Riches, without occupation, bring with them this wretchedness. Nothing can divert it, nothing relieve it, from the deepest feelings of mental torture. Not being compulsorily preoccupied by cares for the future or daily toil, it is utterly exposed to heavy moral affliction. Able to acquire all that money can purchase, it desires or regrets with intense violence—
"What gold could never buy."
The mental torture of M. d'Harville was intense, for, after all, what he desired was only what was just, and actually legal,—the society, if not the love, of his wife.
But, when placed beside the inexorable refusal of Clémence, he asked himself if there was not the bitterest derision in these words of the law: The wife belongs to her husband.
To what influence, to what means could he have recourse to subdue this coldness, this repugnance, which turned his whole existence into one long punishment, since he could not—ought not—would not love any woman but his wife?
He could not but see in this, as in many other positions of conjugal life, the simple will of the husband or the wife imperatively substituted, without appeal or possibility of prevention, for the sovereign will of the law.
To the paroxysms of vain anger there succeeded a melancholy depression. The future weighed him down, heavy, dull, and chill. He only saw before him the grief that would doubtless render more frequent the attacks of his fearful malady.
"Oh," he exclaimed, at once in tears and despair, "it is my fault,—it is my fault! Poor, unhappy girl! I deceived her,—shamefully deceived her! She must,—she ought to hate me; and yet but now she displayed the deepest interest in me, and, instead of contenting myself with that, my mad passion led me away, and I became tender. I spoke of my love, and scarcely had my lips touched her hand than she became startled, and bounded with fright. If I could for a moment have doubted the invincible repugnance with which I inspire her, what she said to the prince must for ever destroy that illusion. Ah, it is frightful,—frightful! By what right has she confided to him this hideous secret? It is an unworthy betrayal! By what right?—alas, by the right the victim has to complain of its executioner! Poor girl! So young,—so loving! All she could find most cruel to say against the horrid existence I have entailed upon her was, that such was not the lot of which she had dreamed, and that she was very young to renounce all hopes of love! I know Clémence, and the word she gave me,—the word she gave to the prince,—she will abide by for ever. She will be to me the tenderest of sisters! Well, is not my position still most enviable? To the cold and constrained demeanour which existed between us will succeed affectionate and gentle intercourse, whilst she might have treated me always with icy disdain of which it was impossible that I could complain. So, then, I will console myself by the enjoyment of what she offers to me. Shall I not be too happy then?—too happy? Ah, how weak I am! How cowardly! Is she not my wife, after all? Is she not mine and mine only? Does not the law recognise my right over her? My wife refuses, but is not the right on my side?" he interrupted himself, with a burst of sardonic laughter.
"Oh, yes,—be violent, eh? What, another infamy? But what can I do? For I love her yet,—love her to madness! I love her and her only! I want but her,—her love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. Ah, at last she must have pity; she is so kind, and she will see how unhappy I am! But no, no! Never! Mine is a case of estrangement which a woman never can surmount. Disgust,—yes, disgust,—I cannot but see it,—disgust! I must convince myself that it is my horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must,—always must!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, in his fearful excitement.
After a moment of gloomy silence, he continued: