Memoirs of the Count of Comminge and The Misfortunes of Love (Volume 48) (The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series) [1 ed.] 0866985549, 9780866985543

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Claudine Alexandrine Guerin de Tencin

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge and The Misfortunes of Love Ed i te d a n d tr a n s l ate d by

Jonathan Walsh

The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series, 48

MEMOIRS OF THE COUNT OF COMMINGE AND THE MISFORTUNES OF LOVE

The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series, 48

MEDIEVAL AND RENAISSANCE TEXTS AND STUDIES VOLUME 499

The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series

Ser ie S ed i to r S Margaret L. King and Albert Rabil, Jr. Ser ie S ed i to r , e ng l i S h te x tS Elizabeth H. Hageman

Previous Publications in the Series Madre María Rosa Journey of Five Capuchin Nuns Edited and translated by Sarah E. Owens Volume 1, 2009 Giovan Battista Andreini Love in the Mirror: A Bilingual Edition Edited and translated by Jon R. Snyder Volume 2, 2009 Raymond de Sabanac and Simone Zanacchi Two Women of the Great Schism: The Revelations of Constance de Rabastens by Raymond de Sabanac and Life of the Blessed Ursulina of Parma by Simone Zanacchi Edited and translated by Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski and Bruce L. Venarde Volume 3, 2010 Oliva Sabuco de Nantes Barrera The True Medicine Edited and translated by Gianna Pomata Volume 4, 2010 Louise-Geneviève Gillot de Sainctonge Dramatizing Dido, Circe, and Griselda Edited and translated by Janet Levarie Smarr Volume 5, 2010

Pernette du Guillet Complete Poems: A Bilingual Edition Edited by Karen Simroth James Translated by Marta Rijn Finch Volume 6, 2010 Antonia Pulci Saints’ Lives and Bible Stories for the Stage: A Bilingual Edition Edited by Elissa B. Weaver Translated by James Wyatt Cook Volume 7, 2010 Valeria Miani Celinda, A Tragedy: A Bilingual Edition Edited by Valeria Finucci Translated by Julia Kisacky Annotated by Valeria Finucci and Julia Kisacky Volume 8, 2010 Enchanted Eloquence: Fairy Tales by Seventeenth-Century French Women Writers Edited and translated by Lewis C. Seifert and Domna C. Stanton Volume 9, 2010 Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Sophie, Electress of Hanover and Queen Sophie Charlotte of Prussia Leibniz and the Two Sophies: The Philosophical Correspondence Edited and translated by Lloyd Strickland Volume 10, 2011

The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series

Ser ie S ed i to r S Margaret L. King and Albert Rabil, Jr. Ser ie S ed i to r , e ng l i S h te x tS Elizabeth H. Hageman

Previous Publications in the Series In Dialogue with the Other Voice in Sixteenth-Century Italy: Literary and Social Contexts for Women’s Writing Edited by Julie D. Campbell and Maria Galli Stampino Volume 11, 2011 Sister Giustina Niccolini The Chronicle of Le Murate Edited and translated by Saundra Weddle Volume 12, 2011 Liubov Krichevskaya No Good without Reward: Selected Writings: A Bilingual Edition Edited and translated by Brian James Baer Volume 13, 2011 Elizabeth Cooke Hoby Russell The Writings of an English Sappho Edited by Patricia Phillippy With translations by Jaime Goodrich Volume 14, 2011 Lucrezia Marinella Exhortations to Women and to Others If They Please Edited and translated by Laura Benedetti Volume 15, 2012 Margherita Datini Letters to Francesco Datini Translated by Carolyn James and Antonio Pagliaro Volume 16, 2012

Delarivier Manley and Mary Pix English Women Staging Islam, 1696–1707 Edited and introduced by Bernadette Andrea Volume 17, 2012 Cecilia Del Nacimiento Journeys of a Mystic Soul in Poetry and Prose Introduction and prose translations by Kevin Donnelly Poetry translations by Sandra Sider Volume 18, 2012 Lady Margaret Douglas and Others The Devonshire Manuscript: A Women’s Book of Courtly Poetry Edited and introduced by Elizabeth Heale Volume 19, 2012 Arcangela Tarabotti Letters Familiar and Formal Edited and translated by Meredith K. Ray and Lynn Lara Westwater Volume 20, 2012 Pere Torrellas and Juan de Flores Three Spanish Querelle Texts: Grisel and Mirabella, The Slander against Women, and The Defense of Ladies against Slanderers: A Bilingual Edition and Study Edited and translated by Emily C. Francomano Volume 21, 2013

The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series

Ser ie S ed i to r S Margaret L. King and Albert Rabil, Jr. Ser ie S ed i to r , e ng l i S h te x tS Elizabeth H. Hageman

Previous Publications in the Series Barbara Torelli Benedetti Partenia, a Pastoral Play: A Bilingual Edition Edited and translated by Lisa Sampson and Barbara Burgess-Van Aken Volume 22, 2013

Tullia d’Aragona and Others The Poems and Letters of Tullia d’Aragona and Others: A Bilingual Edition Edited and translated by Julia L. Hairston Volume 28, 2014

François Rousset, Jean Liebault, Jacques Guillemeau, Jacques Duval and Louis De Serres Pregnancy and Birth in Early Modern France: Treatises by Caring Physicians and Surgeons (1581–1625) Edited and translated by Valerie WorthStylianou Volume 23, 2013

Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza The Life and Writings of Luisa de Carvajal y Mendoza Edited and translated by Anne J. Cruz Volume 29, 2014

Mary Astell The Christian Religion, as Professed by a Daughter of the Church of England Edited by Jacqueline Broad Volume 24, 2013 Sophia of Hanover Memoirs (1630–1680) Edited and translated by Sean Ward Volume 25, 2013 Katherine Austen Book M: A London Widow’s Life Writings Edited by Pamela S. Hammons Volume 26, 2013 Anne Killigrew “My Rare Wit Killing Sin”: Poems of a Restoration Courtier Edited by Margaret J. M. Ezell Volume 27, 2013

Russian Women Poets of the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries: A Bilingual Edition Edited and translated by Amanda Ewington Volume 30, 2014 Jacques du Bosc L’Honnête Femme: The Respectable Woman in Society and the New Collection of Letters and Responses by Contemporary Women Edited and translated by Sharon Diane Nell and Aurora Wolfgang Volume 31, 2014 Lady Hester Pulter Poems, Emblems, and The Unfortunate Florinda Edited by Alice Eardley Volume 32, 2014

The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series

Se r ie S edi to r S Margaret L. King and Albert Rabil, Jr. Se r ie S edi to r , e ng l i S h te x tS Elizabeth H. Hageman

Previous Publications in the Series Jeanne Flore Tales and Trials of Love, Concerning Venus’s Punishment of Those Who Scorn True Love and Denounce Cupid’s Sovereignity: A Bilingual Edition and Study Edited and translated by Kelly Digby Peebles Poems translated by Marta Rijn Finch Volume 33, 2014 Veronica Gambara Complete Poems: A Bilingual Edition Critical introduction by Molly M. Martin Edited and translated by Molly M. Martin and Paola Ugolini Volume 34, 2014 Catherine de Médicis and Others Portraits of the Queen Mother: Polemics, Panegyrics, Letters Translation and study by Leah L. Chang and Katherine Kong Volume 35, 2014 Françoise Pascal, MarieCatherine Desjardins, Antoinette Deshoulières, and Catherine Durand Challenges to Traditional Authority: Plays by French Women Authors, 1650–1700 Edited and translated by Perry Gethner Volume 36, 2015

Franciszka Urszula Radziwiłłowa Selected Drama and Verse Edited by Patrick John Corness and Barbara Judkowiak Translated by Patrick John Corness Translation Editor Aldona Zwierzyńska-Coldicott Introduction by Barbara Judkowiak Volume 37, 2015 Diodata Malvasia Writings on the Sisters of San Luca and Their Miraculous Madonna Edited and translated by Danielle Callegari and Shannon McHugh Volume 38, 2015 Margaret Van Noort Spiritual Writings of Sister Margaret of the Mother of God (1635–1643) Edited by Cordula van Wyhe Translated by Susan M. Smith Volume 39, 2015 Giovan Francesco Straparola The Pleasant Nights Edited and translated by Suzanne Magnanini Volume 40, 2015

The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe: The Toronto Series

Se r ie S edi to r S Margaret L. King and Albert Rabil, Jr. Se r ie S edi to r , e ng l i S h te x tS Elizabeth H. Hageman

Previous Publications in the Series Angélique de Saint-Jean Arnauld D’Andilly Writings of Resistance Edited and translated by John J. Conley, S.J. Volume 41, 2015 Francesco Barbaro The Wealth of Wives: A Fifteenth-Century Marriage Manual Edited and translated by Margaret L. King Volume 42, 2015 Jeanne D’Albret Letters from the Queen of Navarre with an Ample Declaration Edited and translated by Kathleen M. Llewellyn, Emily E. Thompson, and Colette H. Winn Volume 43, 2016 Bathsua Makin and Mary More with a reply to More by Robert Whitehall Educating English Daughters: Late Seventeenth-Century Debates Edited by Frances Teague and Margaret J. M. Ezell Associate Editor Jessica Walker Volume 44, 2016

Anna StanisŁawska Orphan Girl: A Transaction, or an Account of the Entire Life of an Orphan Girl by way of Plaintful Threnodies in the year 1685: The Aesop Episode Verse translation, introduction, and commentary by Barry Keane Volume 45, 2016 Alessandra Macinghi Strozzi Letters to her Sons, 1447–1470 Edited and translated by Judith Bryce Volume 46, 2016 Mother Juana de la Cruz Mother Juana de la Cruz, 1481–1534: Visionary Sermons Edited by Jessica A. Boon and Ronald E. Surtz. Introductory material and notes by Jessica A. Boon. Translated by Ronald E. Surtz and Nora Weinerth Volume 47, 2016

CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge and The Misfortunes of Love •

Edited and translated by JONATHAN WALSH

Foreword by MICHEL DELON

Iter Academic Press Toronto, Ontario Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies Tempe, Arizona 2016

Iter Academic Press Tel: 416/978–7074

Email: [email protected]

Fax: 416/978–1668

Web: www.itergateway.org

Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies Email: [email protected] Tel: 480/965–5900 Fax: 480/965–1681

Web: acmrs.org

© 2016 Iter, Inc. and the Arizona Board of Regents for Arizona State University. All rights reserved. Printed in Canada. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Tencin, Claudine Alexandrine Guérin de, 1682–1749, author. | Delon, Michel, writer of foreword. | Walsh, Jonathan, 1962– translator. Title: Memoirs of the count of Comminge and The misfortunes of love / Claudine-Alexandrine Guérin De Tencin ; foreword by Michel Delon ; translation and introduction by Jonathan Walsh. Description: Tempe, Arizona : Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies ; Toronto, Ontario : Iter Academic Press, 2016. | Series: The other voice in early modern Europe: The Toronto series ; 48 | Series: Medieval and renaissance texts and studies ; Volume 499 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016013290 (print) | LCCN 2016021391 (ebook) | ISBN 9780866985543 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780866987226 () Classification: LCC PQ2067.T2 A28 2016 (print) | LCC PQ2067.T2 (ebook) | DDC 843/.5--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016013290 Cover illustration: Portrait of Claudine Alexandrine Guerin de Tencin (1682–1749) (oil on canvas), French School, (18th century) / Musee Dauphinois, Grenoble, France / Bridgeman Images XIR191413. Cover design: Maureen Morin, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries. Typesetting and production: Iter Academic Press.

For Mark Temmer, in memoriam

Contents Acknowledgments

xiii

Foreword by Michel Delon

1

Introduction

7

Note on the Translation

27

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge

29

The Misfortunes of Love

63

Bibliography

141

Acknowledgments I am grateful to Wheaton College in Norton, Massachusetts, for supporting me in this project with a sabbatical and help from students on revisions and bibliographical work. Many thanks to Rachel Lafortune, Daniel Han, and Jocelyn Ryan-Small for their careful reading and suggestions. I especially want to thank Ed Gallagher, whose translations of Marie de France’s Lays and Joseph Bédier’s Tristan and Iseut have garnered much critical praise, for his advice and support throughout the process. Finally, I thank Margaret King and the staff at Iter Academic Press for their patience and editorial expertise.

xiii

Foreword “I resolved at least to be in control of my appearance.” Such is the principle to which one of Claudine-Alexandrine de Tencin’s heroines adheres. She might have added: I resolved to be in control of my speech. Subject to social rules that deny her autonomy as an individual, she refuses to relinquish control of her body and speech. On the contrary, she pursues freedom and self-awareness. Today we live in a world so insistent on spontaneity that we have trouble imagining selfaffirmation in the mastery of physical or linguistic expression. We value the quick comeback, unflinching sincerity, we insist on telling the truth about ourselves directly, even brutally. Today, the spoken word counts more than the written, the immediate more than the deferred. This is no doubt why it is so important for us to read these texts from the past, where the mask of convention and attention to verbal expression amount to an apprenticeship in freedom, and where tears, sobs and fainting never cause the syntax to falter. Jonathan Walsh’s project deserves applause for making available in English these narratives so intimately linked to the clarity of classical French, but which can be expressed in other languages. Over the last several decades we have discovered, in the novels of Jane Austen, a new continent of feminine fiction that is reshaping our understanding of her time. These novels from the early nineteenth century would probably not exist were it not for the the creations of ClaudineAlexandrine de Tencin and others like her from the reign of Louis XV: their author personally experienced the constraints society imposed on all women who dared to affirm their desire or their will. Barred from the political sphere, she at least gained a new type of freedom in her love life, in the direction of her salon, and in her fictional inventions. She gives voice to men and women who, deprived of autonomy, hope to retain control over their words and tell the stories of their lives. The Count of Comminge has no option but to put his memories in writing, to recount his destiny, in the end allowing his beloved to speak–she who, more than the Count, knew a paradoxical form of freedom. Likewise in The Misfortunes of Love, three women unveil their stories of sorrowful existence. Pauline the wealthy bourgeoise, Eugenie the aristocrat, and Hippolyte the commoner, all claim the right to tell the stories of their lives and reveal who they were. Pauline’s son will someday fill his hypothetical memoirs with great accomplishments: “I had him join the royal forces at a young age, where he has enjoyed a brilliant reputation, rising to the highest rank.” Pauline herself refuses such acclaim, delving into the shadows of her suffering in a tête-à-tête with her friend Eugenie, who is equally tormented by existence. When one is not writing to uphold one’s reputation, but to recount a moral adventure, it is possible to elaborate on “every last detail” of one’s life. Authors 1

2 Foreword of memoirs highlight their relationship to everything of importance in historical memory: princes and kings, battles and dynastic changes. The men and women who decide to tell the story of their hearts, who retrace the course of their sorrow, lend new importance to the smallest details. “The Comminge family to which I belong is one of France’s most illustrious,” writes the narrator of the 1735 novel. He was destined to continue the line of a well-known family, but devotion to a religious or dynastic cause gives way to a sacrifice for the cause of love. Henceforth amorous desire, a singular adventure, takes precedence over all traditional values: family honor, the sacrement of matrimony, even religious vows may be sacrificed. The particular replaces the general, in language that remains general and abstract. A perfect example of this language is found in the plural form of abstract terms. We know that in French the abstract meaning of the singular form becomes literal in the shift to plural: honneur becomes honneurs, the concept expressing itself in material ways while remaining abstract. Pauline learns of her mother’s death in childbirth and feels her grief dissipate: “I cannot describe what I felt at that moment.” Preterition introduces a moral transformation. The heroine forgets her quarrels with her mother, remembering only the tendresses [acts of tenderness] the latter had shown her as a child. Tendresses: the physical gestures remain sketched out and subordinate to their meaning, tendresse [tenderness]. Likewise, Pauline and Eugénie express their frustrated love through délicatesses: the plural form of the term occurs at least three times in The Misfortunes of Love. Délicatesse [delicate sensibility] is what characterizes sensitive souls, that aristocracy of the heart, but it is refined by education and experience in society. “But one must not confuse honest candor with familiarity; one learns these delicate distinctions only from worldly experience.” The language grows ever more subtle in distinctions between terms that appear synonymous, where nuance is essential. In discovering the fidelity of the beloved she thought she had lost, Pauline finds herself in an increasingly awkward position with respect to her loving husband: “ My appearance was so altered that Monsieur d’Hacqueville thought I was ill. His care, his tenderness [tendresses] his concern [inquiétudes] only doubled my grief.” The attention takes on a psychological meaning in becoming acts of tenderness and manifestions of worry. The literal shift of meaning in the plural form of abstract terms poses a challenge for the translator. Jonathan Walsh succeeds in finding a palette of structures to render the subtleties in English, the language of pragmatism: the plural abstract, as in French, a noun with an adjective or other modifier, circumlocution when needed. He discusses this challenge in his “Notes on the Translation.” More curious readers will want to consult the original French texts. Today we tend to expect trouble to show up through disturbed language, for confusion of feelings to disrupt the order of speech. The conceit of ClaudineAlexandrine de Tencin, and of French classical literature, is to convey emotional turmoil in the calm tension of the sentence. The clarity of expression reveals

