He withdrew rapidly to the shelter of a lime alley1 to be able to read it without interruption. He saw from the opening lines that this letter was intended for Mademoiselle Méry de Tersan (it was the letter composed by the Commander). But the opening lines had so disturbed him that he went on, and read: “I do not know how to reply to your reproaches. You are right, my kind friend, I am mad to complain. This arrangement is, from every point of view, far better than anything a poor girl, who has woken up to find herself rich, and has no family to establish and protect her, could expect. He is a man of parts and of the highest virtue2: perhaps he has too much virtue for me. Shall I confess it to you? The times have indeed changed; what would have been the height of bliss3 for me a few months ago is no more now than a duty; has heaven withheld4 from me the power to love constantly? I am completing an arrangement that is reasonable and advantageous5, as I repeat to myself incessantly6, but my heart no longer knows those sweet transports that I used to feel at the sight of the most perfect man, in my eyes, to be found anywhere upon earth, the one being worthy7 to be loved. I see today that his mood is inconstant, or rather why accuse him? It is not he that has changed; my whole misfortune is that there is inconstancy in my heart. I am about to contract a marriage that is advantageous, honourable9, in every sense; but, dear Méry, I blush to confess it to you; I am no longer marrying the person whom I loved above all; I find him serious and at times barely entertaining, and it is with him that I am going to spend my life! Probably in some lonely manor10 house in the depths of the country where we shall promote the spread of pupil-teaching and vaccination11. Perhaps, dear friend, I shall look back with regret upon Madame de Bonnivet’s drawing-room; who would have said so six months ago? This strange fickleness12 in my character is what distresses13 me most. Is not Octave the most remarkable14 young man we have seen this winter? But I have had so miserable15 a girlhood! I should like an amusing husband. Farewell. The day after tomorrow I am to be allowed to go to Paris; at eleven I shall be at your door.”
Octave stood horror-stricken. All at once he awoke as though from a dream and ran to retrieve16 the letter which he had just left in the tub of the orange tree: he tore it up furiously, and put the fragments in his pocket.
“I needed,” he said to himself coldly, “the wildest and profoundest passion if I was to be pardoned for my fatal secret. In defiance17 of all reason, in defiance of every vow18 I had made to myself throughout my life, I thought I had met with a creature above the rest of humanity. To deserve such an exception, I should have had to be pleasant and gay, and those are the qualities that I lack. I have been mistaken; there is nothing left for me but to die.
“It would doubtless be an offence against the laws of honour not to make a confession19, were I involving for all time the destiny of Mademoiselle de Zohiloff. But I can leave her free within a month. She will be a young widow, rich, very beautiful, no doubt greatly sought after; and the name of Malivert will be of greater use to her in finding an amusing husband than the still unfamiliar20 name of Zohiloff.”
It was in this frame of mind that Octave entered his mother’s room, where he found Armance who was talking of him and longing21 for his return; soon she was as pale and almost as unhappy as himself, and yet he had just said to his mother that he could not endure the delays that kept postponing22 the date of his marriage. “There are plenty of people who would be glad to mar8 my happiness,” he had gone on to say; “I am certain of it. Why do we need all these preparations? Armance is richer than I am, and it is not likely that she will ever want for clothes or jewels. I venture to hope that before the end of the second year of our marriage she will be gay, happy, enjoying all the pleasures of Paris, and that she will never repent23 of the step she is now about to take. I am sure that she will never be buried in the country in an old manor house.”
There was something so strange in the sound of Octave’s words, so little in keeping with the aspiration24 that they expressed, that almost simultaneously25 Armance and Madame de Malivert felt their eyes fill with tears. Armance could barely find strength to reply: “Ah, dear friend, how cruel you are!”
Greatly vexed26 that he had not managed to assume an air of happiness, Octave left the room abruptly27. His determination to end his marriage by death imparted a certain harshness and cruelty to his manner.
Having deplored28 with Armance what she called her son’s madness, Madame de Malivert came to the conclusion that solitude29 was of no avail’to a character that was naturally sombre. “Do you love him still in spite of this defect from which he is the first to suffer?” said Madame de Malivert; “consult your heart, my child, I have no wish to make you unhappy, everything may yet be broken off.” “Oh, Mama, I believe that I love him even more than ever, now that I no longer think him so perfect.” “Very well, my pet,” replied Madame de Malivert, “I shall have you married in a week from now. Until then, be indulgent to him, he loves you, you cannot doubt that. You know what he feels about his duty to his family, and yet you saw his fury when he thought you were being made the butt30 of my brother’s wicked tongue. Be kind and good, my dear child, with this creature who is being made wretched by some odd prejudice against marriage.” Armance, to whom these words spoken at random31 presented so true a meaning, increased her attentions and tender devotion to Octave.
