Honore de Balzac (17 page)

At twenty-three years of age, having passed through the many reflections
of a long solitude and the anguish of a defeated enterprise, Laurence
had become a woman, and felt within her an absorbing desire for
affection. She now put forth all her graces of her mind and was
charming; she revealed the hidden beauties of her tender heart with the
simple candor of a child. For the last thirteen years she had been a
woman only through suffering; she longed to obtain amends for it, and
she showed herself as loving and winning as she had been, up to this
time, strong and great.

The four elders, who were the last to leave the salon that night,
admitted to each other that they felt uneasy at the new position of this
charming girl. What power might not passion have on a young woman of
her character and with her nobility of soul? The twin brothers loved her
with one and the same love and a blind devotion; which of the two would
Laurence choose? To choose one was to kill the other. Countess in her
own right, she could bring her husband a title and certain prerogatives,
together with a long lineage. Perhaps in thinking of these advantages
the elder of the twins, the Marquis de Simeuse, would sacrifice himself
to give Laurence to his brother, who, according to the old laws, was
poor and without a title. But would the younger brother deprive the
elder of the happiness of having Laurence for a wife? At a distance,
this strife of love and generosity might do no harm,—in fact, so long
as the brothers were facing danger the chances of war might end
the difficulty; but what would be the result of this reunion? When
Marie-Paul and Paul-Marie reached the age when passions rise to their
greatest height could they share, as now, the looks and words and
attentions of their cousin? must there not inevitably arise a jealousy
between them the consequences of which might be horrible? What would
then become of the unity of those beautiful lives, one in heart though
twain in body? To these questionings, passed from one to another as they
finished their game, Madame d'Hauteserre replied that in her opinion
Laurence would not marry either of her cousins. The poor lady had
experienced that evening one of those inexplicable presentiments which
are secrets between the mother's heart and God.

Laurence, in her inward consciousness, was not less alarmed at finding
herself tete-a-tete with her cousins. To the active drama of conspiracy,
to the dangers which the brothers had incurred, to the pain and
penalties of their exile, was now succeeding another sort of drama, of
which she had never thought. This noble girl could not resort to the
violent means of refusing to marry either of the twins; and she was too
honest a woman to marry one and keep an irresistible passion for the
other in her heart. To remain unmarried, to weary her cousins' love by
no decision, and then to take the one who was faithful to her in spite
of her caprices, was a solution of the difficulty not so much sought
for by her as vaguely admitted. As she fell asleep that night she told
herself the wisest course to follow was to let things take their chance.
Chance is, in love, the providence of women.

The next morning Michu went to Paris, whence he returned a few days
later with four fine horses for his new masters. In six weeks' time the
hunting would begin, and the young countess sagely reflected that
the violent excitements of that exercise would be a help against the
tete-a-tetes of the chateau. At first, however, an unexpected result
surprised the spectators of these strange loves and roused their
admiration. Without any premeditated agreement the brothers rivalled
each other in attentions to Laurence, with a sense of pleasure in so
doing which appeared to suffice them. The relation between themselves
and Laurence was just as fraternal as that between themselves. What
could be more natural? After so long an absence they felt the necessity
of studying her, of knowing her well and letting her know them, leaving
to her the right of choice. They were sustained in this first trial by
the mutual affection which made their double life one and the same life.

Love, like their own mother, was unable to distinguish between the
brothers. Laurence was obliged (in order to know them apart and make no
mistakes) to give them different cravats—to the elder a white one, to
the younger black. Without this perfect resemblance, this identity of
life, which misled all about them, such a situation would be justly
thought impossible. It can, indeed, be explained only by the fact
itself, which is one of those which men do not believe in unless they
see them; and then the mind is more bewildered by having to explain them
than by the actual sight which caused belief. If Laurence spoke, her
voice echoed in two hearts equally faithful and loving with one tone.
Did she give utterance to an intelligent, or witty, or noble thought,
her glance encountered the delight expressed in two glances which
followed her every movement, interpreted her slightest wish, and
beamed upon her ever with a new expression, gaiety in the one, tender
melancholy in the other. In any matter that concerned their mistress
the brothers showed an admirable quick-wittedness of heart coupled with
instant action which (to use the abbe's own expression) approached the
sublime. Often, if something had to be fetched, if it was a question of
some little attention which men delight to pay to a beloved woman, the
elder would leave that pleasure to the younger with a look at Laurence
that was proud and tender. The younger, on the other hand, put all his
own pride into paying such debts. This rivalry of noble natures in a
feeling which leads men often to the jealous ferocity of the beasts
amazed the old people who were watching it, and bewildered their ideas.