Foreword 3 connections between douleur and douceur [sweetness and sorrow], two terms so phonetically close in French. Thus the Count of Comminge admits: “[m]y tears flowed, and I found in them a kind of sweet satisfaction; when the heart is truly moved, it takes pleasure in all that confirms its unique sensibility.” Here opposite categories come together, complementing each other. Sensibility exists unto itself, indifferent to traditional norms. The claim of sensibility for sensibility’s sake is just as scandalous and troubling in this first half of the eighteenth century as the slogan art for art’s sake a century later. The young Comminge reflects: “… although I felt extremely melancholic, it bore I don’t know what sweetness inseparable, in whatever state of mind I found myself, from the assurance I had that I was in love.” The je ne sais quoi points to the limits of French classical expression, the clearing in the woods where precise language ends, leaving room for suggestion, for questioning, or for religious faith. The disappearance of the beloved Adélaïde, believed lost but then found, only to be lost forever, puts still farther out of reach the paradox of self-satisfying sorrow. Likewise Pauline, the narrator of The Misfortunes of Love, plunges into the bitterness of suffering: “Some suffering brings with it a feeling of sweetness, but that only occurs if we cry over someone we love, not over our own errors.” Generality takes the form of a maxim that explores the paradox of such sweet sorrow, of which Pauline is deprived, having married a man whose death she provoked, before causing the death of the man she loved all along. She nevertheless discovers in the nun Eugénie’s friendly complicity a type of sweetness that one dares not name. The blurring of categories is equally evident in the characters’ willingness to cross dress. Adélaïde goes “… dressed as a man in order to leave the chateau discreetly,” and, so dressed, she is able to enter the male monastery, fooling the entire community up until her final confession. In The Misfortunes of Love, Pauline too dresses as a man in order to search for her beloved: “As I was tall and in good form, the disguise suited me well; I was even more beautiful than in my usual outfits. But I looked so young that my beauty, my delicate complexion, and fine features were not unrealistic.” Verisimilitude is precisely the category of the French classical aesthetic in which the truth of nature meets social norms. The tranquility with which the young widow embraces her newfound freedom and leaves in search of the man she loves breaks all the rules of propriety. But more than her height, it is her moral stature that allows her to be so at ease in male clothing. Hippolyte, the jailor’s daughter who resembles her twin brother, watches over Barbasan, and when the prisoner is released, follows him “dressed in men’s clothes.” More than clothing however, it is the privilege to speak freely about themselves that grants Claudine-Alexandrine de Tencin’s heroines their freedom, just as her male protagonists defend their right, a very feminine one, to renounce any public vocation for the sake of a sentimental choice.

4 Foreword Fictional settings are full of ambiguity. Lovers who confront oppressive social constraints dream of “some far off place in the world” where they can be alone. Comminge and Adélaïde want to free themselves from their fathers’ tyranny: “Let them despise each other as long as they wish, and let us escape to some far off place in the world to enjoy our love and make that our duty.” Eugénie accepts being condemned “to the ends of the earth, ignored by everyone,” if she can count on the moral character of her child’s father. In a farewell letter Barbasan announces to the woman he loves: “Adieu forever; I am going to some remote corner of the world where the memory of my crime will make me as miserable as I deserve to be.” We are reminded of Des Grieux who, in Prévost’s novel, escapes to “the end of the world:” “… some place where I can never again be separated from Manon.”1 The characters of the Canoness de Tencin never escape to America. Their search for an isolated refuge transforms prisons, in which they are locked by their parents and powerful, uncaring officials, into retreats of sorrow and sweetness. Both novels end in convents which lose their religious signification, becoming protected spaces, cocoons for self-reflection and settings for intimate writing. The rituals lend merely an organizational rhythm to the day, observance of divine offices becoming a chance for introspection, and compulsory solitude, desired isolation. Later eighteenth-century fiction exploits the themes sugggested in The Memoirs of the Count of Comminge and The Misfortunes of Love. The archaic chateaux, where Bénavidès confines his wife, where the Duke of N*** plans to sequester his step-daughter, will be more elaborately painted in the gothic novels of Ann Radcliffe and her disciples. Claudine-Alexandrine de Tencin is content to sketch the silhouette of a fortress, to suggest twilight and heavy silences: Comminge discovers his place of exile: “a chateau built at the foot of the Pyrenees, surrounded by pine and cypress trees, steep and arid cliffs, with no other sound than the rapids crashing through the rocks.” Literature has yet to celebrate the sublime horror of steep mountains, but here we already find the mutation of the locus horribilis into a landscape of sensibility, if not a locus amœnus. A word signifying moral danger suddenly acquires the depth of a landscape. Pauline leaves the room where her father is dying as “frightened as she would have been had an abyss opened up” before her. Later on, convinced of her beloved’s betrayal, she agrees to marry Monsieur d’Hacqueville: “This was what kept me from seeing the precipice from which I was about to fall… .” The juxtaposition of the two novels brings out the literal meaning of the word precipice, which might otherwise be reduced to a simple threat, to evoke a perilous cliff in the Pyrenees. One of the last scenes in The Misfortunes of Love takes place in another physical setting, painted by a single word. Pauline wanders in an “old-growth forest,” where she is in the 1. The History of Manon Lescaut and the Chevalier Des Grieux (London: Reeves & Turner, 1888), accessible through Google Books.

Foreword 5 habit of taking her walks. In traditional forestry, the term denotes trees allowed to grow more than a century before being cut down. In the novel, the ancient quality of the forest matters more than the height of the trees, as the following sentence demonstrates: “The silence and the solitude that reigned there cast a kind of horror that matched my state of mind.” The landscape has become the mood. To be moved today our sensibilities need environmental disasters and apocalyptic predictions, feminist movements or violent denunciation of oppression. We exhaust words and use up images. An eighteenth-century author gives us a lesson in the economy of means. She shows us how to say less to signify more. She seeks plenitude in separation and deeper understanding in failure. She also gives new resonance to each word, in each nuance of her sentence, and it is a wonderful challenge to succeed in transposing this into a modern language associated with success and positivity. Michel Delon Translated by Jonathan Walsh

Introduction An “Other Voice” of the Eighteenth Century Immortalized by Diderot as “the beautiful and wicked canoness,”1 the salonnière Claudine-Alexandrine Guérin de Tencin (1682–1749) was, remarkably, a forgotten voice of French literature until well into the twentieth century. The revival of interest in Tencin’s work can be credited to Jean Decottignies, whose 1969 edition of Mémoires du comte de Comminge drew attention to her novels. And in 1983, Éditions Desjonquères was launched with the publication of a dozen works, including Tencin’s Le Siège de Calais, edited by Jean-Pierre Rémy. Since then, her two other finished novels have been published by Desjonquères: a new presentation of Mémoires du comte de Comminge, edited by Michel Delon (1996), and Les Malheurs de l’amour, edited by Erik Leborgne (2001). Tencin’s career as a writer of sentimental fiction might have seemed almost anticlimatic after a life of passion and intrigue in the last decades of the Ancien Régime, but her novels were well received by her contemporaries, and the revival of scholarship on her work in the late 1960s was both merited and timely in the era of feminism and political tumult. Until very recently, however, anglophones could read only two of Tencin’s novels in English: the Mémoires in Charlotte Lennox’s translation of 1756 (reissued in a critical edition of 2011), and the Siège de Calais in a translation of 1740 (reprinted in 1974). Only Les Malheurs de l’amour remained inaccessible to English readers—until now, with this first-ever translation, The Misfortunes of Love, accompanied by a new presentation of the Memoirs. A rereading of the novels, as well as critical essays on Tencin and her work, has shown that hers is an “other voice” not only in terms of her preference for historical novels (nouvelles historiques) but in her understated, classical style, her worldview, and her feminism. There were, moreover, few novels written by women in the first half of the eighteenth century—certainly fewer than in the late seventeenth century, when the “nouvelle historique” became popular. It seemed appropriate, then, to introduce “la belle et scélérate” Tencin to the wider audience of the “Other Voice in Early Modern Europe” series.

1.Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own. Denis Diderot, “Entretien entre d’Alembert et Diderot,” in Œuvres complètes de Diderot, vol. 2 (Paris: Garnier Frères, 1875), 109: “la belle et scélérate chanoinesse Tencin.” Diderot’s reference to Tencin as a “canoness” is a sly allusion to her earlier conventual life.

7

8 Introduction

Coming to Writing Alhough published anonymously in her lifetime, Tencin’s novels drew critical praise, and their success warranted several editions (including translations into German and—by Giacomo Casanova, no less—into Italian). Later in the nineteenth century, interest in her novels waned, and she would be remembered mostly as a historical figure. But what a figure! A significant participant in the great controversies of her time, hostess of one of the most celebrated, long-lasting salons of the Enlightenment, she was as ambitious as any of her male contemporaries. Although she devoted much of her energy to promoting the political and ecclesiastical career of her brother, Pierre (1680–1758), Tencin had many irons in the fire. She led campaigns to elect several authors to the Académie française, participated in the aesthetic debate over the Ancients versus the Moderns, and supported the adoption in France of Clement XI’s papal bull Unigenitus Dei Filius (1713), which condemned Jansenist doctrine in the Catholic Church.2 Her reputation suffered thereafter as she became the relentless target of libels and satire in Jansenist newspapers and pamphlets, which then found their way into popular song and rumor. According to biographers Pierre-Maurice Masson and Jean Sareil,3 much of this reputation consisted of lies. Still, there was enough scandal to turn the mill. Born in Grenoble in 1682, Tencin had been placed in the nearby convent of Montfleury at the age of eight, but rebelled against monastic life and left Montfleury in 1708, ten years after having taken her vows. She was eventually released from her vows in 1712. Once out of the convent and living in Paris with with her sister, Madame de Ferriol,4 she quickly gained a reputation as a sharp-witted, cultivated socialite who—although never marrying—had liaisons with a number of powerful men. Among the names confirmed by biographers were Philippe d’Orléans (before he served as Regent for Louis XV) and the artillery officer Louis-Camus Destouches, with whom Tencin had a son who would become famous as Jean le Rond d’Alembert. The future mathematician and philosophe began his life as an 2. The Jansenist view of Christianity—which took hold primarily in France—emphasized original sin and the innate depravity of a humanity redeemable only through the grace of God, as well as the concept of predestination. Jansenism took its name from the Dutch theologian Cornelius Jansen (1585–1638), whose posthumously-published manuscript explained his theories. Interestingly, the poet Louis Racine, a Jansenist like his playwright father Jean, was a guest at Tencin’s salon. 3. See Pierre-Maurice Masson, Madame de Tencin (1682–1749) (Paris: Hachette, 1909; rpt. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1970), and Jean Sareil, Les Tencin: Histoire d’une famille au dix-huitième siècle, d’après de nombreux documents inédits (Geneva: Droz, 1970). 4. Marie-Angélique de Ferriol (1674–1736), whose husband was the receiver-general for the Dauphin of France at the time of their wedding: Sareil, 18. Marie-Angélique took into her household the fouryear-old child Charlotte Aïssé, who would later become a celebrated beauty and letter-writer and whose surname resembles that of the young Eugénie in The Misfortunes of Love.

Introduction 9 infant left on the steps of the Church of Saint-Jean-le-Rond (after which he was named), abandoned there by his mother and never acknowledged by her—although Destouches arranged to have him raised by a glazier’s wife, and supported him financially throughout his life. Among the other men linked to Tencin were Viscount Bolingbroke (who had escaped to France after the failure of the Jacobite cause in Britain), the poet Matthew Prior, the cardinal Guillaume Dubois—and a tall, handsome soldier named Charles La Fresnais, who committed suicide in her Paris home in 1726 while the house was bustling with guests, leaving behind a note accusing her of infidelity and of causing his financial ruin. The latter accusation, although likely a case of sour grapes due to his own financial ineptitude, led to a faulty, politicallycharged investigation that landed Tencin in the Bastille (where Voltaire happened to be in residence) for almost two months before being formally acquitted. Tencin and her brother had earlier been allied with John Law, the Scottishborn economist who created a private centralized bank in France—based on the sale of stock from investments in Mississippi—in order to save the country from bankruptcy. The Tencins profited greatly from this venture (Claudine-Alexandrine herself launched a short-lived investment brokerage of her own on rue Quincampoix in 1719) before its spectacular failure led to soaring food prices, riots in the streets, and the collapse of France’s Banque Générale in 1720. The ambitions of Pierre Tencin, to whom Claudine devoted herself and through whom she lived vicariously, led him to be named Archbishop of Embrun by Louis XV in 1724. He eventually rose to the rank of cardinal in 1739, but never—despite his sister’s relentless efforts—to the political post he so coveted: that of the king’s chief minister, a position already being capably fulfilled by Cardinal André-Hercule Fleury (who in fact succeeded in repairing the financial damage done by John Law). When James Stuart, the exiled “Old Pretender” to the thrones of England and Scotland, nominated Pierre to the College of Cardinals in 1728, Fleury vetoed the nomination in the interests of maintaining peace with Britain.5 Claudine’s activities on behalf of her brother and the anti-Jansenist cause were also monitored closely by Fleury, who ordered her into exile from Paris in 1730 and forced her to stay out of political and religious matters. Although Tencin would return to Paris some time later on conditions imposed by Fleury, her brief exile—coupled with La Fresnais’s suicide —led her to pursue a more intellectual life, if not necessarily a subdued one. Having been a regular guest at the much-admired salon of the Marquise de Lambert,6 she went on to host her own salon after Lambert’s death, inheriting most of the philosophes 5. See Edward Gregg, “Monarchs Without a Crown,” in Royal and Republican Sovereignty in Early Modern Europe: Essays in Memory of Ragnhild Hatton, edited by Robert Oresko, G.C. Gibbs, and H.M. Scott (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 404–6. 6. Anne-Thérèse de Marguenat de Courcelles (1647–1733), Marquise de Lambert.

10 Introduction on Lambert’s guest list, including Fontenelle, Marivaux, Montesquieu, Piron, Duclos, Mirabaud, Mairan, Réaumur, and Astruc, among others. Tencin turned to writing late in life, publishing the Memoirs of the Count of Comminge in 1735 at age fifty-three. The Siege of Calais, an historical novel loosely based on Edward III’s fourteenth-century siege of that city, appeared four years later. After another hiatus, she published The Misfortunes of Love (1747) and began a fourth novel, Anecdotes of the Court and Reign of Edward II of England, left unfinished at her death in 1749 but later completed by AnneLouise Elie de Beaumont and published in 1766.7 The first three were successes, and despite anonymous publication (common for authors of this period), only those in her inner circle knew that she had authored them.8 Critical reviews of Tencin’s work focused mainly on her style, which Voltaire praised in a letter to Mademoiselle Quinault: “I am currently reading Le Siège de Calais … [and] finding a pure and natural style for which I have been searching a long time.”9 In Le pour et contre, despite his disappointment about the Memoirs’ implausible ending, Abbé Prévost agrees with the “unanimous public opinion” that the novel was well written, praising Tencin’s style as spirited, elegant, refined, and pure.10 According to Decottignies, Tencin’s style lived up to the ideal described by Fontenelle in his Réflexions sur la poétique: “A single brush stroke brings to mind a vivid idea … conversations … gather in a minimum of words everything that is most apt to touch the heart.”11 Tencin chose to write in a genre known today as the feminine historical novel, which originated in 1678 with Marie-Madeleine de Lafayette’s La Princesse

7. A fifth novel, Histoire d’une religieuse écrite par elle-même (The Story of a Nun, Written by Herself) which appeared in a 1786 volume of the Bibliothèque universelle des romans was mistakenly attributed to Tencin. Franco Piva attributes it to Jean-François de Bastide: “Sull’attribuzione dell’Histoire d’une religieuse écrite par elle-même,” Quaderni di lingue e letterature straniere, no. 22 (1997): 121–39. 8. Some have attributed authorship of the novels to Tencin’s nephew, Antoine de Ferriol de Pont-deVeyle, a name which appears on the eighteenth-century English translations; Masson, however, shows convincingly that Pont-de-Veyle could not have written them, based on his own very different style. Montesquieu, a regular in Tencin’s salon and a close friend, confirmed after her death that she was indeed the author of the novels. See Masson, 131–33. 9. “Je lis actuellement le Siège de Calais; j’y trouve un style pur et naturel que je cherchais depuis longtemps.” Letter to Mademoiselle Quinault, in Brussels, July 27, 1739, in Œuvres complètes de Voltaire, Vol. 35 (Paris: Garnier Frères, 1880), 306. 10. Abbé Prévost, Œuvres de Prévost. Vol. 7 (Grenoble: Presses Universitaires de Grenoble, 1978), 499. 11. “Un seul trait vous porte dans l’esprit une idée vive … Les conversations … rassemblent en fort peu d’espace tout ce qui étoit fait pour aller au cœur.” Bernard Le Bovier de Fontenelle, “Lettre sur Eléonore d’Yvrée, ou les Malheurs de l’Amour, petit Roman de Mademoiselle Bernard, imprimé pour la première fois en 1687,” in Œuvres, vol. 11 (Paris: Saillant, 1766), 230, as quoted by Jean Decottignies in his introduction to Mémoires du Comte de Comminge (Lille: Librairie René Giard, 1969), 38–39.

