Monsieur de Saint-Prât felt sorry for me . . . made me truly feel the wrong I had done, and eventually forgave me.
“Ah, my child,” he said to me with that gentle gravity of a worthy soul, so different from the odious frenzy of crime, “oh, my beloved daughter, now you see the price one must pay for straying from the path of virtue. ’Tis so necessary to follow that path, virtue is so intimately bound up with our existence that, the moment we abandon it, nothing but misfortune awaits us. Contrast the tranquillity of your state of innocence when you departed this house with the frightful anxiety wherewith you are afflicted upon your return. Do the meager pleasures you may have experienced in your fall from virtue compensate for the torments which now assail your heart? Happiness, therefore, is to be found solely in the exercise of virtue, my child, and all the sophistries of its detractors will never bring a single one of its enjoyments or rewards. Ah! Florville, those who deny or combat these sweet enjoyments do so out of jealousy and nothing more, of that you can be certain, or from the barbarous pleasure of making others as guilty and as wretched as they. They blind themselves, and seek to blind everyone else; they have lost their way, and seek to lead everyone else astray as well. But were you able to read deep into their hearts, you would discover naught but sorrow and remorse. All these apostles of crime are but miserable, desperate creatures. There’s not a single one of them who, were he sincere, would not avow, assuming he were capable of telling the truth, that his foul words and dangerous writings were in fact motivated solely by his passions. And indeed, what man can seriously maintain that the foundations of morality can be undermined without risk? Who would dare to claim that to do good, and to desire good, must not perforce be the veritable goal of man in life? And how can the man who does naught but evil expect to be happy in a society whose most vital interest is to see good multiply and flourish? But will this apologist for crime not tremble constantly himself when he has uprooted from every heart the very thing to which of necessity he owes his preservation? What will prevent his servants from bringing about his ruin if they have ceased to be virtuous? What will keep his wife from dishonoring him if he has convinced her that virtue is worthless? Who will restrain the hands of his children if he has dared to destroy the seeds of good implanted in their hearts? How will his freedom, and his possessions, be respected if he has said to the high and mighty: Act with impunity, virtue is naught but a fantasy? Therefore, no matter what this poor wretch’s condition, be he rich or poor, father or husband, master or slave, on all sides dangers will spring up for him, from all directions daggers will be poised at his heart. Let there be no mistake: if he has dared destroy in man the only duties which offset man’s perversity, then sooner or later the unfortunate creature will perish, a victim of his own frightful systems.1
“Let us leave religion aside for the moment, if you like, and consider only man. Who would ever be foolish enough to believe that, were a person to break every law society has formulated, this society which he outrages will allow him to go unpunished? Is it not in the interest of man, and of the laws he makes for his safety, always to try and destroy whatsoever obstructs it or is harmful to it? Influence of some kind, or wealth, may provide the evildoer with a fleeting glimmer of prosperity. But how brief will be its reign! Recognized for what he is, unmasked, and soon turned into a hated object of public scorn, will he then find any apologists for his conduct? will any partisans appear to comfort or console him? No one will admit to knowing him; as he no longer has anything to offer them, all will cast him aside as they would a burden. Misfortune will beset him on every side; he will languish in shame and adversity, and, no longer having even his own heart as a refuge, he soon will die of despair. What, then, is this absurd reasoning on the part of our adversaries? What is this impotent effort to attenuate virtue, to dare say that whatsoever is not universal is therefore chimerical, and that, virtues always being local, none of them can be said to have any absolute validity? What! there is no virtue because each people has had to forge its own? because different climes and temperatures have necessitated different kinds of restraints, because, in one word, virtue has multiplied in a thousand guises—because of all this there is no virtue on the face of the earth? One might as well doubt of the existence of a river because it forks off into a thousand different tributaries and branches. Well, what better proof both of the existence and necessity of virtue is there than man’s need to adapt it to his various moral codes and to use it as the basis for them all? Show me a single people that lives without virtue, a single one for whom benevolence and human kindness are not the fundamental bonds—I shall go even further: show me a band of villains which is not bound together by some principles of virtue, and I shall cease defending its cause. But if, on the contrary, virtue is demonstrated to be useful everywhere, if there is no nation, no state, no society, no individual that can do without it, if, in one word, man cannot live happily or securely without it, would I then be wrong, my child, to exhort you never to stray from it?