Such little details often drew tears to the eyes of the countess.
A single sensation, which is perhaps all-powerful in some rare
organizations, will give an idea of Laurence's emotions; it may be
perceived by recalling the perfect unison of two fine voices (like those
of Malibran and Sontag) in some harmonious
duo
, or the blending of
two instruments touched by the hand of genius, their melodious tones
entering the soul like the passionate sighing of one heart. Sometimes,
seeing the Marquis de Simeuse buried in an arm-chair and glancing from
time to time with deepest melancholy at his brother and Laurence who
were talking and laughing, the abbe believed him capable of making the
great sacrifice; presently, however, the priest would see in the young
man's eyes the flash of an unconquerable passion. Whenever either of the
brothers found himself alone with Laurence he might reasonably suppose
himself the one preferred.

"I fancy then that there is but one of them," explained the countess to
the abbe when he questioned her. That answer showed the priest her total
want of coquetry. Laurence did not conceive that she was loved by two
men.

"But, my dear child," said Madame d'Hauteserre one evening (her own son
silently dying of love for Laurence), "you must choose!"

"Oh, let us be happy," she replied; "God will save us from ourselves."

Adrien d'Hauteserre buried within his breast the jealousy that was
consuming him; he kept the secret of his torture, aware of how little
he could hope. He tried to be content with the happiness of seeing the
charming woman who during the few months this struggle lasted shone in
all her brilliancy. In one sense Laurence had become coquettish, taking
that dainty care of her person which women who are loved delight in.
She followed the fashions, and went more than once to Paris to deck her
beauty with
chiffons
or some choice novelty. Desirous of giving her
cousins a sense of home and its every enjoyment, from which they had so
long been severed, she made her chateau, in spite of the remonstrances
of her late guardian, the most completely comfortable house in
Champagne.

Robert d'Hauteserre saw nothing of this hidden drama; he never noticed
his brother's love for Laurence. As to the girl herself, he liked to
tease her about her coquetry,—for he confounded that odious defect
with the natural desire to please; he was always mistaken in matters
of feeling, taste, and the higher ethics. So, whenever this man of
the middle-ages appeared on the scene, Laurence immediately made him,
unknown to himself, the clown of the play; she amused her cousins by
arguing with Robert, and leading him, step by step, into some bog of
ignorance and stupidity. She excelled in such clever mischief, which,
to be really successful, must leave the victim content with himself.
And yet, though his nature was a coarse one, Robert never, during those
delightful months (the only happy period in the lives of the three
young people) said one virile word which might have brought matters to
a crisis between Laurence and her cousins. He was struck with the
sincerity of the brothers; he saw how the one could be glad at the
happiness of the other and yet suffer anguish in the depths of his
heart, and he did perceive how a woman might shrink from showing
tenderness to one which would grieve the other. This perception on
Robert's part was a just one; it explains a situation which, in times
of faith, when the sovereign pontiff had power to intervene and cut
the Gordian knot of such phenomena (allied to the deepest and most
impenetrable mysteries), would have found its solution. The Revolution
had deepened the Catholic faith in these young hearts, and religion now
rendered this crisis in their lives the more severe, because nobility of
character is ever heightened by the grandeur of circumstances. A sense
of this truth kept Monsieur and Madame d'Hauteserre and the abbe from
the slightest fear of any unworthy result on the part of the brothers or
of Laurence.