Introduction 11 de Clèves.12 More precisely, it was the “historical novel of gallantry,” a story of the danger of passion among the nobility at a time of arranged marriages, when women without dowries often ended up in convents at a tender age—like Tencin herself.13 Given her sharp wit and impudence, for which her letters provide ample evidence, one would imagine her the author of satire or, as several critics have remarked, of picaresque stories like those of Voltaire, Lesage, Mouhy, or Crébillon fils.14 Given her colorful life too, one would expect some of her adventures to show up in her fiction; as Masson remarks: “[i]t seems almost impossible that the memories of such a gripping reality did not find their way into her imagination, and that for her the novel did not serve as an adaptation, more or less unconscious, of her past.” However, Masson warns us, “such are the needs of the romantic reader, accustomed to seeing literature as life traced on paper.”15 Instead, Tencin’s novels are highly sentimental stories about the misfortunes of love that take place in settings anticipating romanticism, even at times the gloom of the Gothic novel. The novels of the feminine historical tradition, as Shirley Jones has shown, are characterized by the rigorous moral virtue of their heroines, although they sometimes eschew literary propriety, or bienséance, in their depiction of moral weakness and, occasionally, bourgeois or peasant characters.16 Others associated with this school were the Countess d’Aulnoy and Marie-Catherine de Villedieu, as well as Catherine Bernard, the niece of Thomas and Pierre Corneille and a cousin of Fontenelle.17 Better known for her tragedies, Bernard also wrote a novel whose title Tencin would borrow for her second novel: Les Malheurs de l’amour. Bernard’s Malheurs was one of two short works written in the vein of La Fayette’s Princess de Clèves, and indeed La Fayette remained the touchstone for the feminine historical novel. As one critic wrote in the Spectateur français in 1805, La Fayette “had the merit of having reformed the novel as a genre. She was the 12. La Princesse de Clèves was the third novel by Madame de La Fayette (1634–93), and the last to be published in her lifetime. 13. See Pierre-Jean Rémy’s discussion of the “nouvelle historique” and “nouvelle historique et galante” in his introduction to Le Siège de Calais (Paris: Desjonquères, 1983), xv. 14. Voltaire’s magnum opus Candide (1759) was written in the picaresque tradition of works such as Alain-René Lesage’s classic Gil Blas (1715); Charles de Fieux de Mouhy and Claude-Prosper Jolyot Crébillon the younger also wrote in this vein. 15. “Il nous semble même presque impossible que les souvenirs d’une réalité si prenante ne se soient pas imposés à son imagination, et que le roman n’ait pas été chez elle une transposition, plus ou moins inconsciente, de son passé. Ce sont là besoins de lecteur romantique, habitué à prendre la littérature comme un décalque de la vie.” Masson, 130. 16. Shirley Jones, “Madame de Tencin: An Eighteenth-Century Woman Novelist,” in Woman and Society in Eighteenth-Century France: Essays in Honour of John Stevenson Spink, ed. Eva Jacobs et al. (London: Athlone Press, 1979), 210. 17. Marie-Catherine Le Jumel de Barneville, Baroness d’Aulnoy (1650–1705), Marie-Catherine de Villedieu (1640–83), and Catherine Bernard (1662–1712).

12 Introduction first who, in her ingenious stories full of real sensibility, replaced adventures with sentiment and substituted chimeric beings with men such as they are.”18 Although Tencin takes up the tradition of the “misfortunes of virtue,” her novels differ from those of her predecessors in the degree to which they subvert social and religious norms. The immorality portrayed is not that of the heroines but the men or women who exploit them, whether for material or sexual reasons. The Memoirs were particularly subversive in terms of religion, considering Adélaïde’s quasi-blasphemous deathbed confession: “Far from feeling thankful that [Comminge] was on the path to salvation, I blasphemed the Lord for having taken him from me… . I watched as an angry God pressed him with the weight of his almighty hand. I believed that the love that I bore even to the foot of altars had drawn divine vengeance on the object of that love” (Memoirs, 60).19 Still, the question posed by Jones continues to puzzle readers today: “why did women novelists, including Mme de Tencin, writing in the 1730s, choose to cling to a musty historical décor when the novel was beginning to emancipate itself from the shackles of classical aesthetics and adopt a more immediate view of reality?”20 Jones offers three possible explanations. First, history had become a literary subgenre which women could exploit without risk to their reputation; one must remember that in the 1730s the novel was still very much a maligned, unproven genre (compared to theater and verse), and women were less likely than their male counterparts to venture into a picaresque realism so removed from the aesthetic norms of bienséance. Second, the role of historical novelist gave women an instrument of revenge, as it were, for the limits placed on their sex; they now had the opportunity to rewrite history. Third, the frequent choice of settings of these novels, in the late Middle Ages and Renaissance, brought with it the ethos of chivalry and chivalric love, which La Fayette and her followers “sought to extol.” And taking into account the belief, “current at that time, that the Middle Ages were also a period of gloom and violence, one readily understands its appeal for exponents of the sentimental novel.”21 This is arguably the most convincing of the reasons for Tencin’s choice of an outdated genre; the temporal setting lent itself well to a feminine sensibility, one which the quasi-realism of Lesage, Mouhy, 18. “Sur les Œuvres de Mmes de la Fayette et de Tencin,” Spectateur français au dix-neuvième siècle, vol. 2 (1805), 637: “Madame de la Fayette a le mérite d’avoir réformé le genre des romans. Elle est la première qui, dans ses fictions ingénieuses et pleines d’une sensibilité vraie, ait mis les sentimens à la place des aventures, et substitué à des êtres chimériques, les hommes tels qu’ils sont.” 19. Mémoires, 173 and 178: “loin de benir le Seigneur de l’avoir mis dans la voie sainte, je blasphemai contre lui de me l’avoir ôté. … je vis Dieu irrité appesantir sa main toute puissante sur lui; je crus que cet amour que je portais jusqu’aux pieds des autels, avait attiré la vengeance celeste sur celui qui en était l’objet.” All French quotations in the notes are taken from the first edition (1735) of the Mémoires (hereafter cited as “Mémoires”). 20. Jones, 211. 21. Jones, 212.

Introduction 13 or Crébillon fils did not accommodate. Furthermore, historical distance, like the geographical or cultural distance in exotic literature, added a buffer to any commentary or social criticism that might have been controversial by making it indirectly.

Enlightened Sensibility As Michel Delon suggests in his introduction to Mémoires du Comte de Comminge, Tencin’s choice of historical settings (spanning from the late Middle Ages to the seventeenth century) may be explained by the fact that “sensitive souls, as in the great Baroque novel, create the extraordinary circumstances they need in order to fully realize their capacity to love and to suffer.”22 In the words of the Count of Comminge: “when the heart is truly moved, it takes pleasure in all that confirms its unique sensibility” (Memoirs, 40)23—in other words, an ideal framework in which to explore the emotions. Tencin takes what had become in the feminine historical novels a “cult of suffering” to darker places full of pathos. In this respect, her interest in representing complex emotions in tragic circumstances links her work to her British contemporary Samuel Richardson, and to Abbé Prévost, whose primary goal (as one of his fictional editors exclaims) was “[t]o penetrate the human heart, which we think of as impenetrable! Yes, if despite popular belief, certain unknown passages, formed by nature, gave access to those who could discover them.”24 As Pierre Masson observes, Tencin “never intended to disorient her (mostly female) readers by presenting them with strange characters in exotic landscapes. It seems on the contrary that she remained voluntarily faithful to all the outdated conventions of the traditional novel, to draw attention mainly to minute psychological details.”25 Freudians of their time, authors like Abbé Prévost, Tencin, and Pierre Marivaux shared a quasi-scientific interest in the emotions, influenced partly by Descartes’ Passions of the Soul—although sentiment in early eighteenth-century literature took on a more positive meaning than passion for Descartes or Racine, 22. See the cover of Delon’s edition of Mémoires du Comte de Comminge: “Les âmes sensibles, comme dans le grand roman baroque, créent les circonstances extraordinaires dont elles ont besoin pour connaître toute leur faculté d’aimer et de souffrir.” Paris: Desjonquères, 1996. 23. Mémoires, 54: “quand le cœur est véritablement touché, il sent du plaisir à tout ce qui lui prouve à lui-même sa propre sensibilité.” 24. Abbé Prévost, Le monde moral, in Œuvres de Prévost, vol. 6 (Grenoble: Presses Universitaires de Grenoble, 1984), 289. 25. “Aussi bien n’était-ce pas son intention de dépayser ses lectrices, en leur montrant des figures inconnues dans des paysages exotiques. Il semblerait même qu’elle soit restée volontairement fidèle à tous ces procédés surannés du roman traditionnel, pour ramener plus sûrement l’attention sur les menus détails psychologiques.” Masson, 154.

14 Introduction becoming, as Philip Stewart has shown, a more subtle and varied concept.26 The quest to delve further into psychology also grew out of the feminine-led salons, from those of the Marquise de Rambouillet27 in the mid-seventeeth century to those of the Marquise de Lambert and Tencin in the eighteenth, in which emotions of the heart were a source of great curiosity and intellectual pleasure— “jouissance,” in Masson’s words.28 An ever-present figure in the salons of Lambert and Tencin, and one who would outlive them all, was Fontenelle, an enthusiastic proponent of this kind of inquiry, which he called “the singularity or the delicate bizarreness of the effects of passion.”29 This is what critics of the time called the “metaphysics of sentiment,” or in Lambert’s case, “the metaphysics of love.”30 Tencin’s novels in fact drew upon a mix of genres: the baroque novel of adventures, the fictional “histories” of which La Princesse de Clèves was the model, and the fictionalized memoirs and epistolary novels made popular by Prévost, Marivaux, and Montesquieu. As Jean Decottignies argues in the preface to Memoirs of the Count of Comminge, there is really very little truly original in the novel in terms of invention and topoi. Like La Fayette, d’Aulnoy, and Bernard, Tencin found in the roman d’aventures—still a very popular genre in her day and somewhat of a guilty pleasure for writers like Voltaire—a likely backdrop for the portrayal of intense emotions, especially those stemming from the suffering associated with passion, incompatible as it was, even in the eighteenth century, with the social structure. In Tencin’s work, the “cult of suffering,” with roots in troubadourian lyrics and Petrarch’s poetry, allows for a deeper psychological inquiry and memory.31 The opening lines of the Memoirs, her first work, state what would become a recurring theme in her fiction: “In writing my memoirs, I hope for nothing other than to recall every last detail of my misfortunes, and to engrave them deeper still, if possible, into my memory” (Memoirs, 31).32 26. See Philip Stewart, L’invention du sentiment: Roman et économie affective au XVIIIe siècle (Oxford: Voltaire Foundation, 2010), 2. 27. Catherine de Vivonne, Marquise de Rambouillet (1588–1665), whose salon guests included Madame de La Fayette. 28. See Masson, 201–3. 29. “La singularité ou la bizarrerie délicate des effets d’une passion.” Bernard Le Bovier de Fontenelle, Réflexions sur la Poétique, in Œuvres, vol. 4 (Paris: Salmon, 1825), 320, as quoted by Decottignies, introduction to Mémoires, 37. 30. See Jean Sgard, Prévost romancier (Librairie José Corti, 1989), 170. 31. See, for example, poem 61 of the Canzoniere: “And blessed be that first sweet breathlessness / That caught at me as I was bound to Love, / The bow, the darts that pierced me, be they blest / And wounds so deep they struck me to the heart.” “Affano” is translated literally as breathlessness here. Figuratively it signifies “grief, anxiety, stress.” See James Wyatt Cook, trans., Petrarch’s Songbook: Rerum vulgarium fragmenta (Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1996), 101. 32. Mémoires, 1: “Je n’ai d’autre dessein en écrivant les Mémoires de ma vie, que de rappeller les plus petites circonstances de mes malheurs, et de les graver, s’il est possible, plus profondément dans mon

Introduction 15 Tencin was not the only author of her time to exploit the historical memoir and elements of the old but still popular roman d’aventures. In 1735, she would certainly have read the first five volumes of Prévost’s Cleveland, a lengthy novel full of transatlantic crossings, duels, shipwrecks, tragic quid pro quos, and reflections of the narrator (a bastard son of Oliver Cromwell), who claims to be the most unfortunate man on earth. In this novel, Prévost grafted a new narrative device onto an old genre—a study of the narrator’s emotions and those of secondary, embedded narrators, and a type of contract with the reader, which Prévost’s narrators make explicit. They challenge the reader’s sensibility, soliciting his or her capacity to empathize. “One must have felt the pains of another,” Cleveland tells us, “or have at least felt that one can experience them, to take in interest in them through compassion.”33 Unlike Prévost’s narrators, who occasionally address the reader, Tencin never makes such asides. Nonetheless, two elements of her fiction challenge the reader’s sensibility: on the one hand, the modeling of empathetic listening within the narrative, to which there are references throughout the Memoirs and The Misfortunes of Love; on the other hand, the numerous maxims which punctuate the narrative, engaging the reader with more universal thoughts which take us out of the narrative, like the essayistic thoughts of the “philosophe anglais,” Cleveland. In the Memoirs, the narrator’s father despises his cousin and rival, the Marquis de Lussan, father of Adélaïde. The narrator, under a false identity, encounters Adélaïde by chance, falls helplessly in love, and wins her love. He fights over her in a duel, and saves her at the scene of a carriage accident upon which he happens (an implausible coincidence typical of the roman d’aventures). But his father vehemently opposes their marriage, locking his son up in a chateau to prevent it. To free him, Adélaïde sacrifices herself by marrying the unlikeable, unattractive Marquis de Bénavidès. After several months, the free but despairing Comminge enters the Bénavidès chateau masquerading as a painter. Caught kneeling at Adélaïde’s feet by her husband in what he intends as a final adieu, he defends himself against Bénavidès, whom he wounds badly. Later, believing Adélaïde to have died from an illness as her husband had announced publicly, he retreats to a Cistercian abbey. Years later, the deathbed confession of a fellow monk turns out to be that of Adélaïde. Freed by the death of her husband, who had had her secretly locked up for two years, she is on her way to the convent where she intends to spend the rest of her days when she is mysteriously drawn to the Cistercian abbey and recognizes Comminge’s voice singing among those of the monks. She disguises herself as a monk in order to be near him. Determined to respect his repose there, she does not speak to him or reveal her identity, observing him in souvenir.” 33. “Il faut avoir éprouvé les douleurs qu’un autre sent,” Cleveland tells us, “ou sentir du moins qu’on peut les éprouver, pour être capable de s’y intéresser par la compassion …” Œuvres de Prévost, II, 378.

16 Introduction silence as he mourns her and performs acts of humility required of Cistercians, like digging his own grave—a reminder that the cloister is comparable to death, “to bury[ing] yourself alive,” as Eugénie tells Pauline in The Misfortunes of Love.34 In the Mémoirs we see several traits that Suzanne Keen identifies in her research on novels most apt to solicit readers’ empathy—namely, first-person memoirs which, like epistolary novels, establish an intimate link with the reader, and the example of empathetic listening/reading within the narrative.35 Keen notes, based on empirical studies of reader reactions, that empathy is more likely to be elicited by imaginary, unrealistic narratives (as opposed to those representing reality as experienced by readers). Tencin’s choice of distant historical settings and borrowings from the fanciful roman d’aventure serve as good examples of this, even from an eighteenth-century reader’s perspective. As well, by challenging the reader’s sensibility, Tencin’s narrators allow us to be among the “in-group” (in Keen’s phrase) of sensitive souls capable of understanding the code of sensibility. Again, as in Cleveland and Memoirs of a Man of Quality, the narrator enjoys exclusive communication with others who share his heightened sensibility, notably Adélaïde: “Hearts as sensitive as ours understand each other instantly: they know all forms of expression” (Memoirs, 34).36 Like the narrator of Misfortunes, communication with the beloved requires only a glance, and at times emotional pain takes the place of words: “the pain I felt expressed my feelings better than words” (Memoirs, 39), a subtle language to which the reader is privy.37 Prévost’s narrators often challenge the reader’s sensibility by implying that only those who have felt the emotions described by the narrator can fully understand his or her account. Des Grieux enjoins the reader to be as sensitive to Manon Lescaut’s contrition by implying that to do otherwise would be barbarous: “What barbarian could have remained unmoved in the face of such sincere, such tender, remorse?”38 He later suggests that there exists a nobility of character not 34. Malheurs (Première partie), 245: “vous enterrer toute vive.” All French quotations in the notes are taken from the first edition (1747) of Les Malheurs de l’amour (hereafter cited as “Malheurs” and specifying Part One [Première partie] or Part Two [Seconde partie], the latter consisting largely of Eugénie’s story). 35. Suzanne Keen, Empathy and the Novel (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 96–97. 36. Mémoires, 22: “Les cœurs aussi sensibles que les nôtres s’entendent bien vite: tout est expressif pour eux.” The last volume of the lengthy Memoirs of a Man of Quality (1728–31), Prévost’s first novel, contains The History of Manon Lescaut and the Chevalier des Grieux; the story became so popular that it was published in a tome by itself and remains the Abbé’s best known work, especially with the nineteenth-century operatic settings of the novel by Puccini and Massenet. 37. Mémoires, 51: “ma douleur lui parla pour moi, bien mieux que je n’eusse pu faire.” 38. George D. Gribble, trans., The History of Manon Lescaut and the Chevalier Des Grieux, by Abbé Prévost (New York: E.P. Dutton & Co., 1925), 95. Frédéric Deloffre and Raymond Picard, eds., Histoire du Chevalier des Grieux et de Manon Lescaut by Abbé Prévost (Paris: Garnier Frères, 1965), 47: “Où trouver un barbare qu’un repentir si vif et si tendre n’eût pas touché?”

