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Chapter IV - Marriage and Disillusion
The baron, one morning, entered Jeanne's room before she was up, and
sitting down at the foot of her bed, said:
"M. le Vicomte de Lamare has asked us for your hand in marriage."
She wanted to hide her face under the sheets.
Her father continued:
"We have postponed our answer for the present."
She gasped, choking with emotion. At the end of a minute the baron,
smiling, added:
"We did not wish to do anything without consulting you. Your mother
and I are not opposed to this marriage, but we would not seek to
influence you. You are much richer than he is; but, when it is a
question of the happiness of a life, one should not think too much
about money. He has no relations left. If you marry him, then, it
would be as if a son should come into our family; if it were anyone
else, it would be you, our daughter, who would go among strangers. The
young fellow pleases us. Would he please you?"
She stammered, blushing up to the roots of her hair:
"I am willing, papa."
And the father, looking into her eyes and still smiling, murmured:
"I half suspected it, young lady."
She lived till evening in a condition of exhilaration, not knowing
what she was doing, mechanically thinking of one thing by mistake for
another, and with a feeling of weariness, although she had not walked
at all.
Toward six o'clock, as she was sitting with her mother under the plane
tree, the vicomte appeared.
Jeanne's heart began to throb wildly. The young man approached them
apparently without any emotion. When he was close beside them, he took
the baroness' hand and kissed her fingers, then raising to his lips
the trembling hand of the young girl, he imprinted upon it a long,
tender and grateful kiss.
And the radiant season of betrothal commenced. They would chat
together alone in the corner of the parlor, or else seated on the moss
at the end of the wood overlooking the plain. Sometimes they walked in
Little Mother's Avenue; he, talking of the future, she, with her eyes
cast down, looking at the dusty footprints of the baroness.
Once the matter was decided, they desired to waste no time in
preliminaries. It was, therefore, decided that the ceremony should
take place in six weeks, on the fifteenth of August; and that the
bride and groom should set out immediately on their wedding journey.
Jeanne, on being consulted as to which country she would like to
visit, decided on Corsica where they could be more alone than in the
cities of Italy.
They awaited the moment appointed for their marriage without too great
impatience, but enfolded, lost in a delicious affection, expressed in
the exquisite charm of insignificant caresses, pressure of hands, long
passionate glances in which their souls seemed to blend; and, vaguely
tortured by an uncertain longing for they knew not what.
They decided to invite no one to the wedding except Aunt Lison, the
baron's sister, who boarded in a convent at Versailles. After the
death of their father, the baroness wished to keep her sister with
her. But the old maid, possessed by the idea that she was in every
one's way, was useless, and a nuisance, retired into one of those
religious houses that rent apartments to people that live a sad and
lonely existence. She came from time to time to pass a month or two
with her family.
She was a little woman of few words, who always kept in the
background, appeared only at mealtimes, and then retired to her room
where she remained shut in.
She looked like a kind old lady, though she was only forty-two, and
had a sad, gentle expression. She was never made much of by her family
as a child, being neither pretty nor boisterous, she was never petted,
and she would stay quietly and gently in a corner. She had been
neglected ever since. As a young girl nobody paid any attention to
her. She was something like a shadow, or a familiar object, a living
piece of furniture that one is accustomed to see every day, but about
which one does not trouble oneself.
Her sister, from long habit, looked upon her as a failure, an
altogether insignificant being. They treated her with careless
familiarity which concealed a sort of contemptuous kindness. She
called herself Lise, and seemed embarrassed at this frivolous youthful
name. When they saw that she probably would not marry, they changed it
from Lise to Lison, and since Jeanne's birth, she had become "Aunt
Lison," a poor relation, very neat, frightfully timid, even with her
sister and her brother-in-law, who loved her, but with an uncertain
affection verging on indifference, with an unconscious compassion and
a natural benevolence.
Sometimes, when the baroness talked of far away things that happened
in her youth, she would say, in order to fix a date: "It was the time
that Lison had that attack."
They never said more than that; and this "attack" remained shrouded,
as in a mist.
One evening, Lise, who was then twenty, had thrown herself into the
water, no one knew why. Nothing in her life, her manner, gave any
intimation of this seizure. They fished her out half dead, and her
parents, raising their hands in horror, instead of seeking the
mysterious cause of this action, had contented themselves with calling
it "that attack," as if they were talking of the accident that
happened to the horse "Coco," who had broken his leg a short time
before in a ditch, and whom they had been obliged to kill.