This private drama, secretly developing within the limits of the family
life where each member watched it silently, ran its course so rapidly
and withal so slowly, it carried with it so many unhoped-for pleasures,
trifling jars, frustrated fancies, hopes reversed, anxious waitings,
delayed explanations and mute avowals that the dwellers at Cinq-Cygne
paid no attention to the public drama of the Emperor's coronation. At
times these passions made a truce and sought distraction in the violent
enjoyment of hunting, when weariness of body took from the soul all
occasions to wander in the dangerous meadows of reverie. Neither
Laurence nor her cousins had a thought now for public affairs; each day
brought its palpitating and absorbing interests for their hearts.

"Really," said Mademoiselle Goujet one evening, "I don't know which of
all the lovers loves the most."

Adrien, who happened to be alone in the salon with the four
card-players, raised his eyes and turned pale. For the last few days
his only hold on life had been the pleasure of seeing Laurence and of
listening to her.

"I think," said the abbe, "that the countess, being a woman, loves with
the greater abandonment to love."

Laurence, the twins, and Robert entered the room soon after. The
newspapers had just arrived. England, seeing the failure of all
conspiracies attempted within the borders of France, was now arming
all Europe against their common enemy. The disaster at Trafalgar
had overthrown one of the most amazing plans which human genius ever
conceived; by which, if it had succeeded, the Emperor would have paid
the nation for his election by the ruin of the British power. The camp
at Boulogne had just been raised. Napoleon, whose solders were, as
always, inferior in numbers to the enemy, was about to carry the war
into parts of Europe where he had not before waged it. The whole world
was breathless, awaiting the results of the campaign.

"He'll surely be defeated this time," said Robert, laying down the
paper.

"The armies of Austria and of Russia are before him," said Marie-Paul.

"He has never fought in Germany," added Paul-Marie.

"Of whom are you speaking?" asked Laurence.

"The Emperor," answered the three gentlemen.

The jealous girl threw a disdainful look at her twin lovers, which
humiliated them while it rejoiced the heart of Adrien, who made a
gesture of admiration and gave her one proud look, which said plainly
that
he
thought only of her,—of Laurence.

"I told you," said the abbe in a low voice, "that love would some day
cause her to forget her animosity."

It was the first, last, and only reproach the brothers ever received
from her; but certainly at that moment their love, which could still be
distracted by national events, was inferior to that of Laurence, which,
absorbed her mind so completely that she only knew of the amazing
triumph at Austerlitz by overhearing a discussion between Monsieur
d'Hauteserre and his sons.

Faithful to his ideas of submission, the old man wished both Robert and
Adrien to re-enter the French army and apply for service; they could,
he thought, be reinstated in their rank and soon find an opening
to military honors. But royalist opinions were now all-powerful at
Cinq-Cygne. The four young men and Laurence laughed at their prudent
elder, who seemed to foresee a coming evil. Possibly, prudence is less
virtue than the exercise of some instinct, or
sense
of the mind (if it
is allowable to couple those two words). A day will come, no doubt, when
physiologists and philosophers will both admit that the senses are, in
some way, the sheath or vehicle of a keen and penetrative active power
which issues from the mind.

After peace was concluded between France and Austria, towards the end
of the month of February, 1806, a relative, whose influence had been
employed for the reinstatement of the Simeuse brothers, and who was
destined later to give them signal proofs of family attachment, the
ci-devant Marquis de Chargeboeuf, whose estates extended from the
department of the Seine-et-Marne to that of the Aube, arrived one
morning at Cinq-Cygne in a species of caleche which was then named in
derision a
berlingot
. When this shabby carriage was driven past the
windows the inhabitants of the chateau, who were at breakfast, were
convulsed with laughter; but when the bald head of the old man was
seen issuing from behind the leather curtain of the vehicle Monsieur
d'Hauteserre told his name, and all present rose instantly to receive
and do honor to the head of the house of Chargeboeuf.