Introduction 17 found in the average person: “people of a finer mould can be moved in a thousand ways; it is as though they possessed more than five senses and were receptive of ideas and sensations which lie outside the ordinary faculties of human nature.”39 Tencin’s narrators appeal to the reader’s sensibilities less directly, mainly through the interactions of the protagonists and those who understand them, but occasionally in the form of maxims referring to sensitive souls as a privileged group, as, for example the communication between Comminge and Adélaïde, whose sensitive hearts “understand each other instantly.” The references to an “in-group” serve as reminders to the reader of her or his access to this un-happy few. In Misfortunes, Tencin continues to exploit the pathos of “destructive eros,” mining the sentimental drama it creates in an early sixteenth-century setting.40 It is in fact the story of three women: Pauline, the principal narrator, mentored by the nun Eugénie, whose story serves as a caution to her protégée, and finally Hippolyte, a woman who falls in love with and bears a child by Barbasan, only to realize that he had loved Pauline all along. Briefly, when the wealthy bourgeois heiress (Pauline) first comes out of the convent, she falls in love with Barbasan, a noble whose status fails to impress her ambitious mother, determined to marry her to someone connected to the court. Accused of murder after a fatal duel and imprisoned, Barbasan manages to flee to Frankfurt with the help of the jailer’s daughter (Hippolyte). Learning of his exile there, Pauline follows him, only to see him in church with Hippolyte. She assumes that Barbasan has betrayed her, while in fact the duel that imprisoned him was part of a scheme by her greedy new stepfather to prevent her from marrying and bearing heirs. Taking Eugénie’s advice, she marries a doting, much older Monsieur de Hacqueville, mainly to avenge what she considered Barbasan’s betrayal. Eugénie tells a similar story of betrayal, lost love, and a marriage that is meant to avenge herself but turns out to be yet another betrayal. She gives birth to a child fathered by the Count of Blanchefort, who soon regrets his attachment and marriage proposal because of Eugénie’s low social status, and abandons them. When the child later dies, she returns to the convent in despair, only to learn that she is of noble descent and heiress to a great fortune. La Valette, her beloved, returns to explain that despite an engagement he broke off and a byzantine series of misunderstandings, he had loved her all along. Eugénie, still dutiful though an abandoned wife, determined to live out her life in retreat, begs him to leave her, but he cannot. In the end, the two share “the charm of a friendship both tender and lasting,” to which La Valette would “devote himself entirely” (Misfortunes,

39. Gribble, 128. Deloffre and Picard, 47 and 81: “les personnes d’un caractère plus noble peuvent être remuées de mille façons différentes”; “il semble qu’elles aient plus de cinq sens, et qu’elles puissent recevoir des idées et des sensations qui passent les bornes ordinaires de la nature.” 40. See Erik Leborgne, introduction to Les Malheurs de l’amour (Paris: Desjonquères, 2001), 11.

18 Introduction 121).41 This unexpected ending, of love transformed into platonic friendship and renunciation of passion, recalls that of Françoise de Graffigny’s Lettres d’une Péruvienne (also from 1747), an historical novel of letters resembling a memoir, in which a Peruvian princess exiled in France (to escape the Conquistadors’ invasion) resists a suitor’s efforts to marry her.42 They too forego passion to conserve their energy (“économiser nos ressources”) in close friendship, Zilia retreating to a country home not unlike a convent. The Misfortunes of Love ends with Hippolyte’s deathbed confession and Pauline’s belated forgiveness of Barbasan, whose child she adopts. Pauline and Eugénie, like Adélaïde of the Memoirs, remain committed to marital duty despite their suffering, and, like Madame de La Fayette’s princesse, retreat to the convent in search of peace (“repos”).43

The “Cult of Suffering” The suffering that Tencin depicts in all her novels creates a poignant sense of tragedy which aims to provoke, if not catharsis, then the emotions of the protagonists in the reader. The aging narrator of the Memoirs so values the memory of the misfortunes themselves, he suggests, that he must (rather masochistically) “engrave them” in his memory to relive both his love for Adélaïde and the pain it caused. As in Cleveland, suffering is often accompanied by a certain joy, even elation, forming a leitmotif throughout the Memoirs and Misfortunes: for the Count of Comminge, the idea of confronting his father with his determination to marry Adélaïde, and the pain of having to wait for his return home, fills his heart “with a feeling close to joy” (Memoirs, 41).44 Examples abound of pain or suffering mixed with the pleasure of indulging in those thoughts: cut off from Adélaïde forever after badly wounding her husband, Comminge plans to escape to a place where he would let himself “fall altogether prey to my suffering. The idea of making myself even more miserable than I was seemed almost pleasurable” (Memoirs, 52).45 He is not the only character who seems to relish misfortune; in love with him, but 41. Malheurs (Seconde partie), 179–80: “les charmes de la plus tendre et de la plus solide amitié … [pour laquelle] il voulait se garder tout entier.” 42. Françoise de Graffigny (1695–1758) was also a salonnière, as well as a playwright. Her Lettres d’une Péruvienne resembles a memoir because the reader sees only the heroine’s letters, and thus only her perspective. 43. Early in the story, Pauline declares that she would rather enter a convent than marry the marquis selected for her. Eugénie then asks her: “Do you fancy yourself the heroine of a novel, who locks herself in a cloister because she does not get the suitor of her choice?”(Misfortunes, 76). 44. Mémoires, 60: “un sentiment qui approchait presque de la joie.” 45. Mémoires, 129: “où je pusse être en proie à toute ma douleur. J’imaginais presqu’un plaisir à me rendre encore plus misérable que je ne l’étais.”

Introduction 19 anticipating the obstacles they face, Adélaïde admits: “I foresee only misfortune, and yet I feel such pleasure in my feelings for you” (Memoirs, 36).46 In Misfortunes, the characters’ emotional suffering appears to increase exponentially as the story unfolds: as Hippolyte asks, “How could I imagine that misfortune a thousand times worse awaited me?” (Misfortunes, 130).47 The tragedy again stems from an ironic misunderstanding and circumstances beyond the heroine’s control, which make passion destructive and painful; when Eugénie fears that Barbasan will hang for the fatal duel he survives, she feels as though she were on the scaffold, and cannot conceive that those who were actually about to die could be in a state more deplorable than hers. Suffering takes a physical toll in Misfortunes, often associated with suffocation: “the pain suffocated me” / “choked by tears” / “choked by tears and sobbing” (Misfortunes, 120).48 But as in Cleveland and the Memoirs, suffering, especially for love, is delectable. A new misfortune, Pauline explains, is nourishment for an already suffering heart—“as though more suffering brought with it a sort of relief.”49 These seemingly masochistic descriptions of consolation in suffering are contingent on the heroine’s virtue; as Pauline remarks: “Some suffering brings with it a pleasant sort of feeling, but that only occurs if we cry over someone we love, not over our own errors” (Misfortunes, 134).50 Likewise, Hippolyte, the jailer’s daughter who relentlessly pursues Barbasan despite signs that he is in love with someone else, reflects: “[m]y suffering does not warrant telling. It is merely the result of my waywardness” (Misfortunes, 125).51 The pain that Tencin’s protagonists savor is that of the misfortunes of virtue or of heroic love, which they sublimate. But the pleasure so often referred to in the context of suffering from love lost may not be masochistic so much as confessional, linked to the act of narration, both within the story with empathetic interlocutors and outside the text with the reader. The embedded stories within the main narrative of Misfortunes create a polyphony that solicits readers’ empathy all the more as Pauline hears Eugénie’s tale, 46. Mémoires, 30–31: “Je n’envisage que des malheurs, et cependant je trouve du plaisir à sentir ce que je sens pour vous.” 47. Malheurs (Seconde partie), 249: “Comment m’imaginer que des malheurs mille fois plus grands m’attendaient encore?” 48. Malheurs (Première partie): “la douleur me suffoquait” (132) / “nos larmes nous suffoquaient” (189); Malheurs (Seconde partie): “suffoqué par ses larmes et par ses sanglots” (168). 49. Malheurs (Première partie), 207: “il semble qu’on trouve une espèce de soulagement à voir croître ses peines.” 50. Malheurs (Seconde partie), 285–86: “Il y a des douleurs qui portent avec elles une sorte de douceur; mais il faut … n’avoir à pleurer que ce qu’on aime, et n’avoir pas à pleurer ses propres fautes.” 51. Malheurs (Seconde partie), 211: “mes peines ne méritent pas d’être contées; elles ne sont que trop dûes à mes folies.”

20 Introduction so like her own, Eugénie herself having been portrayed as empathetic to Pauline’s story: “She suffered along with me, and, in doing so, gave me the only consolation that could make a difference” (Misfortunes, 88).52 And there are minor characters within embedded stories that model similar listening—for example, Eugénie’s own mentor in the convent, Madame du Paraclet, whose pity “brought her even closer to the unfortunate young woman” (Misfortunes, 110).53 In addition, while the Memoirs are framed by the conventional device of a fictional editor finding an authentic manuscript, Misfortunes and The Siege of Calais are dedicated to individuals with whom the author appears on intimate terms: “I write for you alone. The only success I hope for is to pay you homage. You are the world to me” (Misfortunes, 64).54 Although we will never know to whom these epistles were dedicated, some scholars suggest that they were fictional persons—in which case one could say that the modeling of empathetic reading extends to a second person implied reader, “vous,” over whose shoulder, so to speak, the reader is allowed to look on in turn (recalling the notion of an “in-group” of readers). Likewise, within the story, Pauline remembers devouring novels in the convent, and how her natural sensibility made this so pleasurable: “I took a keen interest in my heroes; their happiness and misfortunes were my own” (Misfortunes, 69).55 Although the most prevalent theme of Misfortunes, as in the Memoirs, is emotional suffering (“douleur”), Tencin focuses not just on suffering, but on the complexity and simultaneity of emotions, often indescribable, and left to the imagination of the listener. “How can I do justice to what I felt in my heart?” Hippolyte asks, echoing other characters’ frustrations (Misfortunes, 126).56 There are also attempts to depict the dynamics of emotions, usually expressed in the form of maxims. “How quickly passion carries us away as soon as we concede to it in the least!” Pauline says, early in the novel, of her love for Barbasan (Misfortunes, 79). Much later, writing of Monsieur d’Hacqueville, she reflects: “Respect, friendship, gratitude formed together a sort of illusory emotion, and by dint of wanting to love him, I convinced myself that I did love him, hoping to escape from the constraint that trapped us” (Misfortunes, 123).57 These nuances of emotion, the 52. Malheurs (Première partie), 177: “elle s’affligeait avec moi, et me donnait par là la seule consolation dont j’étais susceptible.” 53. Malheurs (Seconde partie), 90: “[Sa] pitié … l’attachait encore plus fortement à cette malheureuse fille.” 54. Malheurs (Première partie), Épitre dédicatoire à M…: “Je n’écris que pour vous. Je ne désire des succès que pour vous en faire hommage. Vous êtes l’Univers pour moi.” 55. Malheurs (Première partie), 36: “Je m’intéressais à mes héros, leur malheur et leur bonheur étaient les miens.” 56. Malheurs (Seconde partie), 221: “Comment vous peindre ce qui se passait dans mon cœur!” 57. Malheurs (Première partie), 111: “Avec quelle rapidité les passions nous emportent dès que nous leur avons cédé le moins du monde!” Malheurs (Seconde partie), 198: “L’estime, l’amitié, la reconnaissance

Introduction 21 “inner workings of the heart” that fascinated authors like Fontenelle, Marivaux, and Prévost, represented in their eyes a hidden dimension of human existence not unlike, to use Prévost’s metaphor, another continent (what we would call the unconscious) to which the discovery of some “unknown passage” might grant access.

Cloisters, Prisons, Solitude Another topos common to the feminine historical novels following in the wake of La Princesse de Clèves are the prisons, both real and metaphorical, of which the cloister is often a figure in Tencin’s fiction. She makes heavy use of somber settings: convents, monasteries, family and royal prisons, and the dark forests of the Gévaudan (Lozère), for which Comminge expresses a pre-Rousseauean, pre-Romantic predilection: “I found this wilderness pleasant simply because it increased my melancholy. I spent entire days in the forest, and upon my return wrote letters expressing all of my feelings” (Memoirs, 40).58 In fact, the novel anticipates the dungeons and forests of the Gothic novel.59 In his first days at the Abbey, after hearing the false news of Adélaïde’s death, Comminge recalls: “The awful solitude, the eternal silence of this place, the sadness of everyone around me, allowed me to fully embrace the pain which had become so precious to me, and which almost substituted for what I had lost” (Memoirs, 59).60 One of the more extreme examples of isolation is Cleveland’s Rumney Hole, where Cromwell’s former mistress raises and educates her bastard son to protect him against his tyrannical father. The cave, from which Cleveland emerges as a young man—just as Tencin’s Pauline and Eugénie emerge from the convent—evokes the alternative space to the social “world,” one devoted to self-exploration, writing, reading, and philosophy. It too me composaient une sorte de sentiment, qui me fit illusion, et à force de vouloir l’aimer, je me persuadais que je l’aimais.” 58. Mémoires, 55: “Cette demeure si sauvage me plaisait, par cela même qu’elle ajoutait encore à ma mélancholie; je passais les journées entières dans les bois; j’écrivais quand j’étais revenu, des lettres, où j’exprimais tous mes sentiments.” 59. See Maurice Lévy’s study of Tencin’s influence on Ann Radcliffe’s fiction, most notably on A Sicilian Romance (1790): “Une nouvelle source d’Anne Radcliffe: Les Mémoires du Comte de Comminge.” Caliban 1 (1964): 149–156. In addition to somber atmospheric and architectural references, the Marquis de Mazzini of A Sicilian Romance sequesters his wife in a dark prison of his chateau just as Bénavides does in the Mémoires. Lévy also notes the importance of Tencin’s influence on Thomas Baculard d’Arnaud, one of the early proponents of the gothic novel, whose work Radcliffe would have known. It was d’Arnaud who adapted the Mémoires to the stage with Les Amans malheureux, ou le Comte de Comminge, drame en trois actes et en vers. 60. Mémoires, 166–67: “l’affreuse solitude, le silence qui regnait toujours dans cette maison, la tristesse de tous ceux qui m’environnaient me laissaient tout entier à cette douleur qui m’était devenue si chère, qui me tenait presque lieu de ce que j’avais perdu.”