From that time Lise, presently Lison, was considered feeble-minded.
The gentle contempt which she inspired in her relations gradually made
its way into the minds of all those who surrounded her. Little Jeanne
herself, with the natural instinct of children, took no notice of her,
never went up to kiss her good-night, never went into her room. Good
Rosalie, alone, who gave the room all the necessary attention, seemed
to know where it was situated.
When Aunt Lison entered the dining-room for breakfast, the little one
would go up to her from habit and hold up her forehead to be kissed;
that was all.
If anyone wished to speak to her, they sent a servant to call her, and
if she was not there, they did not bother about her, never thought of
her, never thought of troubling themselves so much as to say: "Why, I
have not seen Aunt Lison this morning!"
When they said "Aunt Lison," these two words awakened no feeling of
affection in anyone's mind. It was as if one had said: "The coffee
pot, or the sugar bowl."
She always walked with little, quick, silent steps, never made a
noise, never knocking up against anything; and seemed to communicate
to surrounding objects the faculty of not making any sound. Her hands
seemed to be made of a kind of wadding, she handled everything so
lightly and delicately.
She arrived about the middle of July, all upset at the idea of this
marriage. She brought a quantity of presents which, as they came from
her, remained almost unnoticed. On the following day they had
forgotten she was there at all.
But an unusual emotion was seething in her mind, and she never took
her eyes off the engaged couple. She interested herself in Jeanne's
trousseau with a singular eagerness, a feverish activity, working like
a simple seamstress in her room, where no one came to visit her.
She was continually presenting the baroness with handkerchiefs she had
hemmed herself, towels on which she had embroidered a monogram, saying
as she did so: "Is that all right, Adelaide?" And little mother, as
she carelessly examined the objects, would reply: "Do not give
yourself so much trouble, my poor Lison."
One evening, toward the end of the month, after an oppressively warm
day, the moon rose on one of those clear, mild nights which seem to
move, stir and affect one, apparently awakening all the secret poetry
of one's soul. The gentle breath of the fields was wafted into the
quiet drawing-room. The baroness and her husband were playing cards by
the light of a lamp, and Aunt Lison was sitting beside them knitting;
while the young people, leaning on the window sill, were gazing out at
the moonlit garden.
The linden and the plane tree cast their shadows on the lawn which
extended beyond it in the moonlight, as far as the dark wood.
Attracted by the tender charm of the night, and by this misty
illumination that lighted up the trees and the bushes, Jeanne turned
toward her parents and said: "Little father, we are going to take a
short stroll on the grass in front of the house."
The baron replied, without looking up: "Go, my children," and
continued his game.
They went out and began to walk slowly along the moonlit lawn as far
as the little wood at the end. The hour grew late and they did not
think of going in. The baroness grew tired, and wishing to retire, she
said:
"We must call the lovers in."
The baron cast a glance across the spacious garden where the two forms
were wandering slowly.
"Let them alone," he said; "it is so delicious outside! Lison will
wait for them, will you not, Lison?"
The old maid raised her troubled eyes and replied in her timid voice:
"Certainly, I will wait for them."
Little father gave his hand to the baroness, weary himself from the
heat of the day.
"I am going to bed, too," he said, and went up with his wife.
Then Aunt Lison rose in her turn, and leaving on the arm of the chair
her canvas with the wool and the knitting needles, she went over and
leaned on the window sill and gazed out at the night.
The two lovers kept on walking back and forth between the house and
the wood. They squeezed each other's fingers without speaking, as
though they had left their bodies and formed part of this visible
poetry that exhaled from the earth.
All at once Jeanne perceived, framed in the window, the silhouette of
the aunt, outlined by the light of the lamp behind her.
"See," she said, "there is Aunt Lison looking at us."
The vicomte raised his head, and said in an indifferent tone without
thinking:
"Yes, Aunt Lison is looking at us."
And they continued to dream, to walk slowly, and to love each other.
But the dew was falling fast, and the dampness made them shiver a
little.
"Let us go in now," said Jeanne. And they went into the house.
When they entered the drawing-room, Aunt Lison had gone back to her
work. Her head was bent over her work, and her fingers were trembling
as if she were very tired.
"It is time to go to bed, aunt," said Jeanne, approaching her.