“You see, Florville,” my benefactor went on, enfolding me in his arms, “you see where your initial deviation from virtue has brought you. And if error should beckon to you again, if seduction or your own weakness should lay new snares for you, dwell then upon the unhappiness this first lapse has caused you, think of the man who loves you as he would his own daughter . . . whose heart is broken by your lapses from righteousness, and in these reflections you will find all the strength required for a devotion to virtue, which I would inculcate in your heart forever.”
Monsieur de Saint-Prât, in keeping with these same principles, did not offer me the hospitality of his own house. Rather, he suggested I go and live with one of his relatives, a woman as renowned for the great piety of her ways as Madame de Verquin was for her faults. I was delighted by this arrangement. Madame de Lérince accepted me gladly and graciously, and within a week after my return to Paris, I was installed in her house.
Ah, Monsieur, what a difference between this woman and the one I had lately left! If vice and depravity had established their reign in Madame de Verquin’s, it was as though Madame de Lérince’s heart was the sanctuary of every virtue. As much as I had been frightened by the former’s depravity, so I was equally consoled by the edifying principles which governed the latter. In hearkening to Madame de Verquin, I had found only bitterness and remorse; in abandoning myself to Madame de Lérince, I found naught but kindness and comfort.
Ah, Monsieur, allow me to describe for you this adorable woman, whom I shall cherish always. ’Tis a tribute my heart owes to her virtues, and I am powerless to resist it.
Madame de Lérince, who was about forty years of age, was still possessed of a freshness of youth; an air of candor and modesty embellished her features even more than did the divine proportions wherewith Nature had endowed them. A trifle too much nobleness and majesty rendered her, in the eyes of some, awesome at first glance, but what they might have mistaken for pride softened the moment she opened her mouth to speak. Hers was a soul so pure and beautiful, she was so gracious and of a candor so entire that one gradually felt an increasing tenderness for her, in spite of oneself and in addition to the veneration she inspired upon first meeting her. There was nothing strained or superstitious about Madame de Lérince’s religion. The principles of her faith were dictated by an extreme sensibility. The notion of the existence of God, the worship due this Supreme Being: such were this loving soul’s most lively pleasures. She confessed openly that she would be the most miserable creature alive if any perfidious enlightenment should ever force her mind to destroy in her the respect and love she reserved for her worship. Even more strongly attached—if such were possible—to the sublime morality of that religion than to its ceremonies and practices, she made this excellent morality the guide for her every act. Never had slander sullied her lips; she did not indulge in even the slightest jest which might afflict or offend another human being. Brimful of tenderness and sensibility for her fellow man, finding them interesting
even unto their failings, Madame de Lérince’s sole concern was either carefully to conceal their faults or gently to reprove them. Were they unhappy, she found no greater pleasure than in succoring them; nor did she wait for the poor to come and implore her help: she sought them out . . . she sensed them, and her face could be seen to light up with joy whenever she had brought comfort to a widow or provided for an orphan, whenever she had arranged materially to help a destitute family, or, with her own hands, had broken the chains of adversity. There was nothing harsh, nothing austere in all this: if the pleasures proposed were chaste, she partook of them with great delight, indeed she invented some of her own, for fear that people might find her company boring. Wise . . . enlightened with the moralist . . . profound with the theologian, she inspired the novelist and smiled upon the poet, she astonished the lawmaker and politician, and directed the games of the child. Her mind was brilliant in a number of ways, but the facet that shone brightest in her was the special care she took, the charming effort she made, to bring out the intelligence in others, or to show her appreciation of that quality in them. By inclination living withdrawn from society, cultivating her friends out of choice rather than necessity, Madame de Lérince was, in one word, a model for either sex, endowing everything around her with this tranquil happiness . . . this celestial delight promised to the honest, decent man by the Holy God of Whom she was the living image.