22 Introduction evokes “the unconscious workings of the text,” in which the reader is invited to participate, as Leborgne has shown.61 Despite the injustice of the convent or monastery, which became de facto asylums for women without dowries and men without inheritances, and despite the rigors of prison, Tencin’s characters take consolation there. When Comminge is locked up for having betrayed his father, he describes his first days there as relatively tranquil, even pleasant (Memoirs, 41).62 After being discovered in Adélaïde’s home and gravely wounding her husband, he seeks refuge in a monastery, where eventually, disguised as a man, she does the same. The convent in Misfortunes is both a beginning and an end for Pauline and Eugénie, serving as a place of compulsory education and a refuge from cruelty, from passion, and from the exploitation of her family. But unlike the equivocal retreat of the Princesse de Clèves, who chooses repose in the convent over the passion she feels for Nemours, the convent in Tencin’s later fiction takes on a more positive meaning, one of selfpreservation and independence; Eugénie, Pauline’s counterpart in Misfortunes, ultimately returns there, preferring repose to the proposals of her Nemours, La Valette. Determined to limit their initially passionate relationship to friendship, she—like Graffigny’s Péruvienne—subverts the economy of passion so costly to women: “The relationship that they established thereafter allowed them to savor the charm of a friendship both tender and lasting” (Misfortunes, 121).63 Other forms of isolation for which the cloisters and prisons of the novels act as metaphors take place on the intersubjective level, often the effect of misunderstandings or miscommunication and the narrative irony they create. Adélaïde finds Comminge years after he learns of her death, when she is looking for a convent to which she might retreat in her own despair. Torn between her sense of duty and her need to be near him, she disguises herself as a monk and, in effect, 61. “Le lecteur sensible … est appelé à s’identifier affectivement au héros malheureux, mais aussi à participer à sa manière au travail inconscient du text.” Erik Leborgne, Figures de l’imaginaire dans le Cleveland de Prévost (Paris: Desjonquères, 2006), 29. 62. Mémoires, 63: “avec assez de tranquillité, et même avec une sorte de plaisir.” 63. Malheurs (Seconde partie), 179–80: “Le commerce qui s’établit dès lors entre eux leur a fait goûter à l’un et à l’autre les charmes de la plus tendre et de la plus solide amitié.” In Graffigny’s Lettres d’une Péruvienne (also from 1747), the heroine refuses the economy of passion for that of platonic friendship, repose, philosophy and “[l]e plaisir d’être; ce plaisir oublié, ignoré même de tant d’aveugles humains.” Lettres portugaises, Lettres d’une Péruvienne, et d’autres romans d’amour par lettres (Paris: Flammarion, 1983), 362. Likewise, Anecdotes of the Court and Reign of Edward II of England ends with the retreat of the heroine and the choice of platonic friendship or marriage. Although Anecdotes was completed by Elie de Beaumont, the ending is consonant with Tencin’s earlier novels: Mademoiselle de Glocester refuses the Count of Pembroke’s marriage offer, but attains the “only real form of happiness one can hope for in old age, ... the sweetness of an inalterable attachment”—a lasting but platonic friendship with him both in and out of the convent to which she retires, seeking peace (repos) from the world.

Introduction 23 becomes a silent companion, working and suffering secretly alongside him for years. In Misfortunes, Tencin underscores the feeling of isolation through misunderstandings, lies, and narrative irony (the dramatic result of prolonged misunderstandings or non-communication among characters). Pauline and Barbasan are separated by distance when the latter is forced into exile in Frankfurt, but she weds Monsieur d’Hacqueville only based on a rumor that Barbasan had married and would never return. Her elder counterpart, Eugénie, believes La Valette unfaithful, and when he finally returns to offer a long explanation of his service to a friend, which prevented him from courting Eugénie, his story comes too late for her, already scarred from her abandonment by another and the tragic death of her illegitimate child. The false information that leads both Pauline and Eugénie to marry unhappily underscores the fact that love in Tencin’s novels inevitably leads to suffering, but the tragedy brought on by miscommunication and rumor represents another degree of isolation; ultimately, the objects of desire of Tencin’s heroes and heroines (like those of Prévost, Marivaux, and Richardson) resist transparency, remaining unattainable to some degree through their mystery— evoking the philosophical debate around the opacity of other minds.64 Isolation is further compounded by lies and manipulation, for example, when Pauline’s stepfather attempts to sabotage her relationship with Barbasan, and ultimately condemns her to the convent to assure the succession of her fortune to his son. The resulting portrait of both the aristocratic “petits maîtres” and a bourgeoisie desperate for legitimacy makes for dark satire, but the resulting physical and intersubjective isolation is as striking. Such isolation also underscores the value of a select group of empathetic interlocutors who share the hypersensibility of the narrators.

A Heroine’s Text Considering Tencin’s novels in light of eighteenth-century narrative patterns, it is somewhat surprising that despite being of the few female authors of her time, her narratives reproduce the pattern of patriarchal ideology. In Nancy Miller’s seminal study, The Heroine’s Text, she demonstrates how many novels of the period follow an “ideology that codes femininity in paradigms of sexual vulnerability”—the tragic misstep of being seduced, of giving in to passion, having such devastating consequences. In fact, Tencin’s endings, with the exception of The Siege of Calais, fall into the category of what Miller labels “dysphoric texts”—in which the heroine either dies or retreats to a convent, as in La Princesse de Clèves—as opposed to the “euphoric” texts which end with successful integration into society.65 But as Miller 64. See John Wisdom, Other Minds, 2nd ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968). 65. Nancy K. Miller, The Heroine’s Text: Readings in the French and English Novel, 1722–1782 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1980), x–xi. The Siege de Calais, with its happy ending of a double

24 Introduction herself notes in an essay devoted to Mémoires du Comte de Comminge, the role of passion in Tencin’s œuvre is not based on class identity (as in Prévost’s Manon Lescaut or Marivaux’s La vie de Marianne) so much as gender identity. Given this, Miller asks: “What difference does sexual difference make? If in feminist writing passion’s ideal form is sublimation, then the difference within that difference is that women are superior to men; they love better.”66 Seen from this perspective, one can understand why Tencin was drawn to the feminine historical tradition begun in the seventeenth century, in which the cult of suffering, inextricably tied to sublimated love, only underscored the hopelessness for women in a patriarchal society. While it expressed indirectly the feminine condition veiled in historical contexts (just as exoticism allowed for social and political critique), it also created an idealized world to counter it: the sublimated love and suffering empathically shared by the eighteenth-century (mostly female) readership. This in itself could be seen as a consoling alternative to the patriarchal realities that sacrificed women to the convent or forced the most powerful of them, including Tencin, to live vicariously through another—in Tencin’s case, through the career of her brother.

Tencin, Salonnière and Novelist If Tencin’s literary legacy appears to have little in common with the bold, Machiavellian woman whom Diderot called “beautiful and wicked,” one should look to Tencin the salonnière to better understand the relationship between her life and works. As her biographers show, those who were not her enemies, particularly her salon guests, were treated royally; in the words of Friedrich Grimm, “she helped them with her counsel, her money and her credit.”67 The tone of the salons, which were far from a pretentious show of wit, as satirists claimed, tended to bring out the brilliance of her guests by virtue of polite encouragement, as memorialized by Marivaux in Marianne’s descriptions of Madame Dorsin’s salon.68 Marmontel described a visit with Tencin in which she made him tell his story, beginning with childhood, and how she “delved into all my interests, showed sympathy for all of marriage, does not fit into this schema; then again (according to Masson) Tencin composed the novel based on a dare, to write a novel that begins with the end and finishes with the beginning. Given that the story ends with marriage and begins with infidelity, one might even say that Miller’s ideology of patriarchy may be found therein–but in reverse. See F. A. Delandine, “Observations sur les romans,” in Œuvres de Mme de Tencin (Amsterdam and Paris: Hôtel Serpente, 1786), vol. 1, xxxvi, quoted in Masson, Madame de Tencin, 143. 66. Miller, “1735: The Gender of the Memoir-Novel,” 442. 67. Friedrich Melchior Grimm, Correspondance littéraire, philosophique et critique, vol. 1 (Paris: Garnier Frères, 1877), 387, quoted in Jean Sareil, Les Tencin, 237. 68. In Marivaux’s unfinished novel La Vie de Marianne, which appeared in installments between 1731 and 1745.

Introduction 25 my troubles [and] … appeared to think only about my worries.”69 In other words, Tencin in real life could be as empathetic as her characters, which is perhaps what kept the philosophes she called “beasts” in her “ménagerie” coming back to the salon on Rue Saint-Honoré for so many years. Indeed, they were devoted to her— and she to them; in addition to the splendid suppers for which she was renowned, she gave each of her “bêtes” a New Year’s Day gift of two ells (about two and a half yards) of velvet to be made into breeches.70 Her novels, though formulaic in many ways, stand out not only for their rendering of tumultuous emotions in a sober, rational style, but for the relationship they cultivate with the reader, and the psychological portraits which may be read as the literary extension of the salon. In an age that saw the rise of individualism, Tencin sought to break down barriers of isolation through a connection with her readers, at the same time revolting against the ethos of self-interest and social pretence of the post-Regency period, and showing the struggle women of her time faced trying to reconcile their sensibility with an unforgiving, patriarchal society.

69. Sareil, Les Tencin, 237: “entrait dans tous mes intérêts, s’affectait de tous mes chagrins, [et] … semblait n’avoir dans la tête autre chose que mes soucis.” 70. “[L]e don que faisait chaque année madame de Tencin, aux auteurs qu’elle recevait, de deux aunes de velours, pour en faire des culottes.” Delandine, “Observations sur les romans,” xxxii.

Note on the Translation It may be asked why this edition includes only two of Tencin’s three completed novels—omitting Le Siège de Calais, which drew much praise from Tencin’s contemporaries. One reason is that Mémoires du comte de Comminge and Les Malheurs de l’amour complement each other in thematic and psychological ways, having to do with the dangers of love and the complexity of emotions associated with it. That psychology is not as prominent in Le Siège, which strains to accommodate many characters and subplots, not to mention the historical reality of Edward III’s siege, with which it takes liberties. There is also simply the matter of length; Le Siège is Tencin’s longest novel and would require a separate volume. A better fit would be Tencin’s fourth novel, the unfinished Anecdotes de la cour et du règne d’Edouard II, roi d’Angleterre, which deals more with psychology than it does with history. But this last work has an unfortunate shift in style at the point where Anne-Louise Elie de Beaumont’s ending begins. While there are eighteenth-century translations of Mémoires du comte de Comminge and Le Siège de Calais, their syntax, lexicon, and style make them seem more dated, in a way more foreign, than the French originals with respect to modern French. The time thus seems right for a new English rendering of the Mémoires—along with the first English version of Les malheurs.1 The translations are based on the original editions of Mémoires and Les malheurs (1735 and 1747, respectively). Although there have been many later editions, these have not improved upon or altered the originals in any significant way, although spelling and punctuation vary, as was typical for the time. After the Œuvres complètes de Mme de Tencin (1786), as Erik Leborgne notes, subsequent editions get more and more inaccurate over time, especially in the nineteenth century. My challenge was to render Tencin’s pithy, rational prose in English while describing dramatic events and emotions. After coming to appreciate her style, often described as classical (as in French seventeenth-century classicism), I realize 1. Mémoires du comte de Comminge had a distinguished translator, Charlotte Lennox (ca. 1730–1804), author of The Female Quixote. As Marianna D’Ezio says in the footnotes to her 2011 edition of Lennox’s translation, the latter freely added, and in one instance deleted sentences, at times modifying the character and relationship of the narrator and his parents. Le Siège de Calais was translated, or rather adapted, by none other than Giacomo Casanova as Di anedotti veneziani sotto I dogado di Giovanni Gradenigo e di Giovanni Dolfin (Military and Amorous Venetian Anecdotes of the Fourteenth Century under the Doges Giovanni Gradenigo and Giovanni Dolfin]. Using Tencin’s novel as a starting point for his version, Casanova changed the historical context of the siege of Calais into the fourteenth-century struggle between Venice and Hungary for the city of Zadar (now in Croatia). See, e.g., Branko Aleksic, Giacomo Casanova, Propos littéraires: Sur les traces du discours amoureux des Anciens et des Modernes: Homère, Pétrarque, Riccoboni, Tencin, Voltaire, Goethe (A. Baudry et Cie, 2011).

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28 Note on the Translation more and more what a challenge this is. Deceptively simple, her style is invariably elegant and effective. As Michel Delon notes in his foreword, the tendency of French classical authors to use abstract words is one of the difficulties the translator faces, especially the shift to literal meaning in the plural of abstract terms like honneurs and tendresses, which retain an abstract meaning even while signifying concrete actions. Although the French délicatesse works as a cognate in the English sentimental novel (delicacy), the plural délicatesse does not translate directly without suggesting gastronomical delights, although the abstract-literal effect does occur with honor/honors (honneur/honneurs). In expressions like jalousies or tendresses, for example, a noun with modifier are needed to convey the concrete yet abstract meaning (bouts of jealousy, acts of tenderness). The complexity of emotions, specifically, combinations of pain or suffering with sweetness or pleasure, is a topos found in many early French novels of sensibility, from La Princesse de Clèves well into the romantic period. In French, the homophony of douleur and douceur reinforces the connection between suffering and pleasure. But English does not have such a word pair. Sweetness and sorrow offer a nice alliteration, but the physical and psychological “pain” suggested by the single word douleur sadly lacks in our language. My hope is that these translations will appeal to anglophone readers and help them appreciate an important French novelist from a time when the genre was still new—an unduly neglected voice of Enlightenment literature and the sentimental novel.

MEMOIRS OF THE COUNT OF COMMINGE BY CLAUDINE-ALEXANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN

Preface by the Editor This manuscript was found among the papers of a man after his death. Clearly the names of his characters are fictitious and, furthermore, ill chosen. Nonetheless the manuscript is presented as is, unaltered in any way. In fact, there is reason to believe that the events described are true, as we have some knowledge of the way the manuscript came into the hands of the man among whose papers it was found.

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T

he sole reason for writing my memoirs is to recall every last detail of my misfortunes and, if possible, to engrave them deeper still into my memory. The Comminge family to which I belong is one of France’s most illustrious. My great-grandfather, having two sons, gave to the younger the better part of his domain along with the title of Marquis de Lussan, to the disadvantage of the elder. This did not alter the brothers’ friendship in the least; indeed they insisted their children be raised together. However, the upbringing intended to unite the brothers made them, to the contrary, enemies almost from birth. My father, always being outperformed in his lessons by the Marquis de Lussan, grew jealous and later hateful of his cousin. They quarreled often, and my father was always the one punished for being the aggressor. One day he complained to the steward of our house, who said to him: “I will show you a way to destroy the Marquis’s pride; all of his fortune rightly belongs to you by law and your grandfather was unable to change that. When you are the master,” he added, “it will be a simple matter to assert your rights.” This revelation only increased the distance between my father and his cousin. Their arguments grew so violent that they had to be separated. They spent several years without seeing each other, during which time they both married, the Marquis de Lussan having only a daughter from his marriage and my father only me. Just after gaining possession of the family home following the death of my grandfather, he decided to take the steward’s advice, searching for every possible means of establishing his rights and rejecting several proposals for compromise. He decided to sue the Marquis for no less than the entirety of his possessions. Then an unfortunate encounter the two had while hunting removed all hope of reconciliation. My father, still feeling as always so resentful, made caustic remarks about the penury to which he would reduce his cousin. The Marquis, though of a gentle nature, could not refrain from defending himself and they drew swords. Monsieur de Lussan prevailed, disarming my father and forcing him to beg for his life: “My life would be odious were I to owe it to you,” he retorted. “You will owe it to me nonetheless,” retorted the Marquis, throwing his sword at him and walking off. This act of generosity failed to move my father. To the contrary, it seemed that his hatred increased with the double victory his enemy had gained over him. And so he continued more fiercely than ever the lawsuit he had begun. This was the state of the affair when I returned from my travels, upon which I embarked after completing my studies, as is the custom. A few days after my arrival a relative of my mother, the Abbot of R…, informed my father that the documents on which his suit depended were located in the archives of his abbey, where some of the Comminge papers had been safeguarded during the civil wars.1 1. “Civil wars” refers to the religious wars between Catholic and Protestant factions which went on between 1562 and 1598, ending with the Edict of Nantes.

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32 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN The Abbot requested that my father keep this important news secret, and either come for the documents himself or send a trustworthy person to whom they might be confided. My father’s poor health at the time forced him to give me the task after insisting, with some exaggeration, on its importance: “You will be working in your interest more than mine. The wealth will be yours. But even were you to receive no benefit at all, I believe you noble enough to share my resentment, to want to avenge the insults inflicted upon me.” I had no reason to deny my father’s wishes, and assured him of my full cooperation. He gave me detailed instructions, and we agreed that I would go under the name of the Marquis de Longville, the better to escape suspicion in the Abbey, where Madame de Lussan had several relatives. I set off for the Abbey, accompanied by an old servant of my father’s and my own valet. The trip was a success; I found in the archives the titles establishing, beyond any doubt, our status as rightful beneficiaries. I wrote this to my father, and as it happened that I was close to Bagnières, I asked permission to take advantage of the hot springs, it being the season for them.2 The great results of my trip made him so happy that he consented. I stayed there using the name of the Marquis de Longville, as the vanity of a Comminge would have required a much more elegant carriage. The next day I was led to the spa. One finds in such places a gaiety and freedom that allow one to dispense with formality, and from the first day I was invited to all the social gatherings. One of these took place at the home of the Marquis de la Valette, who was hosting a dinner party to honor the ladies. Several, whom I had seen at the spa and to whom I had offered the sort of gallantries I thought appropriate for any woman, were already present. Standing near one of them, I saw an attractive woman enter, followed by a girl with perfectly symmetrical features combined with the spectacular glow of youth. Her many charms were highlighted all the more by her extreme modesty. I fell in love in that instant, one that would change the course of my life. The cheerfulness I had felt prior to this vanished. I could do nothing but watch and follow her. Noticing the effect she had on me, she blushed. Someone suggested a stroll, and I had the pleasure of offering my arm to this wonderful person. We were in fact far enough away from the others that I was able to speak with her, but I, who could not take my eyes off her a few minutes before, now hardly dared look up when no one was there to observe us. Up until that point the words I proffered to all women said more than I really felt, but now that I was truly touched, I could only keep silent. We rejoined the group without either of us uttering a word. The ladies were escorted back to their lodgings, and I returned to lock myself up in my quarters; I needed solitude to relish both the trouble I was feeling, as well as a certain joy that I believe one always feels when love begins. My love had left me so timid 2. Bagnières (now Bagnères-de-Bigorre, a town in the Midi-Pyrénées region of France) had been known for its hot springs since Roman times.

