Yes, I confess it, these happy events appear to be so strange, so impossible, that I try to explain them, to calmly analyze them and believe in their reality.
I recall one by one all my impressions of the last four years, and exert my mind to discover in the strangeness, in the fatality, in the excessive injustice of my past misfortunes, a natural explanation for extraordinary and incredible events of the present. The reverses themselves were romantic and improbable, therefore the reparations and consolations should in their turn be equally romantic. Is it an ordinary thing for a young girl reared like myself in Parisian luxury, belonging to an illustrious family, to be reduced to the sternest poverty, and through family pride and dignity to conceal her name? Is not such dignity, assailed by fate, destined sooner or later to vindicate itself?
You see that through myself I would have been restored to my rank. M. de Meilhan wished to marry me without fortune or name.... Yesterday, M. de Villiers knew not who I was; my uncle's inheritance has therefore been of no assistance to me. I believe that native dignity will always imperceptibly assert itself. I believe in the logic of events; order has imperious laws; it is useless to throw statues to the ground, the time always comes when they are restored to their pedestals. From my rank I fell unjustly, unhappily. I must be restored to it justly. Every glaring injustice has a natural consequent, a brilliant reparation, I have suffered extraordinary misfortune; I have a right to realize ideal happiness. At twenty, I lost in one year my noble and too generous father and my poor mother; it is only just that I should have a lover to replace these lost ones.
As to these violent passions which you pretend I have inspired, but which are by no means serious, I examine them calmly and find in the analysis an explanation of many of the misfortunes, many of the mistakes of poor women, who are accused of inconstancy and perfidy, and who are, on the contrary, only culpable through innocence and honest faith. They believe they love, and engage themselves, and then, once engaged, they discover that they are not in love. Genuine love is composed of two sentiments; we experience one of these when we believe we love; we are uneasy, agitated by an imperfect sentiment that seeks completion; we struggle in its feeble ties; we are neither bound nor free; not happy, nor at liberty to seek happiness at another source.... The old philosopher speaks—hear him.
There are two kinds of love, social love and natural love; voluntary love and involuntary love. An accomplished and deserving young man loves a woman; he loves her, and deserves to be loved in return; she wishes to love him, and when alone thinks of him; if his name is mentioned, she blushes; if any one says in her presence, "Madame B. used to be in love with him," she is disturbed, agitated. These symptoms are certain proofs of the state of her heart, and she says to herself, "I love Adolphe," just as I said, "I love Roger." ... But the voice of this man does not move her to tears; his fiery glances do not make her turn pale or blush; her hand does not tremble in the presence of his.... She only feels for him social love; there exists between them a harmony of ideas and education, but no sympathy of nature.
The other love is more dangerous, especially for married women, who mistake remorse for that honest repugnance necessarily inspired in every woman of refined mind and romantic imagination.
I frankly confess that if I had been married, if I had no longer control of my actions, I should have thought I was in love with Edgar.... I should have mistaken for an odious and culpable passion, the fearful trouble, insupportable uneasiness that his love caused me to feel. But my vigilant reason, my implacable good faith watched over my heart; they said: "Shun Roger;" they said: "Fear Edgar...." If I had married Roger, woe to me! Conventional love, leaving my heart all its dreams, would have embittered my life.... But if, more foolish still, I had married Edgar, woe, woe to me! because one does not sacrifice with impunity to an incomplete love all of one's theories, habits and even weaknesses and early prejudices.
What enlightened me quickly upon the unreality of this love was the liberty of my position. Why being free should I fear a legitimate love? Strange mystery! wonderful instinct! With Roger, I sadly said to myself: "I love him, but it is not with love." ... With Edgar, I said in fright: "This is love, yet I do not love him." And then when Raymond appeared, my heart, my reason, my faith at the first glance recognised him, and without hesitation, almost without prudence, I cried out, "It is he.... I love him." ... Now this is what I call real love, ideal love, harmony of ideas and sympathy of hearts.
Oh! it does me good to be a little pedantic; I am so excited, it calms me; I am not so afraid of going crazy when I adopt the sententious manner. Ah! when I can laugh I am happy. Anything that for a moment checks my wild imagination, reassures me.
This morning we laughed like two children! You will laugh too; when I write one name it will set you off; he said to me, "I must go to my coachmaker's and see if my travelling carriage needs any repairs." I said, "I have a new one; I will send for it, and let you see it." In an hour my carriage was brought into the court-yard. With peals of laughter he recognised Lady Penock's carriage. "Lady Penock! What! do you know Lady Penock? Are you the audacious young lover who pursued her until she was compelled to sell me her carriage." "Yes, I was the man." Ah! how gay we were; he was the hero of Lady Penock, his was the little light, he was the wounded man, he was the husband selected for me! Ah! it all makes me dizzy; and we shall set off to travel in this carriage.