On the morrow of the ball given by Lady Dudley,Marie,without having received the slightest declaration,believed that she was loved by Raoul according to the programme of her dreams,and Raoul was aware that the countess had chosen him for her lover.Though neither had reached the incline of such emotions where preliminaries are abridged,both were on the road to it.Raoul,wearied with the dissipations of life,longed for an ideal world,while Marie,from whom the thought of wrong-doing was far,indeed,never imagined the possibility of going out of such a world.No love was ever more innocent or purer than theirs;but none was ever more enthusiastic or more entrancing in thought.
The countess was captivated by ideas worthy of the days of chivalry,though completely modernized.The glowing conversation of the poet had more echo in her mind than in her heart.She thought it fine to be his providence.How sweet the thought of supporting by her white and feeble hand this colossus,--whose feet of clay she did not choose to see;of giving life where life was needed;of being secretly the creator of a career;of helping a man of genius to struggle with fate and master it.Ah!to embroider his scarf for the tournament!to procure him weapons!to be his talisman against ill-fortune!his balm for every wound!For a woman brought up like Marie,religious and noble as she was,such a love was a form of charity.Hence the boldness of it.Pure sentiments often compromise themselves with a lofty disdain that resembles the boldness of courtesans.
As soon as by her specious distinctions Marie had convinced herself that she did not in any way impair her conjugal faith,she rushed into the happiness of loving Raoul.The least little things of her daily life acquired a charm.Her boudoir,where she thought of him,became a sanctuary.There was nothing there that did not rouse some sense of pleasure;even her ink-stand was the coming accomplice in the pleasures of correspondence;for she would now have letters to read and answer.Dress,that splendid poesy of the feminine life,unknown or exhausted by her,appeared to her eyes endowed with a magic hitherto unperceived.It suddenly became clear to her what it is to most women,the manifestation of an inward thought,a language,a symbol.How many enjoyments in a toilet arranged to please HIM,to do HIM honor!She gave herself up ingenuously to all those gracefully charming things in which so many Parisian women spend their lives,and which give such significance to all that we see about them,and in them,and on them.Few women go to milliners and dressmakers for their own pleasure and interest.When old they never think of adornment.The next time you meet in the street a young woman stopping for a moment to look into a shop-window,examine her face carefully."Will he think I look better in that?"are the words written on that fair brow,in the eyes sparkling with hope,in the smile that flickers on the lips.
Lady Dudley's ball took place on a Saturday night.On the following Monday the countess went to the Opera,feeling certain of seeing Raoul,who was,in fact,watching for her on one of the stairways leading down to the stalls.With what delight did she observe the unwonted care he had bestowed upon his clothes.This despiser of the laws of elegance had brushed and perfumed his hair;his waistcoat followed the fashion,his cravat was well tied,the bosom of his shirt was irreproachably smooth.Raoul was standing with his arms crossed as if posed for his portrait,magnificently indifferent to the rest of the audience and full of repressed impatience.Though lowered,his eyes were turned to the red velvet cushion on which lay Marie's arm.
Felix,seated in the opposite corner of the box,had his back to Nathan.
So,in a moment,as it were,Marie had compelled this remarkable man to abjure his cynicism in the line of clothes.All women,high or low,are filled with delight on seeing a first proof of their power in one of these sudden metamorphoses.Such changes are an admission of serfdom.
"Those women were right;there is a great pleasure in being understood,"she said to herself,thinking of her treacherous friends.
When the two lovers had gazed around the theatre with that glance that takes in everything,they exchanged a look of intelligence.It was for each as if some celestial dew had refreshed their hearts,burned-up with expectation.
"I have been here for an hour in purgatory,but now the heavens are opening,"said Raoul's eyes.
"I knew you were waiting,but how could I help it?"replied those of the countess.
Thieves,spies,lovers,diplomats,and slaves of any kind alone know the resources and comforts of a glance.They alone know what it contains of meaning,sweetness,thought,anger,villainy,displayed by the modification of that ray of light which conveys the soul.Between the box of the Comtesse Felix de Vandenesse and the step on which Raoul had perched there were barely thirty feet;and yet it was impossible to wipe out that distance.To a fiery being,who had hitherto known no space between his wishes and their gratification,this imaginary but insuperable gulf inspired a mad desire to spring to the countess with the bound of a tiger.In a species of rage he determined to try the ground and bow openly to the countess.She returned the bow with one of those slight inclinations of the head with which women take from their adorers all desire to continue their attempt.Comte Felix turned round to see who had bowed to his wife;he saw Nathan,but did not bow,and seemed to inquire the meaning of such audacity;then he turned back slowly and said a few words to his wife.
Evidently the door of that box was closed to Nathan,who cast a terrible look of hatred upon Felix.
