the happy,
careless life we have led for the last five years. To
know that you are banished from France for years is enough to kill
me. How soon can a fortune be made in India? Will you ever return?
I was right when I refused, with
instinctiveobstinacy, that
separation as to property which my mother and you were so
determined to carry out. What did I tell you then? Did I not warn
you that it was casting a
reflection upon you, and would ruin your
credit? It was not until you were really angry that I gave way.
My dear Paul, never have you been so noble in my eyes as you are
at this moment. To
despair of nothing, to start courageously to
seek a fortune! Only your
character, your strength of mind could
do it. I sit at your feet. A man who avows his
weakness with your
good faith, who rebuilds his fortune from the same
motive that
made him wreck it, for love's sake, for the sake of an
irresistible
passion, oh, Paul, that man is sublime! Therefore,
fear nothing; go on, through all obstacles, not doubting your
Natalie--for that would be doubting yourself. Poor
darling, you
mean to live in me? And I shall ever be in you. I shall not be
here; I shall be
wherever you are,
wherever you go.
Though your letter has caused me the keenest pain, it has also
filled me with joy--you have made me know those two extremes!
Seeing how you love me, I have been proud to learn that my love is
truly felt. Sometimes I have thought that I loved you more than
you loved me. Now, I admit myself
vanquished, you have added the
delightful superiority--of loving--to all the others with which
you are blest. That precious letter in which your soul reveals
itself will lie upon my heart during all your
absence; for my
soul, too, is in it; that letter is my glory.
I shall go to live at Lanstrac with my mother. I die to the world;
I will economize my
income and pay your debts to their last
farthing. From this day forth, Paul, I am another woman. I bid
farewell forever to society; I will have no pleasures that you
cannot share. Besides, Paul, I ought to leave Paris and live in
retirement. Dear friend, you will soon have a noble reason to make
your fortune. If your courage needed a spur you would find it in
this. Cannot you guess? We shall have a child. Your cherished
desires are granted. I feared to give you one of those false hopes
which hurt so much--have we not had grief enough already on that
score? I was determined not to be
mistaken in this good news.
To-day I feel certain, and it makes me happy to shed this joy upon
your sorrows.
This morning, fearing nothing and thinking you still at home, I
went to the Assumption; all things smiled upon me; how could I
foresee
misfortune? As I left the church I met my mother; she had
heard of your
distress, and came, by post, with all her savings,
thirty thousand francs, hoping to help you. Ah! what a heart is
hers, Paul! I felt
joyful, and
hurried home to tell you this good
news, and to breakfast with you in the
greenhouse, where I ordered
just the dainties that you like. Well, Augustine brought me your
letter,--a letter from you, when we had slept together! A cold
fear seized me; it was like a dream! I read your letter! I read it
weeping, and my mother shared my tears. I was half-dead. Such
love, such courage, such happiness, such misery! The richest
fortunes of the heart, and the
momentary ruin of all interests! To
lose you at a moment when my
admiration of your
greatness thrilled
me! what woman could have resisted such a
tempest of
emotion? To
know you far away when your hand upon my heart would have stilled
its throbbings; to feel that YOU were not here to give me that
look so precious to me, to
rejoice in our new hopes; that I was
not with you to
soften your sorrows by those caresses which made
your Natalie so dear to you! I wished to start, to follow you, to
fly to you. But my mother told me you had taken passage in a ship
which leaves Bordeaux to-morrow, that I could not reach you except
by post, and,
moreover, that it was
madness in my present state to
risk our future by attempting to follow you. I could not bear such
violent
emotions; I was taken ill, and am
writing to you now in
bed.
My mother is doing all she can to stop certain calumnies which
seem to have got about on your
disaster. The Vandenesses, Charles
and Felix, have
earnestly defended you; but your friend de Marsay
treats the affair satirically. He laughs at your accusers instead
of replying to them. I do not like his way of
lightly brushing