“I have ruined you—you for whom I would gladly have died! But of
what use are regrets and despair now? And my blood will not wipe
away your tears. Our position is so frightful that I tremble so
speak of it. I ought to tell you the truth, however, horrible as it
may be. Do not curse me, Clemence; do not impute to me this
fatality, which obliges me thus to torture you. In a few hours I
shall have expiated the wrongs of my love, or you yourself may be
free. Free! pardon me for using this word; I know it is an odious
one to you, but I am too troubled to find another. Whatever
happens, I am about to put within your reach the only aid which it
is possible for me to offer you; it will at least give you a choice
of unhappiness. If you never see me again, to live with him will be
a torture beyond your strength, perhaps, for you love me. I do not
know how to express my thoughts, and I dare not offer you advice or
entreat you. All that I feel is the necessity of telling you that
my whole life belongs to you, that I am yours until death; but I
hardly dare have the courage to lay at your feet the offering of a
destiny already so sad, and which may soon be stained with blood.
A fatal necessity sometimes imposes actions which public opinion
condemns, but the heart excuses, for it alone understands them.
Do not be angry at what you are about to read; never did words like
these come out of a more desolate heart. During the whole day a
post-chaise will wait for you at the rear of the Montigny plateau;
a fire lighted upon the rock which you can see from your room will
notify you of its presence. In a short time it can reach the Rhine.
A person devoted to you will accompany you to Munich, to the house
of one of my relatives, whose character and position will assure you
sufficient protection from all tyranny. There, at least, you will
be permitted to weep. That is all that I can do for you. My heart
is broken when I think of the powerlessness of my love. They say
that when one crushes the scorpion which has wounded him, he is
cured; even my death will not repair the wrong that I have done you;
it will only be one grief the more. Can you understand how
desperate is the feeling which I experience now? For months past,
to be loved by you has been the sole desire of my heart, and now I
must repent ever having attained it. Out of pity for you, I ought
to wish that you did love me with a love as perishable as my life,
so that a remembrance of me would leave you in peace. All this is
so sad that I have not the courage to continue. Adieu, Clemence!
Once more, one last time, I must say: I love you! and yet, I dare
not. I feel unworthy to speak to you thus, for my love has become a
disastrous gift. Did I not ruin you? The only word that seems to
be permissible is the one that even a murderer dares to address to
his God: pardon me!”
After reading this, the Baron passed the letter to his wife without saying a word, and resumed his sombre attitude.
“You see what he asks of you?” he said, after a rather long pause, as he observed the dazed way in which Madame de Bergenheim’s eyes wandered over this letter.
“My head is bewildered,” she replied, “I do not understand what he says—Why does he speak of death?”
Christian’s lips curled disdainfully as he answered:
“It does not concern you; one does not kill women.”
“They need it not to die,” replied Clemence, who gazed at her husband with wild, haggard eyes.
“Then you are going to fight?” she added, after a moment’s pause.
“Really, have you divined as much?” he replied, with an ironical smile; “it is a wonderful thing how quick is your intelligence! You have spoken the truth. You see, each of us has his part to play. The wife deceives her husband; the husband fights with the lover, and the lover in order to close the comedy in a suitable manner—proposes to run away with the wife, for that is the meaning of his letter, notwithstanding all his oratorical precautions.”
“You are going to fight!” she exclaimed, with the energy of despair. “You are going to fight! And for me—unworthy and miserable creature that I am! What have you done? And is he not free to love? I alone am the guilty one, I alone have offended you, and I alone deserve punishment. Do with me what you will; shut me up in a convent or a cell; bring me poison, I will drink it.”