"And why then, madame, should calumny have no effect on you? What am I to you that you should hereafter hesitate for one instant to sacrifice me to the imperious demands of your reputation? Would you put in the balance the guardianship of your honour, your responsibility for your child's future, with the charm of our daily conversations? Most assuredly not, and you would be right; for if you persisted in your project, if I were base enough to encourage you in it, when slander reached you, you would have the right to turn upon me with scorn and say: 'You pretended to be my friend! You were false! You took advantage of my indiscretion to draw me into an intimacy where appearances may be most damaging. Go; I shall never see you again!' And once more you would be right, madame. Can you realise how much courage it takes to speak to you as I do,—to refuse what you offer? Think of what you are, of all that you are, and say if the pride and vanity of a less honest man than I would not be gratified and flattered by those very rumours from which I strive to save you. For, after all, what do I risk in aiding you to compromise yourself? What do I risk? To assist the world to misinterpret, to wither with its customary malice our intercourse, however innocent it may be? But, you reply, in that case you would drive me from your presence. What does that matter? Do you know how the world would interpret this deserved banishment? It would be said that a discord had arisen between us. If the world were well disposed towards you, it would say you had discarded me in favour of some other lover. If it was unfavourable to you it would say that I had abandoned you for another mistress."
"Ah, monsieur, monsieur!" exclaimed Madame de Fersen, pressing her hands together almost in terror. "What a picture! May it never come true!"
"It is but too true, madame; if the world were wise and clear-sighted as it is supposed to be, it would be less dangerous, for it would keep to the truth; but it is wicked, coarsely credulous, and a gossip, which renders it most mischievous. The world clear-sighted! It is too willing to slander to be clear-sighted. Has it time and leisure to penetrate the sentiments it supposes? It loves too well to keep on the outside, and conjecture from appearances which frequently are displayed without mistrust because they are guiltless,—that is enough for the infernal activity of its envy. Ah, believe me, madame, had I not the sad experience I possess of men and things, the instinct of my attachment to you would enlighten me, for you never can know how precious to me is all that concerns you, how distressed I should be to see that radiant halo which now enhances your beauty tarnished. I repeat it, the honour of my mother, of my sister, are not more precious to me than yours. Think how dreadful it would be for me if I were the cause of slander which should attack that treasure in which I glory. I will confess another weakness. Yes, it would be hateful to me to think that the world should speak with its insolent and brutal scorn of that which was my happiness and my pride. Yes, my dream is that this charming intimacy, which will ever be one of the most delightful recollections of my life, shall remain unknown to this world, for its shameless word would destroy the purity of this intercourse,—and this dream, I shall realise it."
"Then," said Madame de Fersen, with an almost solemn air, "we must give up all thought of meeting in Paris?"
"Not so, madame, not so! We shall meet the evenings you receive, just like all the other people you receive. Later, perhaps, you will permit me occasionally to call on you of a morning."
Madame de Fersen remained for some time in silent meditation, her head bent low; then suddenly she drew herself up; her face was slightly tinged with colour, and, with a voice betraying much agitation, she said: "You have a generous heart. Your friendship is austere, but it is great, strong, and noble. I understand the duties which it imposes and I will be worthy of it. From this moment," and she gave me her hand, "you have won a sincere and unalterable friendship."
I kissed her hand respectfully.
At the same moment we reached one of the last post-stations.
I left Madame de Fersen's coach, and sought her husband, who was asleep in my chaise.
"My dear prince," I said to him, "I wish to ask a service of you."