Notre Coeur (A Woman's Pastime). Guy de Maupassant
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hands on her hips and turned her profile so as to behold her entire person in the three mirrors, bending her head slightly forward. She stood there amorously facing herself surrounded by the threefold reflection of her own being, which she thought was charming, filled with delight at sight of herself, engrossed by an egotistical and physical pleasure in presence of her own beauty, and enjoying it with a keen satisfaction that was almost as sensual as a man’s.
Every day she surveyed herself in this manner, and her maid, who had often caught her at it, used to say, spitefully:
“Madame looks at herself so much that she will end up by wearing out all the looking-glasses in the house.”
In this love of herself, however, lay all the secret of her charm and the influence that she exerted over men. Through admiring herself and tenderly loving the delicacy of her features and the elegance of her form, by constantly seeking for and finding means of showing them to the greatest advantage, through discovering imperceptible ways of rendering her gracefulness more graceful and her eyes more fascinating, through pursuing all the artifices that embellished her to her own vision, she had as a matter of course hit upon that which would most please others. Had she been more beautiful and careless of her beauty, she would not have possessed that attractiveness which drew to her everyone who had not from the beginning shown himself unassailable.
Wearying soon a little of standing thus, she spoke to her image that was smiling to her still, and her image in the threefold mirror moved its lips as if to echo: “We will see about it.” Then she crossed the room and seated herself at her desk. Here is what she wrote:
“Dear Monsieur Mariolle: Come to see me tomorrow at four o’clock. I shall be alone, and hope to be able to reassure you as to the imaginary danger that alarms you.
“I subscribe myself your friend, and will prove to you that I am —— Michèle de Burne.”
How plainly she dressed next day to receive André Mariolle’s visit! A little gray dress, of a light gray bordering on lilac, melancholy as the dying day and quite unornamented, with a collar fitting closely to the neck, sleeves fitting closely to the arms, corsage fitting closely to the waist and bust, and skirt fitting closely to the hips and legs.
When he made his appearance, wearing rather a solemn face, she came forward to meet him, extending both her hands. He kissed them, then they seated themselves, and she allowed the silence to last a few moments in order to assure herself of his embarrassment.
He did not know what to say, and was waiting for her to speak. She made up her mind to do so.
“Well! let us come at once to the main question. What is the matter? Are you aware that you wrote me a very insolent letter?”
“I am very well aware of it, and I render my most sincere apology. I am, I have always been with everyone, excessively, brutally frank. I might have gone away without the unnecessary and insulting explanations that I addressed to you. I considered it more loyal to act in accordance with my nature and trust to your understanding, with which I am acquainted.”
She resumed with an expression of pitying satisfaction:
“Come, come! What does all this folly mean?” He interrupted her: “I would prefer not to speak of it.”
She answered warmly, without allowing him to proceed further:
“I invited you here to discuss it, and we will discuss it until you are quite convinced that you are not exposing yourself to any danger.” She laughed like a little girl, and her dress, so closely resembling that of a boarding-school miss, gave her laughter a character of childish youth.
He hesitatingly said: “What I wrote you was the truth, the sincere truth, the terrifying truth.” Resuming her seriousness, she rejoined: “I do not doubt you: all my friends travel that road. You also wrote that I am a fearful coquette. I admit it, but then no one ever dies of it; I do not even believe that they suffer a great deal. There is, indeed, what Lamarthe calls the crisis. You are in that stage now, but that passes over and subsides into — what shall I call it? — into the state of chronic love, which does no harm to a body, and which I keep simmering over a slow fire in all my friends, so that they may be very much attached, very devoted, very faithful to me. Am not I, also, sincere and frank and nice with you? Eh? Have you known many women who would dare to talk as I have talked to you?”
She had an air of such drollness, coupled with such decision, she was so unaffected and at the same time so alluring, that he could not help smiling in turn. “All your friends,” he said, “are men who have often had their fingers burned in that fire, even before it was done at your hearth. Toasted and roasted already, it is easy for them to endure the oven in which you keep them; but for my part, I, Madame, have never passed through that experience, and I have felt for some time past that it would be a dreadful thing for me to give way to the sentiment that is growing and waxing in my heart.”
Suddenly she became familiar, and bending a little toward him, her hands clasped over her knees: “Lister to me,” she said, “I am in earnest. I hate to lose; friend for the sake of a fear that I regard as chimerical. You will be in love with me, perhaps, but the men of this generation do not love the women of to-day so violently as to do themselves any actual injury. You may believe me; I know them both.” She was silent; then with the singular smile of a woman who utters a truth while she thinks she is telling a fib, she added: “Besides, I have not the necessary qualifications to make men love me madly; I am too modern. Come, I will be a friend to you, a real nice friend, for whom you will have affection, but nothing more, for I will see to it.” She went on in a more serious tone: “In any case I give you fair warning that I am incapable of feeling a real passion for anyone, let him be who he may; you shall receive the same treatment as the others, you shall stand on an equal footing with the most favored, but never on any better; I abominate despotism and jealousy. I have had to endure everything from a husband, but from a friend, a simple friend, I do not choose to accept affectionate tyrannizings, which are the bane of all cordial relations. You see that I am just as nice as nice can be, that I talk to you like a comrade, that I conceal nothing from you. Are you willing loyally to accept the trial that I propose? If it does not work well, there will still be time enough for you to go away if the gravity of the situation demands it. A lover absent is a lover cured.”
He looked at her, already vanquished by her voice, her gestures, all the intoxication of her person; and quite resigned to his fate, and thrilling through every fiber at the consciousness that she was sitting there beside him, he murmured:
“I accept, Madame, and if harm comes to me, so much the worse! I can afford to endure a little suffering for your sake.”
She stopped him.
“Now let us say nothing more about it,” she said; “let us never speak of it again.” And she diverted the conversation to topics that might calm his agitation.
In an hour’s time he took his leave; in torments, for he loved her; delighted, for she had asked and he had promised that he would not go away.
III
HE WAS in torments, for he loved her. Differing in this from the common run of lovers, in whose eyes the woman chosen of their heart appears surrounded by an aureole of perfection, his attachment for her had grown within him while studying her with the clairvoyant eyes of a suspicious and distrustful man who had never been entirely enslaved. His timid and sluggish but penetrating disposition, always standing on the defensive in life, had saved him from his passions. A few intrigues, two brief liaisons that had perished of ennui, and some mercenary loves that had been broken off from disgust, comprised the history of his heart. He regarded women as an object of utility for those who desire a well-kept house and a family, as an object of comparative pleasure to those who are in quest of the pastime of love.
Before he entered Mme de Burne’s house his friends had confidentially warned him against her.
What he had learned of her interested, puzzled, and pleased him,