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 33 that I lacked the courage to ask the name of my beloved. It seemed to me that my curiosity might betray the secret in my heart. But what an effect it had on me to learn that she was the daughter of the Count of Lussan!3 All my fears of our fathers’ enmity came to mind, but of all my thoughts, the most horrid was the fear that someone might have inspired in Adélaïde, as this lovely girl was called, an aversion for all that my name conjured. Finding some consolation in the fact that I had taken another, I hoped that she would discover my love for her before being warned about me, and that when I did reveal my true name, I could at least inspire pity. So I resolved to conceal my true identity even more carefully than I had thus far, and to look for as many ways as possible to make myself appealing. Yet I was too much in love to use any means other than love itself. I followed Adélaïde everywhere, fervently hoping for the chance to speak with her alone, and when the chance I so desperately wanted came, I no longer had the courage to take advantage of it. The fear of losing all the freedom I was enjoying with her held me back, and what I feared still more was that I might displease her. I persisted in this way until, during an evening stroll with the others, Adélaïde dropped a bracelet containing her portrait; the chevalier of Saint Odon, who had offered her his arm, hurried to retrieve it and, after admiring it a while, placed it in his pocket.4 She asked for it, sweetly at first, but as he refused, she spoke much more forcefully. A handsome man, the chevalier had been spoiled by the success of a certain gallant affair, and Adélaïde’s sternness did not deflate him: “How, Mademoiselle,” he asked, “could you take away something that I owe to good fortune alone? I dare hope,” he added, leaning in closer to her ear, “that when you know my feelings for you, you will consent to the gift fortune has just sent me.” He left, without waiting for the response that such a question would elicit. I was not near her at the time, having paused a little farther on with the Marquise de la Valette. While I left Adélaïde’s side as little as possible, I neglected none of the attention that my infinite respect for her commanded. But hearing her speak in a tone more animated than usual, I drew near. She was telling her mother, with a great deal of emotion, what had just happened. Madame de Lussan appeared as offended as her daughter. I did not speak, but continued the promenade with the ladies and, as soon as I had seen them home, went looking for the chevalier. He was in his quarters and was told that I would be waiting for him in a certain place. He came there as I requested. “I am convinced,” I said, approaching him, “that what just transpired during our walk was a joke; you are much too gallant a man to try to keep a woman’s 3. In the original text, Tencin refers to her as ‘la fille du Comte de Lussan’ here (Mémoires, 13) rather than the daughter of a marquis, a title ranked just above that of a count. 4. Miniature painted portraits were commonly carried by aristocrats in bracelets or necklaces in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

34 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN portrait against her will.” “I don’t know,” he responded, “what affair it is of yours, but I do know that I truly dislike being told what to do.” Reaching for my sword, I said I hoped to change his mind. The Chevalier was undaunted. We fought for some time, neither of us gaining advantage. But he was not motivated, as I was, by the desire to serve my beloved. I went at him with abandon. He wounded me slightly in two places and received from me in turn two serious wounds. I demanded that he ask for mercy and hand over the portrait. After helping him up and taking him to a house nearby, I returned to my lodgings where, after having my wounds dressed, I sat admiring the portrait, kissing it affectionately over and over. I was somewhat skilled at painting, though far from expert. What, though, can love not accomplish? I began making a copy of the portrait, working throughout the night, and succeeding such that I could hardly distinguish it from the original. It crossed my mind to substitute one for the other. I would possess the one that had belonged to Adélaïde while she would do me the favor, unknowingly, of wearing my work. All of these things matter greatly when one is in love, and are priceless to the heart. After adjusting the bracelet such that my theft was undetectable, I went to give it to Adélaïde. For this, Madame de Lussan said many kind things to me. Embarrassed, Adélaïde said little, but I saw beneath her embarrassment the joy of being indebted to me, which gave me in return a joy quite touching of my own. In my life I have had a number of these delicious moments, and if my misfortunes had been but of the ordinary kind, I estimate they would have been worth the price. This little adventure put me on very good terms with Madame de Lussan; I was constantly at her home, able to see Adélaïde at all hours. Although I did not speak of my love for her, I was sure that she knew of it. I had reason to believe that I was not hated. Hearts as sensitive as ours understand each other instantly: they know all forms of expression. Two months had passed in this way when I received a letter from my father, ordering my return home. I was devastated, having been entirely preoccupied with being able to see and love Adélaïde. The thought of being far apart was new to me, and the pain of separation, the awful consequences of the lawsuit between our families, came to mind. I spent the night agitated in a way I cannot describe. After considering scores of plans, each one contradicting the other, it suddenly occurred to me to burn the documents I had in my possession, the very ones that established our rights to the Lussan fortune. I was surprised that the idea had not occurred to me sooner; by doing so, I would prevent the lawsuit I so dreaded. My father, who was as determined as ever, could accomplish his goal and consent to my marriage to Adélaïde; but short of that I could hardly agree to provide evidence to be used against her. I even chastised myself for having kept for so long something that my tender love should have compelled me to give up long before. The wrong I was committing against my father did not stop me. His

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 35 wealth had been passed down to me, and I had been the beneficiary of an uncle on my mother’s side, all possessions that I could relinquish to my father, more considerable in fact than those I was causing him to lose. It took no more to convince a man in love; I believed I had every right to dispose of the papers. I retrieved the box containing them. Never have I had more enjoyable moments than those I spent tossing them to the fire. I was ecstatic with the pleasure of doing something for the one I loved; if she loves me, I told myself, she will one day know the sacrifice I made for her. However, I will never make her aware of it if I am unable to touch her heart. What would I do with the gratitude she would be loath to feel for me? I wanted Adélaïde to love me, not to feel indebted in any way. Nonetheless I confess that I found myself more empowered to speak with her, and the freedom I enjoyed in her home afforded me the opportunity that very day. “I will soon leave you, beautiful Adélaïde,” I told her. “Will you someday remember a man whose destiny you determined?” I lacked the strength to go on; she seemed taken aback, and I noticed a painful look in her eyes. “You heard me,” I continued. “I beg you to say something.” “What shall I tell you?” she responded; “I should not even listen to you, no less answer you.” She had barely finished uttering these few words when she left abruptly, and try as I might, it was impossible to have a word with her; she avoided me, looking embarrassed—how endearing her embarrassment was to my heart! I respected her, and looked upon her fearfully. But my boldness may have caused her to regret her kindness. I would have continued to treat her in this manner, out of respect and due to my sensitive nature, if the need to leave had not forced me to speak. Before our separation I had to tell her my real name, a confession that turned out to be even more difficult than that of my love. “You run from me now,” I told her. “But what will you do after learning of my crimes, or rather, misfortunes! I am not who you think I am, for I misled you with a fictitious name; I am the Count of Comminge.” “You are the Count of Comminge’s son?” she cried. “You  …  you are the enemy! It is your father who is determined to ruin my own.” “Don’t burden me,” I told her, “with such a hateful name. I am a suitor ready to sacrifice everything for you. My father will never do you harm; my love will protect you from him.” “Why,” Adélaïde responded, “have you tricked me? If only you had used your true name, I would have known to avoid you.”

36 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN “Don’t regret the affection you have shown me,” I said, taking her hand and kissing it despite her resistance. “Leave me alone,” she told me. “The more I see you the more inevitable the misfortune I fear.” The sweetness of these words gave me joy full of hope. I was confident in my ability to win my father’s approval of my passion. I was so overtaken with this feeling that it seemed as though everything and everyone thought and felt as I did. I spoke of my plan to Adélaïde as would a man sure of success. “I don’t know why,” she told me, “my heart refuses all the hope you wish to give me. I foresee only misfortune, and yet I find such pleasure in my feelings for you. I let you see them, and although happy that I did, remember that I will have no trouble sacrificing them to duty should it be necessary.” I had several more conversations with Adélaïde before leaving, and these gave me more reason to celebrate my success: the joy of loving and of knowing that I was loved in return filled my heart completely. Neither doubt nor fear, even for the future, disturbed our pleasant conversations. We had trust for each other based on mutual respect, and that confidence, far from diminishing our enthusiasm, made for a charming intimacy. The only thing that worried Adélaïde was her fear of my father’s reaction. “I would suffer horribly,” she told me, “if I caused you to be disgraced by your family; I want you to love me, but above all I want you to be happy.” I left at last full of the tenderest, most intense passion a heart could feel, fully intent on winning my father’s approval of our love. In fact he was already aware of all that happened at Bagnières. The servant he had sent with me had secret orders to watch my conduct; he kept neither my love, nor the fight with the chevalier of Saint Odon a secret. Unfortunately, the chevalier was the son of my father’s friend. That incident and the danger he was in due to his wound continued to play against me. The servant whose account was so accurate described me as happier than I was. He had portrayed Madame and Mademoiselle de Lussan as full of artifice, aware that I was the Count of Comminge, and with plans to seduce me. Troubled by these thoughts, my father, by nature quick to anger, treated me severely upon my return; he condemned my love as he would the greatest of crimes. “So you are coward enough to love my enemies,” he said, “with no respect for what you owe me or yourself; you ally yourself with them. How do I know that you have not formed still more hateful plans?” “Father, yes,” I told him, throwing myself at his feet, “I am guilty, but I cannot help it: in this very moment that I ask your forgiveness, I feel that nothing could tear this love you disdain from my heart. Pity me, I dare ask, and pity yourself. End this quarrel which gives you no peace; the immediate attraction that Madame

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 37 de Lussan’s daughter and I had for each other is perhaps a sign from divine Providence to you. Father, I am your only child. Do you wish my unhappiness? How much more painful would my misfortune be if caused by you? Allow yourself to be moved by your son, whose only offense is due to a fate he cannot control.” My father, who kept me at his feet while I spoke, looked at me for a while with indignation. “I have listened to you,” he said finally, “with a patience I am surprised to find within myself, for I did not think it possible. However, it is the only grace you should expect from me; you must either stop this madness or no longer call yourself my son. Take this to heart, and begin by rendering the documents with which you were charged. You are unworthy of my confidence.” Even if my father had been more understanding, what he demanded would have troubled me. But I drew strength from his severity. “The documents,” I told him, “are no longer in my possession. I burned them. Take back in compensation all the wealth you have given me.” Hardly had I finished saying these words when my father approached me furiously, sword in hand. He would no doubt have run me through, as I made not the least effort to avoid him, had my mother not entered the room at that moment, thrusting herself between us. “What are you doing?” she asked him. “Remember that this is your son.” She then pushed me out of the chamber and ordered me to wait in her own. After a long time, she finally came back. Now I no longer had to face flights of fury and anger, only a tender mother who shared my suffering, begging me through tears to take pity on the situation into which I had forced her. “How, my son,” she explained, “could a mistress, a mistress you have known for a few days, become more important than a mother? Alas, were it solely up to me, I would sacrifice everything for your happiness! But you have a father who insists that you obey him. He has resolved to inflict the harshest punishment on you. Do you wish to overwhelm me with pain? Forget about the passion that will make us all miserable.” I lacked the strength to respond; I loved her dearly, but the love in my heart was stronger still. “I would die,” I told her, “rather than displease you, and I will if you don’t take pity on me. What would you have me do? It is easier for me to snuff out my existence than to forget Adélaïde. Why would I betray my promises to her? How could I abandon her, after gaining her affection, and when I am so flattered to be loved by her? No, Mother, how could I be so cowardly?” I recounted all that had happened to us: “She would love you, and you would love her in return,” I told her. “She has your sweet temperament, your candor. How can you ask me to stop loving her?” “But,” she answered, “what do you intend to do? Your father is planning your marriage and sending you to the country in the meantime. You must absolutely

38 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN appear determined to obey him. He plans to send you tomorrow with a man he trusts. Absence will change your mind more than you know. Whatever happens, do not test Monsieur de Comminge any more by resisting; ask for time. For my part I will do everything in my power to help you. Your father’s hatred lasts much too long. Even were his vengeance legitimate, he would take it too far. But you made a grave error by destroying the documents. He is convinced that Madame de Lussan ordered her daughter to demand it of you.” “Ah!” I exclaimed, “how could you possibly be so unjust to Madame de Lussan? Far from demanding anything of me, Adélaïde is completely unaware of what I have done, and I am quite sure that she would have used her influence over me to prevent it had she known.” My mother and I arranged a way for me to stay in touch. I even begged her to give me news of Adélaïde, who was coming to Bordeaux. She was kind enough to agree, asking in return that I submit to my father’s wishes, should Adélaïde not have feelings for me as I believed. This conversation went on well into the night, and at dawn, my chaperone informed me that the horses were ready. The house where I was to spend my time of exile was in the mountains, a few leagues from Bagnières, such that I took the same route I had just taken. We arrived early in the evening, the second day of our ride, in a village tavern where we would spend the night. Before the supper hour, I was walking along the main road when I saw far off a carriage moving at full speed; it sped on and crashed heavily only a few steps from me. The beating of my heart foretold the importance this accident would have for me. I sped toward the carriage. Two men got off their horses to assist me in helping those inside. One might expect that it was Adélaïde and her mother, and indeed it was. Adélaïde had badly injured her foot, though it seemed that the pleasure of seeing me made her forget the pain. Oh, how delightful that moment was for me! After so much suffering, after so many years, it is ever present in my mind. Since she could not walk, I took her in my arms and wrapped hers around my neck, one of her hands touching my mouth. I was in a state of rapture that nearly took my breath away. Adélaïde noticed, blushed self-consciously, and moved away from me. Alas! How little she knew the excess of my love, which filled me to the point that I could not imagine anyone not sharing it. “Put me down,” she said in a quiet, timid voice. “I think I will be able to walk.” “What,” I answered, “could you be so cruel as to take away the only joy I may ever know?” I held Adélaïde tenderly while saying this. She grew quiet; a faux pas on my part made her adopt once again her previous reserve. The tavern being nearby, we arrived in little time. I carried her to a bed, while they helped her mother, who was more gravely injured than Adélaïde, to another. While they busily attended to Madame de Lussan, I had time to tell

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 39 Adélaïde part of what happened between my father and me. I left out the matter of having destroyed the documents, of which she knew nothing. I am not even sure that I wanted her to know. In a way this would oblige her to love me, and I wanted that to come from her heart. I did not dare describe my father as he really was. Adélaïde was virtuous; I felt that, in order to give in to her feelings for me, she needed the hope of our eventual union. I focused on my mother’s affection and sympathy for me, imploring Adélaïde to see her. “Speak to my mother,” she told me. “She knows about your feelings, and I have confessed my own to her. I felt I needed her authority to give me strength to resist them if necessary, or give in to them without hesitation. She thought of all the possible ways to convince my father to once more propose a settlement. We have relatives in common whom we will ask to intervene.” The joy that this possibility gave Adélaïde made me feel my misfortune even more acutely. “Tell me,” I responded, taking her hand, “should our fathers be inexorable, that you will have pity on one so unfortunate as I.” “I will do what I can,” she said, “to control my feelings for duty’s sake, but I sense that I will be very unhappy if that duty excludes you.” Our conversation was interrupted when those who had been taking care of Madame de Lussan came by to see her daughter. At her mother’s bedside, I was reassured by her kindness. She promised to make every effort to reconcile our families. I left the room so as not to bother them. My chauffeur, still waiting for me in the room, had not bothered to find out who had just arrived, which gave me a chance to see Adélaïde once more before leaving. I entered her room in a state easier to imagine than to describe; I feared that this would be the last time I saw her. As I approached her mother, the pain I felt expressed my feelings better than words. Indeed, I received still more affection than the previous night. Adélaïde was at the opposite end of the room, and I moved toward her, stepping unsteadily. “I am leaving you, my dear Adélaïde.” I repeated the same phrase two or three times, but the tears I was unable to hold back told her the rest. She too shed tears. “I am showing you all my feelings,” she told me, “with no regrets. What I feel in my heart allows me to be candid, which is what you truly deserve. I cannot know your fate. My parents will decide my own.” “But why submit ourselves,” I responded, “to the tyranny of our fathers? Let them despise each other as long as they wish, and let us escape to some far off place in the world to enjoy our love and make that our duty.” “How dare you propose such an idea,” she answered. “Do you wish me to repent the feelings I have for you? My affection may make me unhappy, as I told you, but it will never make me criminal. Farewell,” she continued, giving me her hand, “it is through our perseverance and virtue that we will try to improve our

40 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN lot; but come what may, let us promise to never do anything to embarrass each other.” I kissed the hand she held out for me while she spoke, covering it with tears. “All I can do,” I told her at last, “is love you and die of grief.” My heart weighed so heavily I could hardly utter those last words. I left the room, mounted my horse, and arrived at the place where we were to dine, crying all the while. My tears flowed, and I found in them a kind of sweet satisfaction; when the heart is truly moved, it takes pleasure in all that confirms its unique sensibility. The remainder of our journey continued as it began; I did not say a word. We arrived on the third day at a chateau built at the foot of the Pyrenees, surrounded by pine and cypress trees, steep and arid cliffs, with no other sound than the rapids crashing through the rocks.5 I found this wilderness pleasant simply because it enhanced my melancholy. I spent entire days in the forest, and upon my return wrote letters expressing all of my feelings. This pastime became my sole source of pleasure. “I will give them to her some day,” I told myself. “Then she will know how I spent this time alone.” Occasionally I received letters from Mother, one of which gave me some degree of hope. Indeed it was to be the last joyful moment I would ever know. She described how all of our relatives were working to reunite the family, that there was reason to believe they would succeed. Six weeks went by with no news. My God, how the days seemed long to me! Every morning I walked to the path where the messenger passed, staying as long as I possibly could, always returning sadder than when I set out. At last I saw in the distance a man coming toward me; I was certain he was coming for me, but instead of the impatience I felt until that moment, I grew afraid. I lacked the courage to move toward him; something held me back. This uncertainty, which seemed so cruel, now seemed an opportunity I was afraid to lose. I was not mistaken: I learned from the letters the man brought, which were indeed addressed to me, that my father would hear nothing of a settlement. I learned furthermore that I was to marry a daughter of the Foix family, that the wedding would take place where I was at the time, and that my father would come in a few days to tell me what he expected of me. As one might expect, I did not hesitate a minute about the course of action I would take. I waited calmly for my father to arrive. In the situation I was in it was a consolation to be able to sacrifice something for Adélaïde; I was sure of her fidelity, and loved her too much to doubt it. True love means complete trust. In fact my mother, who had so many reasons to separate us, never wrote in her letters anything to make me doubt that. Oh, how the thought of Adélaïde’s 5. Here we recognize the quintessential landscape of the Gothic novel. See the Introduction regarding Tencin’s influence on Ann Radcliffe according to Maurice Lévy (21).