I shall not weary you, Monsieur, with the monotonous details of my life during the seventeen years I had the good fortune to live with this adorable creature. Discussions concerning morality and piety, as many charitable acts as ’twas possible for us to perform: such were the duties that occupied our days.
“Men are frightened away from religion, my dear Florville,” Madame de Lérince used to say to me, “solely because clumsy, unskillful guides have made them aware of naught save religion’s restrictions, without offering them its sweet rewards. Can there exist a man so absurd that, when first his eyes open and view the universe, he still refuses to admit that so many wonders can only be the handiwork of an omnipotent God? Once this prime truth has been admitted—and what more is required for his heart to be convinced of it—what kind of cruel and barbarous creature would he have to be still to refuse to pay homage to the benevolent God by Whom he was created?
“The diversity of religions is also cited as an embarrassment: one thinks to prove them false by their very multiplicity. What sophistry! Is not the existence of this Supreme God proved by this very unanimity of all peoples to recognize and serve Him in some guise, is this tacit avowal which is engraved in the hearts of all men not a proof even more irrevocable—if indeed such be possible—than the sublimities of Nature? What! man cannot live without a God, he cannot question himself without finding proofs within himself, he cannot open his eyes without discovering traces of this God everywhere, and still he dares to doubt! No, Florville, there are no sincere atheists; pride, obstinacy, passion: these are the destructive weapons of this God Who ceaselessly revivifies himself in the heart and mind of man. And when every beat of this heart, every luminous trait of this mind and reason offers me this indubitable Being, shall I refuse to pay Him my homage? Shall I not humble myself before His grace, that I might endure the miseries of life, and someday partake of His glory? Should I not aspire to the favor of spending eternity in His bosom, or should I rather run the risk of spending this eternity in a frightful abyss of torture, for having refused to accept the indubitable proofs this mighty Being has vouchsafed me with what regards the certitude of His existence! My child, does this awful choice allow for even a moment’s reflection? O you who stubbornly refuse to recognize the fiery letters this God has traced even in the very depths of your hearts, at least be just for a moment and, if only out of pity for yourselves, yield to Pascal’s invincible argument: ‘If indeed there is no God, what does it matter whether you believe in Him, what harm is there in this allegiance? And if there is a God, what dangers do you not run by refusing Him your faith?’
“You say, unbelievers, that you are at a loss to know what homage to pay to this God, the multitude of religions beclouds your judgment. Very well then, examine them all, I have no objection whatsoever, and afterward come and say in good faith in which of them you find more grandeur and more majesty. Deny, if you can, O Christians, that the religion into which you were fortunate enough to be born, appears to be the one whose characteristics are holiest and most sublime. Seek elsewhere such great mysteries, dogmas as pure, a morality as comforting. Find in some other religion the ineffable sacrifice of a God for His creatures; find in another promises more beautiful, a future more pleasing, a God greater and more sublime! No, you cannot, ephemeral philosopher; you cannot, pleasure’s thrall, you whose faith changes with the physical state of your nerves; blasphemous at the height of your passion, a believer as soon as your fires have cooled, you cannot, I say. Sentiment constantly acknowledges this God Whom your mind resists, He always exists beside you, even in the midst of your errors. Break the chains wherewith you are bound to crime, and never will this Holy, Almighty God desert the temple He has erected in your heart. ’Tis in the farthest depths of your heart, my dear Florville, even more than in your reason, that the necessity must be discovered for this God Whom everything reveals and proves to us; ’tis in this same heart we must also discover the necessity for the worship we devote to Him, and ’tis this heart which will soon persuade you, my dear friend, that the noblest and purest of all religions is the one into which we have been born. Let us therefore practice this sweet religion with joy and exactitude, let it fill our most beautiful moments here below and, cherishing it the while, as step by step we move toward the term of our days, let it be by the path of love and delight that we go to offer up unto the bosom of the eternal Father this soul which emanated from Him, was formed solely to know Him, and which we have enjoyed and delighted in only insofar as we have believed in and worshiped Him.”