Her aunt turned her head, and her eyes were red as if she had been
crying. The young people did not notice it; but suddenly M. de Lamare
perceived that Jeanne's thin shoes were covered with dew. He was
worried, and asked tenderly:
"Are not your dear little feet cold?"
All at once the old lady's hands shook so violently that she let fall
her knitting, and hiding her face in her hands, she began to sob
convulsively.
The engaged couple looked at her in amazement, without moving.
Suddenly Jeanne fell on her knees, and taking her aunt's hands away
from her face, said in perplexity:
"Why, what is the matter, Aunt Lison?"
Then the poor woman, her voice full of tears, and her whole body
shaking with sorrow, replied:
"It was when he asked you--are not your--your--dear little feet
cold?--no one ever said such things to me--to me--never--never----"
Jeanne, surprised and compassionate, could still hardly help laughing
at the idea of an admirer showing tender solicitude for Lison; and the
vicomte had turned away to conceal his mirth.
But the aunt suddenly rose, laying her ball of wool on the floor and
her knitting in the chair, and fled to her room, feeling her way up
the dark staircase.
Left alone, the young people looked at one another, amused and
saddened. Jeanne murmured:
"Poor aunt!" Julien replied. "She must be a little crazy this
evening."
They held each other's hands and presently, gently, very gently, they
exchanged their first kiss, and by the following day had forgotten all
about Aunt Lison's tears.
The two weeks preceding the wedding found Jeanne very calm, as though
she were weary of tender emotions. She had no time for reflection on
the morning of the eventful day. She was only conscious of a feeling
as if her flesh, her bones and her blood had all melted beneath her
skin, and on taking hold of anything, she noticed that her fingers
trembled.
She did not regain her self-possession until she was in the chancel of
the church during the marriage ceremony.
Married! So she was married! All that had occurred since daybreak
seemed to her a dream, a waking dream. There are such moments, when
all appears changed around us; even our motions seem to have a new
meaning; even the hours of the day, which seem to be out of their
usual time. She felt bewildered, above all else, bewildered. Last
evening nothing had as yet been changed in her life; the constant hope
of her life seemed only nearer, almost within reach. She had gone to
rest a young girl; she was now a married woman. She had crossed that
boundary that seems to conceal the future with all its joys, its
dreams of happiness. She felt as though a door had opened in front of
her; she was about to enter into the fulfillment of her expectations.
When they appeared on the threshold of the church after the ceremony,
a terrific noise caused the bride to start in terror, and the baroness
to scream; it was a rifle salute given by the peasants, and the firing
did not cease until they reached "The Poplars."
After a collation served for the family, the family chaplain, and the
priest from Yport, the mayor and the witnesses, who were some of the
large farmers of the district, they all walked in the garden. On the
other side of the chateau one could hear the boisterous mirth of the
peasants, who were drinking cider beneath the apple trees. The whole
countryside, dressed in their best, filled the courtyard.
Jeanne and Julien walked through the copse and then up the slope and,
without speaking, gazed out at the sea. The air was cool, although it
was the middle of August; the wind was from the north, and the sun
blazed down unpityingly from the blue sky. The young people sought a
more sheltered spot, and crossing the plain, they turned to the right,
toward the rolling and wooded valley that leads to Yport. As soon as
they reached the trees the air was still, and they left the road and
took a narrow path beneath the trees, where they could scarcely walk
abreast.
Jeanne felt an arm passed gently round her waist. She said nothing,
her breath came quick, her heart beat fast. Some low branches caressed
their hair, as they bent to pass under them. She picked a leaf; two
ladybirds were concealed beneath it, like two delicate red shells.
"Look, a little family," she said innocently, and feeling a little
more confidence.
Julien placed his mouth to her ear, and whispered: "This evening you
will be my wife."
Although she had learned many things during her sojourn in the
country, she dreamed of nothing as yet but the poetry of love, and was
surprised. His wife? Was she not that already?
Then he began to kiss her temples and neck, little light kisses.
Startled each time afresh by these masculine kisses to which she was
not accustomed, she instinctively turned away her head to avoid them,
though they delighted her. But they had come to the edge of the wood.
She stopped, embarrassed at being so far from home. What would they
think?
"Let us go home," she said.
He withdrew his arm from her waist, and as they turned round they
stood face to face, so close that they could feel each other's breath
on their faces. They gazed deep into one another's eyes with that gaze
in which two souls seem to blend. They sought the impenetrable unknown
of each other's being. They sought to fathom one another, mutely and
persistently. What would they be to one another? What would this life
be that they were about to begin together? What joys, what happiness,
or what disillusions were they preparing in this long, indissoluble
tete-a-tete of marriage? And it seemed to them as if they had never
yet seen each other.