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 41 faithfulness fueled my passion! I found myself glad at times that my father’s severity gave me the chance to show her how much she was loved; I spent the three days that passed before my father’s arrival thinking of new reasons I might give Adélaïde to make her feel pleased with me. This thought, despite my unfortunate situation, filled my heart with a feeling close to joy. During the meeting with my father, I was respectful and reserved. He was haughty and proud. “I gave you enough time,” he said, “for you to regret the folly of your behavior, and now I am giving you the means to forget it. Show me in return for this act of kindness your full obedience and prepare to welcome Monsieur de Foix and Mademoiselle, his daughter, whom I have chosen for you to marry. The ceremony will take place here. They will arrive with your mother tomorrow. I have come ahead of them only to make the necessary arrangements.” “I am very sorry, Sir,” I told my father, “that I cannot do as you wish, but I am too much a gentleman to marry someone I could never love. I furthermore ask your permission to leave this place shortly; Mademoiselle de Foix, as lovely as she may be, could never change my resolve, and will be less painfully insulted than she would be in my presence.” “No, you will not see her,” he retorted furiously. “You will not even see the light of day. I will lock you in a dungeon made for your kind, and I swear that nothing in the world will free you until you accept your duty. I will punish you by every means possible. I will disinherit you, and promise Mademoiselle de Foix I will do everything in my power to keep my word.” I was promptly led to a cellar under one of the towers. The room had only a faint light coming through a small barred opening which looked out over a courtyard. My father ordered that I be fed twice a day and prevented from speaking to anyone. My first days there were relatively tranquil, even pleasant in a way. I was entirely preoccupied with what I had just done for Adélaïde, hardly noticing the harsh conditions of my prison. But when this feeling went away, I abandoned myself to what I thought would be endless suffering. My thoughts only made it worse; I feared that Adélaïde would be forced to marry, and I imagined her surrounded by rivals competing for her favor. Meanwhile, all I had was my misfortune. It is true that with Adélaïde, I had everything I could ever want. So I blamed myself for having the slightest doubt, begging her forgiveness as though to doubt were a crime. Mother wrote a letter exhorting me to submit to my father, whose anger became more violent with each day. She added that she too suffered a great deal from my situation, and that the effort she had made to bring about a compromise cast suspicion on her for secretly taking up my cause. Although moved by the sadness I caused my mother, I considered my own suffering too great to feel responsible for hers. Once, when daydreaming in my usual way, I was suddenly shaken from my reverie by a sound at my window.

42 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN A piece of paper flew into the room; it was a letter which I unsealed with such determination that I could hardly breathe. But in what a state I was after reading it! It read as follows: “Monsieur de Comminge’s fury has shown me what I owe you; I now know what you so generously hid from me. I understand the frightful situation you are in, and have but one hope of saving you, which will perhaps make you more miserable still. However, I will be equally miserable, and that is what allows me the strength to do what is demanded of me. My engagement to another person is a way of ensuring that I shall not be yours: this is the price Monsieur de Comminge has set for your freedom. It may cost me my life, and surely my peace of mind. Nonetheless, I am determined. Your misfortune, your prison are all that I can think about at present. I will be married in a few days to the Marquis de Bénavidès. What I know about his character thus far tells me all I will have to endure. But I owe you at least the kind of fidelity that sees only suffering in the engagement I am about to commence. You, on the other hand, should aim to be happy: your happiness will be my consolation. I feel as though I should not tell you this; if I were truly generous, I would have you ignore the role you have played in this marriage, and allow you to think I was unfaithful. That was my intention. I was unable to realize, and needed to be in the awful situation I am in to think that, at the very least, you will not remember me regretfully. Alas! Soon I will not be allowed to remember you. I shall have to forget about you, or at least do my best to forget. Of all my worries that is by far the greatest. They will be greater still if you don’t carefully avoid any opportunity to see me or speak to me. Remember that you owe me this measure of your esteem, and remember how I cherish that; of all the feelings you had for me, it is the only one I may ask of you.” I only read the fatal letter up to this sentence: “My engagement to another person is a way of ensuring that I shall not be yours.” The shock of reading these words penetrated me in such a way as to prevent me from reading further. I fell in a heap upon my bed, a mere mattress on the floor. I lay there senseless for several hours. I might have expired there had it not been for the help of the man who brought my meals. If he was frightened by the state I was in, he was even more so by the desperation he saw as I regained consiousness. The letter, which I had always kept with me during my infirmity and finally finished reading, was drenched with tears, and I said things that gave him reason to fear for my sanity. This man, who had thus far been incapable of pity, now could not help but feel it. He criticized my father’s treatment of me, blamed himself for carrying out his orders, and begged my forgiveness. His apology gave me the idea of asking for a leave of just eight days, and promising to turn myself over to him by the end of that period. I used every reason that I thought might sway him. Touched by the state I was in, agitated from thinking of his own interest and the fear of what I

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 43 might do some day to avenge his mistreatment of me, he consented on the condition that he accompany me. I would have preferred to leave at once, but we needed horses, and I was told that these would only be available the following day. My plan was to find Adélaïde, show her my despair, and die in her presence if she persisted in her resolution. The success of my plan depended on arriving before her fateful marriage, and every minute deferred seemed a year. I continued to read the letter that I had read so many times, convinced that by doing so I would find something new. I examined the date and thought perhaps she could be delaying. This is an effort, I thought. She will look for any chance to delay. But am I flattering myself with such vain ideas, I wondered? Adélaïde is sacrificing her happiness for my freedom, and will not want to delay. My God! How could she ever think that I could enjoy freedom without her? I would always feel as though I were locked in the prison from which she sought to free me. She never really knew my heart; she thought of me as she did any other man. That is my downfall. I am even more miserable than I thought, since I lack even the consolation of knowing that at least she acknowledged my love. I spent all night complaining in this way. When day finally broke, my guide and I mounted our horses. We had ridden an entire day without stopping a moment, when suddenly I noticed Mother’s carriage on the road leading up to us. She recognized me, and after showing her surprise upon seeing me there, ordered me into the carriage. I did not dare ask the reason for her trip; I had everything to fear in the situation I was in, and for good reason. “I was en route, my son,” she said, “to get you out of your prison myself, with your father’s consent.” “Oh!” I cried out. “Adélaïde is married.” Mother answered only with silence. I then saw the true horror of my situation, which was indeed hopeless. I fell into a kind of stupor, and felt such pain that I ceased to feel any at all. Nevertheless my state of mind began to affect my body; I began to shiver while still in the carriage. My mother had me put in bed, and for two days I neither spoke nor had any desire for nourishment. The fever increased, and on the third day some thought that I might not survive. Mother, who never left my side, was inconsolable. Her tears, her prayers, and Adélaïde’s name, which she invoked, at last gave me the resolve to live. After fifteen days of suffering from an aggressive fever, my condition improved somewhat. The first thing I did was to look for Adélaïde’s letter. Mother, who had taken it from me, was so upset that she felt obligated to return it. I placed it in a small pouch which lay over my heart, where I had kept her portrait. At every chance I had to be alone I took it out and reread it. Being of a sensitive nature, Mother suffered along with me. Indeed, she thought that I should fully succumb to my sadness and let time heal me. She allowed me to talk about Adélaïde, sometimes mentioning her in our conversations.

44 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN After realizing that my only consolation was the thought of being loved, she told me how she herself had convinced Adélaïde to marry. “Please forgive me, my dear, for the pain I have caused you. I did not realize the extent of your feelings. Your imprisonment made me very worried for your health, and your life. Besides, I knew how stubborn your father could be, that he would never free you as long as he feared your marriage to Mademoiselle de Lussan. I decided to speak to the generous young lady. I explained my fear, and she feared the same, though perhaps she felt it more intensely. I saw that she was busy trying to hasten the marriage arrangements. Her father had long been pressing her to do so, having been so offended by Monsieur de Comminge’s actions, but nothing could persuade her until now. “ ‘Whom will you choose?’ I asked her. “ ‘It hardly matters,’ she answered, ‘I care little about anything, knowing that my heart cannot be with the one for whom it was intended.’ “Two days later, I learned that the Marquis de Bénavidès had prevailed over his rivals. Everyone was astonished, as I was. Bénavidès has an unpleasant appearance, made all the more so by his lack of charm and very bizarre moods. I worried what this would mean for poor Adélaïde. I went to speak with her about the matter at the Countess of Gerlande’s, where I had seen her before. “ ‘I am prepared,’ she told me, ‘to be extremely unhappy, but I must marry, and since I know that it is the only way to free your son, Madame, I blame myself for every hour deferred. Nonetheless, this marriage, which is for his sake, will no doubt cause him the most pain. I at least hope to show him by my choice that I am acting in his interest. Pity me, I am worthy of it, and will strive to earn your respect in the way I conduct myself with Monsieur de Bénavidès.’ ” Mother also informed me that it was Father who told Adélaïde that I had burned the titles. He had reproached her publicly the day he lost his lawsuit. She confessed, Mother added, that what had touched her most was the generosity I showed in concealing what I had done for her. Our days were spent in conversations of the sort, and although I felt extremely melancholic, it bore a kind of sweetness, in whatever state of mind I found myself, to know that I was in love. After spending several months in the country, my father sent word to my mother to return home. He had shown almost no concern for my illness. The way he treated me had erased his feelings for me. Mother implored me to go with her, but I insisted on staying in the country, and she let herself be persuaded. Once again I found myself alone in the forest I thought of as my own. At this point I was taken by the idea of living in total solitude, but Mother’s company was too dear to me. I often thought of trying to see Adélaïde, but the fear of upsetting her held me back. After much indecision, I decided I might at least try to see her without being seen.

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 45 Having settled on this plan, I decided to send a good friend whom I had known since childhood to Bordeaux to find out where she was living. He had visited me during my illness and had been with me in Bagnières. He knew Adélaïde, and told me furthermore that he was connected to the Bénavidès family. After giving him all the instructions I so carefully devised and repeating them over and over, I sent him off. He learned upon his arrival in Bordeaux that Bénavidès was no longer there, that he had taken his wife shortly after the wedding to his home in Biscay. My friend, Saint-Laurent, told me of this in a letter requesting further instructions. I asked that he go to Biscay immediately. The hope I had gained increased my desire to see Adélaïde to such a degree that I could not resist. Having been away for nearly six weeks, Saint-Laurent returned to tell me that after a great deal of effort and frustrated attempts, he had learned that Bénavidès was in need of an architect. Having learned something about the profession thanks to an uncle who practiced it, he managed to enter the house under that guise. “I believe,” he added, “that Madame de Bénavidès recognized me, or in any case blushed when she saw me for the first time.” He then told me that she led the most solitary and melancholy existence, that her husband rarely left her side, and that some in the household reported that he loved her very much, despite showing her nothing but jealousy, which was such that he allowed his brother to see Madame de Bénavidès only in his presence. I asked him about the brother; he answered that people spoke as highly of the young man as they spoke ill of Bénavidès, and that he was devoted to his sister-in-law. These words had no effect on me at the time; Madame Bénavidès’s horrible situation and my desire to see her were all I could think about. SaintLaurent assured me that he had made every effort to introduce me into the household. “He needs a painter,” he told me, “to work on an apartment of the chateau. I promised to find him one. It should be you.” Then it was only a matter of arranging our departure. I wrote to Mother to say that I would be spending time at the home of a friend, and headed for Biscay with Saint-Laurent. There was no end to my questions regarding Madame Bénavidès. I wanted to know every detail of her life. Saint-Laurent had seen her very little and could not help me. She spent the days in her room with no company other than a dog, which she loved very much. This detail interested me especially, as it was I who had given her the pet, and I fancied this was the reason she loved it. When we are truly unhappy, we notice all the little things which go unnoticed in happier times. The heart, in need of consolation, misses not one. Saint-Laurent continued to speak at length about the younger Bénavidès’s attachment for his sister-in-law: for instance, that he would often calm his brother’s angry fits, and that without his presence Adélaïde would be unhappier still. He pleaded with me to be content with seeing her and to avoid any attempt to speak

46 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN with her. “I am not suggesting,” he went on, “that your life would be at risk if you were discovered; there would be little reason to keep you here, but you would put her life in great danger.” It was so wonderful for me just to be able to see Adélaïde that I honestly thought this would satisfy me. Thus I promised Saint-Laurent, and myself, to be more cautious still than he demanded of me. We arrived after a journey of several days, which felt like years to me. I was introduced to Bénavidès, who put me to work straightaway. I was to stay with the so-called architect in charge of the workers. It had been several days since my work had begun and I had yet to see Madame de Bénavidès. At last I spotted her below the window of my quarters going for a stroll. She had only her dog with her, and her appearance seemed neglected. There was something langorous about the way she walked; it was as though her beautiful eyes drifted over every object without really seeing them. My God, how upset I was to see this. I remained pressed against the window the entire time. Adélaïde did not return until nightfall. I could no longer see her clearly when she again walked past my window, but in my heart I knew it was her. The second time I saw her was in the chapel of the chateau. I found a place where I could observe her unnoticed as long as she remained there. She never looked up at me, for which I was grateful, since I was certain that had she recognized me, she would have forced me to leave. I worried, nonetheless, leaving the chapel more troubled and agitated than when I entered. At that point I was not planning to let my presence be known, but I knew that I would not have the strength to resist the opportunity should it present itself. Seeing Bénavidès’s younger brother also gave me a strange feeling. He often came by to watch me work, treating me, despite the distance that seemed to lie between us, with kindness that I would in other circumstances have found touching, but this was far from the case; his character and handsome features, which I could not help but notice, prevented me from feeling gratitude. I feared him as a rival, noticing in all his behavior a kind of passionate sadness too much like my own not to come from the same source, and what convinced me in the end was that after posing several questions concerning my luck, he declared: “You are in love. I can see that you are overcome by the melancholy of heartbreak. Tell me about it,” he went on. “If I can be of any help, I will gladly try. Generally all the unfortunate earn my compassion, but there is one sort whom I pity even more than the others.” I believe I thanked Don Gabriel (as he was called) for his offer in the most uncomfortable manner. On the other hand, I lacked the strength to deny that I was in love. But I told him that my fate was such that only time could make a difference. “Should you be hoping for someone understanding to come along,” he told me, “I happen to know others even more pitiable than you.”