’Twas in this wise Madame de Lérince used to speak to me, and from her counsel my mind drew strength, and my soul was purified beneath her saintly wing. But, as I have said before, I shall spare you the minor details of my daily life in this house and rather concentrate upon what is essential. ’Tis my sins I must reveal to you, generous and sensitive man, and as for those times when Heaven has vouchsafed to let me dwell in peace on the path of virtue, I shall simply offer up a prayer of thanks and pass them over in silence.
I had not ceased writing to Madame de Verquin; twice a month I likewise received letters from her. And although I doubtless should not have continued this correspondence, and although the fact that my reformed ways and improved principles incited me to break it off, still my debt to Monsieur de Saint-Prât, the hope that I might someday receive word of my son, and above all—let me confess it—a secret feeling which yet drew me ineluctably toward the site of so many past pleasures—all these things led me to keep up a correspondence which Madame de Verquin, on her end, was good enough to maintain on a regular basis.
I tried to convert her, I lauded the life I was presently leading and wrote her of its sweet solace, which she dismissed as a figment of my imagination; she constantly laughed at or combated my resolutions and, ever firm in her own, assured me that nothing in the world would ever be able to weaken them. She wrote me of the new girls whom she had, for her own amusement, won over to her cause, and claimed they were far more docile than I had been. This toppling of so many virtues was, the perverse woman claimed, but a small triumph, so many little victories she always enjoyed winning, and the pleasure of luring these young hearts into evil consoled her for being unable to realize all that her imagination incited her to undertake.
I was wont to ask Madame de Lérince to lend me her eloquent pen in order to unsettle my opponent, and she was happy to oblige. Madame de Verquin answered us, and her sophisms, oftentimes extremely convincing, obliged us to resort to even more compelling arguments of a sensitive soul, wherein, so Madame de Lérince rightly maintained, was everyt
hing necessary to destroy vice and confound incredulity.
From time to time I asked Madame de Verquin for news of the man I still loved, but either she could not or would not deign to give me any.
The time has come, Monsieur; I must tell you of the second catastrophe of my life, a tale so cruel and bitter it breaks my heart each time I call it to mind. Hearing it, you will learn of the terrible crime of which I am guilty and will no doubt abandon the flattering plans you have regarding me.
Madame de Lérince’s house, however orderly I may have portrayed it to you, was none the less accessible to a handful of friends: Madame de Dulfort, a woman well along in years who was formerly attached to the household of the Princesse de Piémont, and who came very often to see us, one day asked Madame de Lérince for permission to introduce to her a young man who came to her most highly recommended, and whom she would be pleased to bring into a house wherein the examples of virtue to which he would constantly be exposed could only contribute to mold his heart. My benefactress apologized, saying that she never received young men, but later, hard pressed by her friend’s urgent entreaties, she consented to meet the Chevalier de Saint-Ange.
He made his appearance. Whether out of presentiment . . . or whatever you care to name it, Monsieur, when first I laid eyes upon this young man, I was seized with a trembling that shook me from head to foot, the cause of which ’twas impossible to conceal. . . . I almost fainted. . . . As I did not search for the reason for this strange reaction, I imputed it to some strange disposition, and Monsieur de Saint-Ange ceased to preoccupy me. But if this young man had, at first sight, been such a source of agitation to me, he too had been the victim of a similar disturbance; he later admitted this to me himself. Saint-Ange was filled with so great an admiration for the house into which he had been granted access that he did not dare forget himself so far as to reveal what flame was inwardly consuming him. Thus three months went by before he found the courage to say anything to me; but I noted such a vivid expression in his eyes that it soon became impossible for me not to understand what they were saying. My mind firmly made up not to fall prey again to the kind of error which had been the cause of all my suffering, and strengthened now by better principles, I was upon twenty different occasions on the verge of informing Madame de Lérince of the feelings I thought I discerned in the young man. Subsequently restrained by the fears I thought I might arouse in her, I chose to remain silent. A baleful resolution, it would appear, since it resulted in the frightful calamity whereof I shall shortly apprise you.