Suddenly, Julien, placing his two hands on his wife's shoulders,
kissed her full on the lips as she had never before been kissed. The
kiss, penetrating as it did her very blood and marrow, gave her such a
mysterious shock that she pushed Julien wildly away with her two arms,
almost falling backward as she did so.
"Let us go away, let us go away," she faltered.
He did not reply, but took both her hands and held them in his. They
walked home in silence, and the rest of the afternoon seemed long. The
dinner was simple and did not last long, contrary to the usual Norman
custom. A sort of embarrassment seemed to paralyze the guests. The two
priests, the mayor, and the four farmers invited, alone betrayed a
little of that broad mirth that is supposed to accompany weddings.
They had apparently forgotten how to laugh, when a remark of the
mayor's woke them up. It was about nine o'clock; coffee was about to
be served. Outside, under the apple-trees of the first court, the bal
champetre was beginning, and through the open window one could see all
that was going on. Lanterns, hung from the branches, gave the leaves a
grayish green tint. Rustics and their partners danced in a circle
shouting a wild dance tune to the feeble accompaniment of two violins
and a clarinet, the players seated on a large table as a platform. The
boisterous singing of the peasants at times completely drowned the
instruments, and the feeble strains torn to tatters by the
unrestrained voices seemed to fall from the air in shreds, in little
fragments of scattered notes.
Two large barrels surrounded by flaming torches were tapped, and two
servant maids were kept busy rinsing glasses and bowls in order to
refill them at the tap whence flowed the red wine, or at the tap of
the cider barrel. On the table were bread, sausages and cheese. Every
one swallowed a mouthful from time to time, and beneath the roof of
illuminated foliage this wholesome and boisterous fete made the
melancholy watchers in the dining-room long to dance also, and to
drink from one of those large barrels, while they munched a slice of
bread and butter and a raw onion.
The mayor, who was beating time with his knife, cried: "By Jove, that
is all right; it is like the wedding of Ganache."
A suppressed giggle was heard, but Abbe Picot, the natural enemy of
civil authority, cried: "You mean of Cana." The other did not accept
the correction. "No, monsieur le cure, I know what I am talking about;
when I say Ganache, I mean Ganache."
They rose from table and went into the drawing-room, and then outside
to mix with the merrymakers. The guests soon left.
They went into the house. They were surprised to see Madame Adelaide
sobbing on Julien's shoulder. Her tears, noisy tears, as if blown out
by a pair of bellows, seemed to come from her nose, her mouth and her
eyes at the same time; and the young man, dumfounded, awkward, was
supporting the heavy woman who had sunk into his arms to commend to
his care her darling, her little one, her adored daughter.
The baron rushed toward them, saying: "Oh, no scenes, no tears, I beg
of you," and, taking his wife to a chair, he made her sit down, while
she wiped away her tears. Then, turning to Jeanne: "Come, little one,
kiss your mother and go to bed."
What happened then? She could hardly have told, for she seemed to have
lost her head, but she felt a shower of little grateful kisses on her
lips.
Day dawned. Julien awoke, yawned, stretched, looked at his wife,
smiled and asked: "Did you sleep well, darling?"
She noticed that he now said "thou," and she replied, bewildered,
"Why, yes. And you?" "Oh, very well," he answered. And turning toward
her, he kissed her and then began to chat quietly. He set before her
plans of living, with the idea of economy, and this word occurring
several times, astonished Jeanne. She listened without grasping the
meaning of his words, looked at him, but was thinking of a thousand
things that passed rapidly through her mind hardly leaving a trace.
The clock struck eight. "Come, we must get up," he said. "It would
look ridiculous for us to be late." When he was dressed he assisted
his wife with all the little details of her toilet, not allowing her
to call Rosalie. As they left the room he stopped. "You know, when we
are alone, we can now use 'thou,' but before your parents it is better
to wait a while. It will be quite natural when we come back from our
wedding journey."
She did not go down till luncheon was ready. The day passed like any
ordinary day, as if nothing new had occurred. There was one man more
in the house, that was all.
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Content of Chapter IV - Marriage and Disillusion [Guy De Maupassant's novel: Une Vie; or, The History of a Heart]
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