The following day, at dawn, Octave came to Paris, and spent a very considerable sum, almost two-thirds of what he had at his disposal, in buying costly32 jewelry33 which he included among the wedding presents.
He called upon his father’s lawyer and made him insert in the marriage contract certain clauses extremely advantageous to the bride to be, which, in the event of her widowhood, assured her the most ample independence.
It was with business of this sort that Octave occupied the ten days that elapsed between the discovery of Armance’s supposed letter and his marriage. These days were for Octave more tranquil34 than he could have dared to hope. What makes misery35 so cruel to tender hearts is a little rav of hope which sometimes lingers.
Octave had no hope. His course was decided36, and for a stout37 heart, however hard the part he may have to play, it dispenses38 him from reflecting upon his fate, and asks no more of him than the courage to perform it scrupulously39; which is a small matter.
What most impressed Octave, when the necessary preparations and business of all sorts left him to himself, was a prolonged astonishment40: What! So Mademoiselle de Zohiloflf no longer meant anything to him! He was so far accustomed to believe firmly in the eternity41 of his love and of their intimate relation, that at every moment he kept forgetting that all was changed, he was incapable42 of imagining life without Armance. Almost every morning, he was obliged when he awoke to remind himself of his misery. It was a cruel moment. But presently the thought of death came to console him and to restore calm to his heart. At the same time, towards the end of this interval43 of ten days, Armance’s extreme tenderness caused him some moments of weakness. During their solitary44 walks, thinking herself authorised by the imminence45 of their marriage, Armance allowed herself on more than one occasion to take Octave’s hand, which was beautifully shaped, and to raise it to her lips. This increase of tender attentions of which Octave was quite well aware, and, in spite of himself, extremely sensible, often made keen and poignant46 a grief which he believed himself to have overcome.
He pictured to himself what those caresses47 would have been coming from a person who really loved him, coining from Armance as, on her own admission, in the fatal letter to Méry, she had still been two months since. “And my want of friendliness48 and gaiety has been able to kill her love,” said Octave bitterly to himself. “Alas! It was the art of making myself welcome in society that I ought to have studied instead of abandoning myself to all those useless sciences! What good have they done me? What good have I had from my success with Madame d’Aumale? She would have loved me had I wished it. I was not made to please those whom I respect. Evidently a wretched shyness makes me sad, wanting in friendliness, just when I am passionately49 anxious to please.
“Armance has always alarmed me. I have never approached her without feeling that I was appearing before the ruler of my destiny. I ought to have derived50 from my experience, and from what I could see going on round about me, a more accurate idea of the effect produced by a pleasant man who seeks to interest a girl of twenty....
“But all that is useless now,” said Octave, breaking off with a melancholy51 sigh: “my life is ended. Vixi et quem, dederat fortuna sortem peregi .”
[When dying, abandoned by Aeneas, Dido exclaims: “I have lived and have run the course which fortune appointed for me.” [Octave shows a certain indifference52 here to the laws of prosody53. Virgil’s line (Aeneid IV, 653), runs: Vixi et quem dederat cursum fortuna peregi .— C. K. S. M.]
In certain moments of sombre humour, Octave went so far as to interpret Armance’s tender manner, so little in keeping with the extreme reserve which was so natural to her, as the performance of a disagreeable duty which she had set herself. Nothing then could be comparable to his rudeness, which really had almost the appearance of insanity54.
Less wretched at other moments, he allowed himself to be touched by the seductive grace of this girl who was to be his bride. It would indeed have been difficult to imagine anything more touching55 or more noble than the caressing56 ways of a girl who was ordinarily so reserved, doing violence to the habits of a lifetime in the attempt to restore a little calm to the man whom she loved. She believed him to be the victim of remorse57 and yet felt a violent passion for him. Now that the main occupation of Armance’s life was no longer to conceal58 her love and to reproach herself for it, Octave had become dearer to her than ever.
One day, on a walk in the direction of the woods of Ecouen, carried away herself by the tender words which she was venturing to utter, Armance went so far as to say to him, and at the moment she meant what she was saying: “I sometimes think of committing a crime equal to yours so as to deserve that you shall no longer fear me.” Octave, charmed by the accents of true passion, and understanding all that was in her mind, stopped short to gaze fixedly59 at her, and in another moment might have given her the letter containing his confession, the fragments of which he still carried on his person. As he thrust his hand into the pocket of his coat, he felt the finer paper of the false letter addressed to Méry de Tersan, and his good intention froze.
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1
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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vaccination
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| n.接种疫苗，种痘 | |
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fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dispenses
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| v.分配，分与；分配( dispense的第三人称单数 )；施与；配（药） | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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41
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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42
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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44
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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47
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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48
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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50
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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51
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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52
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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53
prosody
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| n.诗体论，作诗法 | |
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54
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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55
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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56
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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57
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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58
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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59
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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