyes admirably, plumbs depth into the gaze but fades the complexion, curves the figure. General de Notlains had escaped from these laws. Before she saw him she wanted to love him, she saw him, she loved him, and by dint of thinking about him she had given her imagination over to him and without defining too precisely his illusive mystery a perfect [incomplete]
Created 19.10.19