The Secrets of the Princesse de Cadignan

iful blond head bathed in light from the lamp. She was toying with a letter which lay on the tab

" asked d'Arthez; "y

. "However great the wrongs he has done me, I cannot help thinkin

woman had attained, and what were the injuries she thus forgave; he longed to know how these women of the world, taxed with frivolity, cold-heartedness, and egotism, could be such angels. Remembering how the princes

s that you will tell me

syllable like the most mellifluous no

impressed with the solemnity of the occasion. His poetic imagination made him see, as it were, clouds sl

id, in a soft

ble modesty. None but a monster would have been capable of imagining hypocrisy in the graceful undulation of the n

hez with a sublime expression of dreamy tenderness. "Men have so little faith

st me, why am I he

efusal (how could I refuse you anything?), but the idea of what you may think of me if I speak. I would willingly confide to you the strange position in which I am at my age; b

ed your word t

my soul! Tyrant! you want me to bury my honor itself in your breast," she said, casting upon d

you fear any evil, no matter what, from m

is sublime, and worthy of your name; perhaps, in return, I owe you mine. But I fear to lower myself in your eyes by relating secrets which are not wholly mine. How can you believe-you, a man of solitude and poesy

all!"

u know

e at his feet. He looked at the princess with a bewildered air, and felt a cold chill running down his back

evil things, that it may be allowed me to find in one strong heart a haven from which I cannot be driven. Hitherto I have always considered self-justification an insult to innocence; and that is why I have disdained to defend myself. Besides, to whom could I appeal? Such cruel things can be confided to none but God or to

which, however, gave no motion either to the pupils or the lids of her e

an conceited fops, men of the world, diplomatists, and even soldiers, although such beings have nothing else to do. She was a connoisseur, and knew very well that the capacity for love reveals itself chiefly in mere nothings. A woman well informed in such matters can read her future in a simple gesture; just as Cuvier could say from the fragme

with her eyes in d'Arthez's eyes, expressing in that one glance happiness, prudery, fear, confidence, languor, a vague longing, and virgin modesty. She was twenty years old! but remember, she had pr

above and beyond nature, but the Princesse de Cadignan is the greatest true comedian of our day. Nothing was wanting to this woman but an attentive audience. Unfortunat

le meshes of a romance carefully prepared, to which he was fated to listen as

love and motherhood, developed as they are by our manners and customs, often struggle together in the hearts of women; one or other must succumb when they are not of equal strength; when they are, they produce some exceptional women, the glory of our sex. A man of your genius must surely comprehend many things that bewilder fools but are none the less true; indeed I may go further and call them justifiable through difference of characters, temperaments, attachments, situations. I, for example, at this moment, after twenty years of

thought

ad been so often rung into my ears that a mother should respect herself. Besides, a young girl loves to play the mother. I was so proud of my flower-for Georges was beautiful, a miracle, I thought! I saw and thought of nothing but my son, I lived with my son. I never let his nurse dress or undress him. Such cares, so wearing to mothers who have a regiment of children, were all my pleasure. But after three or four years, as I was not an actual fool, light came to my eyes in spite of the pains taken to blindfold me. Can you see me at that final awakening, in 1819? The drama of 'The Brothers at enmity' is a rose-water tragedy beside that of a mother and daughter placed as we then were. But I braved them all, my mother, my husband, the world, by public coquetries which society talked of,-and heaven knows how it talked! You can see, my friend, how the men with whom I was accused of folly were to me the dagger with which to stab my enemies. Thinking only of my vengeance, I did not see or feel the wounds I was inflicting on myself. Innocent as a child, I was thought a wicked woman, the worst of women, and I knew nothing of it! The world is very foolish, very blind, very ignorant; it can penetrate no secrets but those which amuse it and serve its malice: noble things, great things, it puts its hand before its eyes to avoid seeing. But, as I look back, it seems to me that I had an attitude and aspect of indignant innocence, with movements of pride, which a great painter would have recognized. I must have enlivened many a ball with my tempests of anger and disdain. Lost poesy! such sublime poems are only made in the glowing indignation which seizes us at twenty. Later, we are wrathful no longer, we are too weary, vice no longer amazes us, we are cowards, we fear. But then-oh! I kept a great pace! For all that I played the silliest personage in the world; I was charged with crimes by which I never benefited. But I had such pleasure in compromising myself. That was my revenge! Ah! I have played many childish tricks! I went to Italy with a thoughtless youth, whom I crushed when he spoke to me of love, b

cried Daniel, with

witty; and I have myself made just as cruel epi

rince de Cadignan into an Othello, now proceeded to accuse herself in order to appear in the eyes of that inno

it not natural in a woman whose heart, repressed by many causes and accidents, was awakening at an age when a woman feels herself cheated if she has never known, like the women she sees about her, a happy love? Ah! why was Michel Chrestien so respectful? Why did he not seek to meet me? There again was another mockery! But what of that? in falling, I have lost everything; I have no illusions left; I had tasted of all things except the one fruit for which I have no longer teeth. Yes, I found myself disenchanted with the world at the very moment when I was forced to leave it. Providential, was it not? like all those strange insensibilities which prepare us for death" (she made a gesture full of pious unction). "All

were saints compared to the men and women of society. This atrocious elegy, forged in the arsenal of lies, and steeped in the waters of the Parisian Styx, had been poured into his ears with the inimitable accent of truth. The grave author contemplated

years shone-"judge of the impression the love of a man like Michel must have made upon me. But by some irony of fate-or was it the hand of

soft tears such as the angels shed,-if angels weep. As Daniel was in that bent posture, Madame de Cadignan could safely let a

ought she; and, inde

sing his fine head and look

world thinks it knows, that Duchesse de Maufrigneuse to whom it gives as lovers de Marsay, that infamous de Trailles (a political cutthroat), and that little fool of a d'Esgrignon, and Rastignac, Rubempre, ambassadors, ministers, Russian generals,

indow with a gait and bear

blowing her nose. Was there ever a princess who blew her nose? but Diane attempted the impossible to convey an idea of her sens

have too many doubts to be good for anything. To reconc

ove you for your

"At this moment I tremble, I am ashamed as

res, so clever that they acted like the purest truth on a soul as fresh and honest as that of d'Arthez. The great author remained dumb with admiration, passive beside her in the recess

he said to herself, looking a

profound observer of human nat

ved to her (facts of which she was well convinced) that her skin was the most delicate, the softest to the touch, the whitest to the eye, the most fragrant; she was young and in her bloom, how could she think otherwise? Thus the

When the princess heard this wise and witty writer talking the nonsense of an amorous sub-li

which have, naturally, been much abridged here, for they needed a volume to convey their mellifluous abundance and the graces which accompanied them. The

he wit of its lies. We writers invent no more than the truth. Poor Diane! Michel had penetrated that enigma; he said that beneath her covering of ice there lay volcanoes! Bianchon and Rastignac

the love that was in h