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 47 As soon as I was alone again, I thought over and over about the conversation I had just had. I concluded that Dom Gabriel was in love with his sister-inlaw. Everything about his behavior, which I observed carefully, confirmed this idea. I watched him follow Adélaïde’s every step, gazing upon her with eyes like mine. Nonetheless I did not feel jealous; my respect for Adélaïde kept that feeling from my heart. Yet how could I not apprehend that the sight of such an amiable man looking after her, even doing her favors, would not cause her to feel, even more miserably than I, that my love had brought her only pain. While in the midst of these thoughts, I saw Dom Gabriel leading Adélaïde into the room where I was painting. “I don’t understand,” she told him, “why you wish me to see the improvements being done here; you know that I care little for these things.” “I dare say,” I said to her, “that if you were willing to look at all that is here, you would not regret it.” Adélaïde, struck by the sound of my voice, recognized me immediately. For a moment she looked down, then left the room without looking at me, saying that the odor of paint had made her ill. I was dumbfounded, overwhelmed by a terrible pain: Adélaïde had not even bothered to glance at me. She showed no sign of her anger. What had I done to offend her? I wondered. It is true that I came here against her wishes. But if she still loved me, she would forgive a crime that showed her the full extent of my passion for her. Then I decided that since Adélaïde no longer loved me, she must love another. This thought hurt me so acutely, in a way unknown to me, that I considered it the true beginning of my misfortunes. Saint-Laurent, who would visit me now and then, came into the room and saw me so shaken up that he grew frightened. “What is the matter?” he asked. “What has happened?” “I am damned,” I answered. “Adélaïde does not love me. She does not love me,” I repeated. “Is it really possible? My God! How wrong I was to complain of my troubles before now. What pain, what torment would I not endure to get back what I have lost, my dearest possession, the one that filled my heart with such sweet joy in the midst of the greatest adversity.” I continued lamenting in this way for some time before Saint-Laurent knew what was troubling me. Finally, I told him what had happened. “In all that you have told me,” he said, “there is nothing that warrants such desperation; Madame de Bénavidès is no doubt offended by your decision to come here. She meant to punish you by showing indifference. How could you possibly know that she was not afraid of betraying herself had she looked at you?” “No, no,” I answered, “self-control does not come easily when one is in love; the heart acts alone and on impulse. I must see her,” I added, “and reproach her for this change of attitude. My God! After what she has done, must she end my life in

48 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN such a cruel way? Why did she not leave me in prison? There at least I was happy; there I thought I was loved.” Saint-Laurent, fearing that someone might see the state I was in, led me to our room. I spent the entire night in torment, each fleeting feeling I had destroyed by the next. I blamed myself for being suspicious, but only grew more suspicious; I decided it was unjust to expect Adélaïde to pursue a love that made her unhappy, and faulted myself in moments like these for loving her for my sake more than hers. “If she no longer loves me,” I said to Saint-Laurent, “if she loves another, what does it matter that I die? I want to try to speak with her once more, but only to bid her a last adieu. She will hear no blame from my lips; the pain which I will not be able to disguise will do that for me.” I was sure of my decision. We agreed that I would leave as soon as I had spoken with her. We began looking for an opportunity. Saint-Laurent advised me to act while Dom Gabriel was out hunting, as was often the case, and when Bénavidès was occupied with domestic duties, as he always was on certain days of the week. He made me promise that, in order to avoid all suspicion, I would continue working as usual, and announce my imminent departure. So I went back to my task with the hope in the back of my mind that Adélaïde would return to that place. Every sound I heard gave me a feeling I could barely tolerate. This lasted for several days. In the end I had to give up hope of seeing Adélaïde in this way and to find a time when she was alone. At last that moment arrived. I was going upstairs as usual to paint when I saw Adélaïde entering her bedroom. She was clearly alone; I knew that Dom Gabriel had gone out early and had heard Bénavidès speaking with one of his farmers in the courtyard. I entered the room so quickly that I was close to her before she noticed me. As soon as she did she tried to escape. Grasping her dress, I said to her: “Do not avoid me, Madame. Allow me to enjoy one last time the pleasure of seeing you. After this moment, I will no longer bother you, but go far away to die from having caused you so much misfortune and from having lost your heart. I hope that Dom Gabriel, more fortunate than I …” Adélaïde, whom shock and emotion had prevented from speaking, stopped me at those words and, looking at me, exclaimed: “What, you dare blame me, you dare suspect me, you …” That word alone had me at her feet. “No, dear Adélaïde,” I told her, “no, I don’t suspect you in any way that might offend you; forgive me for words that were not from my heart.” “I will forgive you completely,” she answered, “as long as you leave shortly and that you never see me again. Remember that it is because of you that I am the

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 49 unhappiest woman in the world. Do you also want others to believe that I am the most corrupt?” “I will do everything you ask,” I told her. “But promise me at least that you will not despise me.” Although Adélaïde had asked me several times to get up, I remained at her feet; anyone who has been in love knows how endearing this position can be. I was still there when suddenly Bénavidès opened the door to the bedroom. No sooner did he see me at his wife’s feet than he approached her, sword in hand: “You will die for this, traitor.” He would surely have ended her life then had I not thrown myself between them, drawing my sword at the same time. “Then I will take my revenge on you first,” said Bénavidès, striking me with a blow to the shoulder. I did not cherish my life enough to defend it, but hated Bénavidès too much to give it up to him. Furthermore, the threat to that of his wife left me incapable of reasoning; I went at him, dealing a blow that made him fall lifeless to the floor. The servants who had heard Madame de Bénavidès’s cries then entered the room. They saw me withdraw my sword from their master’s body. Several of them jumped on me, disarming me without any resistance on my part. The sight of Madame de Bénavidès on the floor next to her husband breaking out in tears made me share her pain. They then dragged me to a room and locked me up. It was there that, with time to reflect, I became aware of the abyss into which I had plunged Madame de Bénavidès. The loss of her husband, whom I thought I had killed before her eyes, was sure to raise suspicions about her. Was I not to blame for all of this? The source of her misfortunes from the outset, I had now increased them tenfold by my imprudence. I pictured the state in which I left her, and all the resentment she must have felt; there could be no doubt that she loathed me, and that I deserved it. The only hope I had left was to remain hidden. The idea of being taken for a scoundrel, which would normally make me shudder, did not concern me at all. Adélaïde would be my defense. She was my entire world. This idea brought me some peace, although I was also troubled by my impatience to be interrogated. When my door opened in the middle of the night, I was surprised to see Dom Gabriel come in. “Be reassured,” he told me, coming closer. “I come on behalf of Madame de Bénavidès, who regards me highly enough not to hide anything concerning you. Perhaps,” he added, unable to hold back a sigh, “she would have thought otherwise had she known me better. Regardless, I will respect her trust: I will save you and save her if I am able.” “You most certainly will not save me,” I responded. “I will defend Madame de Bénavidès, and will do so if it costs a thousand lives.” I quickly explained to him my plan to remain anonymous. “Your plan would be feasible,” Dom Gabriel told me, “if indeed my brother had died as you

50 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN seem to think, but his wound, although grave, may not be fatal after all, and the first sign of life he gave was to have Madame de Bénavidès locked in her room. This should tell you that he suspected her, and that you would only perish without saving her. We must leave,” he added. “Today I can help you in a way that may not be possible tomorrow.” “And what will become of Madame de Bénavidès?” I cried out. “No, I could never allow myself to escape from the peril into which I put her, and then abandon her.” “I told you already,” Dom Gabriel answered, “that your presence would only make her situation more difficult.” “Well, then!” I told him, “I will go away since that is her wish and in her best interest. I had hoped that by sacrificing my life I would at least have earned her pity. I did not deserve the consolation. I am a miserable man, unworthy of dying for her sake. Protect her, Dom Gabriel. You are generous, and must be moved by her innocence, her misfortune.” “You can tell,” he replied, “from remarks that have escaped me, that Madame’s interests are too dear to me for me to have any tranquility; I would do anything for her. Alas!” he continued. “It would be enough just to know that she had not been in love. How is it possible that the happiness of possessing a heart such as hers was not enough for you? Never mind,” he said. “We should take advantage of the night and leave before daybreak.” He took me by the hand, closed the dark lantern he was carrying, and led me across the courtyard of the chateau. I was so furious with myself that, out of desperation, I almost wished to be more miserable. Dom Gabriel had advised me before leaving to go to a monastery only a quarter league from the chateau. “You must hide there for several days,” he said, “to avoid the searches that I myself will be forced to conduct. Here is a letter of introduction addressed to a monk of my acquaintance whom you can trust.” I wandered for some time around the chateau. I could not bring myself to go farther, but the desire to have news of Adélaïde made me take the road to the monastery. I arrived at dawn. After reading Dom Gabriel’s letter, the monk who greeted us led me to a room. The state of exhaustion I was in and the blood that he noticed on my clothes made him fear that I was wounded. He was asking me questions when suddenly I fell from weakness. He called a servant, and they helped me to a bed. They then called the resident physician to examine my wound, which the cold weather and fatigue had badly aggravated. When alone with the priest to whom I had been introduced, I asked him to inquire about Saint-Laurent at one of the village houses. I was convinced that he had sought refuge there, and was not mistaken. The poor young man was in

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 51 terrible pain after hearing of my wound. He approached my bed to find out all that had happened. “You would save my life,” I told him, “if you could inform me of Madame de Bénavidès’s condition. Find out what is going on, report to me as soon as possible, and understand that what I am going through is a thousand times worse than death.” Saint-Laurent promised to do as I wished, leaving that instant to take the necessary steps. I was overcome, however, by violent fever, and the physician had to make large incisions in order to heal the wound. But the pain in my mind was such that I could barely feel the pain in my body. Madame de Bénavidès—as I had seen her leaving her room, bursting out in tears, lying on the floor next to her husband, whom I had wounded—never left my mind. I envisioned the misfortunes of her life, seeing myself at each turn: her marriage, her choice of the most jealous, most bizarre husband, had been due to me, and now I had taken that misfortune even further by putting her reputation at risk. I remembered then the jealousy I had shown her: although it lasted but a moment, and although one word could have ended it, I could not forgive myself for it. Adélaïde must have considered me unworthy of her kindness; she must have despised me. I continued to dwell on this painful, overwhelming thought and grew furious with myself. Saint-Laurent returned eight days later to tell me that Bénavidès was gravely ill from his wound, that his wife was inconsolable, and that Dom Gabriel gave the appearance of directing a thorough search for us. This news did not help my state of mind; I hardly knew what to hope for, and everything conspired against me. I could not even wish for death; I felt as though I had to devote myself to defending Madame de Bénavidès’s honor. The monk I was with took pity on me; he heard me sighing constantly, my face nearly always covered in tears. He was a learned man with a great deal of worldly experience, whom certain events had led to the cloister. He did not try to console me with words, showing only sensitivity to my suffering. This approach was effective, as he slowly won my trust. Perhaps it was due simply to my need to speak and to express my sorrow; the more I spoke of it, the more attached I became to him. After a few days, he became so indispensable that I could not bear being without him for a moment. Never have I seen so much kindness in a person; he listened as I repeated myself over and over, sharing my feelings. Thanks to him I knew all the goings-on at the home of Bénavidès, whose wound kept him in grave danger for some time. At last his condition improved. I received news thanks to Dom Jérôme, as this monk was known. He went on to tell me that all appeared calm at the chateau, that Madame de Bénavidès was living even more solitary an existence than before, and that her health was failing. He also said that I must prepare to go farther away as soon as possible, and that my

52 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN presence there might be discovered, causing Madame de Bénavidès to suffer even more. I was still far from ready to leave; the fever persisted, and my wound had not healed properly. I had been at the monastery for two months when I noticed Dom Jérôme growing sad and preoccupied. He averted his eyes, unable to look at me, barely responding to my questions. I had grown very fond of him. It is true that the unhappiest men are the most sensitive. I was going to inquire about the reason for his melancholy when Saint-Laurent, entering my room, told me that Dom Gabriel was presently at the monastery, that he had just met him. “Dom Gabriel is here,” I said, looking at Dom Jérôme, “and you have not said a word. Why such mystery? You frighten me! What is Madame de Bénavidès doing? For heaven’s sake, spare me this cruel ignorance.” “I wish I could keep you there indefinitely,” Dom Jérôme said at last, hugging me. “Ah,” I cried out, “she is dead, Bénavidès has sacrificed her to his fury. Will you answer me? I have lost all hope. But it was not Bénavidès,” I went on, “it was I that put the dagger in her heart; without my love she would still be alive. Adélaïde is dead, yet I go on living. Why should I not follow her now? Why delay avenging her? But no, ending my life would be a gift I don’t deserve; to separate, to betray myself thus would be horrid.” I was in such a violent state of mind that I reopened my wound, losing so much blood that I became lifeless to the point that they thought I had expired. After several hours, however, I revived. Dom Jérôme, fearing that I might try to take my own life, ordered SaintLaurent to keep watch over me. At that point my despair took on a different form. I remained in mournful silence, not shedding a tear. It was then that I resolved to find a place where I would let myself fall altogether prey to my suffering. The idea of making myself yet more miserable than I was seemed almost pleasurable. I wanted to see Dom Gabriel if only because doing so would increase my pain; I begged Dom Jérôme to bring him to me. The following day they were in my chamber, and Dom Gabriel sat near my bed. We remained silent for a long time, while he watched me with tearful eyes. At last I broke the silence: “You are very generous, sir, to visit a miserable man whom you must truly hate.” “You are too unfortunate,” he responded, “to deserve hate.” “Pray do not let me ignore any circumstances of my ill fortune,” I told him. “The information I ask of you may prevent the very outcome you are trying to avoid.” “It will add to my suffering and to yours,” he answered. “Nonetheless, I will comply. At the very least you will see from my account that you are not the only one worthy of pity. However, I am obliged, in order to tell you everything you wish to know, to reveal something about myself.

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 53 “I had never met Madame de Bénavidès when she became my sister-in-law. Having come to Bordeaux on important business, my brother fell in love with her, and although his rivals, besides being of comparable birth and fortune, were preferable in many other ways, Madame de Bénavidès chose him for reasons I cannot fathom. Shortly after the wedding, he took her to his country estate. It was there that I saw her for the first time. While I admired her beauty, I was even more enchanted by her gracious spirit and remarkable sweetness, which my brother put to the test each day. Nevertheless, the love that I felt at the time for another lovely person, who loved me dearly in return, led me to believe that I was protected against so much charm. I even planned to convince my sister-in-law to help me win my brother’s consent to marry. The father of my mistress, offended by my brother’s refusals, had given me only a short time to change his mind and had announced to his daughter that as soon as that time expired he would find her another husband. “The friendship I enjoyed with Madame de Bénavidès allowed me to ask for her help. Several times I went into her room intending to ask her but was hindered by the slightest obstacle. Meanwhile, the time allotted to me was running out. I received several letters from my mistress begging me to make haste. But the responses I sent were not to her satisfaction. Imperceptibly, they took on a certain coldness that drew complaints, which I found unfair, and I wrote her to that effect. She believed that I was abandoning her, and the resentment she held, combined with her father’s insistence, convinced her to marry another. She informed me herself of her fate. Although full of reproach, her letter was tender; she concluded it by asking me never to see her again. I had loved her a great deal, and believed I loved her still. To learn that I was losing her caused me real pain, and fearing that I might have caused her unhappiness, I blamed myself. “Preoccupied by these thoughts, I dayreamed sadly as I walked along a wooded path, with which you are familiar, when Madame de Bénavidès approached me. Seeing my desolation, she inquired about the cause in a friendly way. I was held back by a certain repugnance: I could not bring myself to tell her that I had been in love. But the pleasure I would derive from speaking of love with her, even though not for her, changed my mind. I felt all of these emotions stirring in my heart without being able to unravel them. I had not yet dared to understand my feelings for my sister-in-law. I told her my story, showing her the letter from Mademoiselle de N… “ ‘Why did you not speak to me before?’ she asked. ‘I might have persuaded your brother to give you the consent he had refused. My God! How sorry I am for you, and sorry for her as well: she is sure to be unhappy!’ “The pity Madame de Bénavidès felt for Mademoiselle de N… made me afraid that this would reflect badly on me, and to lessen this fear, I hastened to tell her that Mademoiselle de N…’s husband was of noble birth, with considerable

54 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN merit and rank in society, and that his fortune, by all appearances, promised to become still more considerable. “ ‘You are mistaken,’ she responded, ‘if you believe that all of those advantages will make her happy; nothing can make up for the loss of what we love. It is a cruel thing,’ she added, ‘when we must put duty ahead of our inclinations.’ “She sighed several times during this conversation. Indeed, I noticed that she struggled to hold back tears. “After exchanging a few more words, she left me. I did not have the strength to follow her, and found myself in such a troubled state that I cannot describe it; I suddenly saw what I had not been willing to see hitherto—that I was in love with my sister-in-law, and I suspected that her heart was taken. I recalled many incidents which I failed to notice: her need for solitude, her disdain for all the distractions common for her age, the extreme melancholy which I had attributed to my brother’s ill treatment, now appeared to have a different cause. So many painful thoughts went through my mind. I found myself in love with a person I should not love at all, and who furthermore loved another. If she had not been in love, I told myself, my own, though hopeless, might have brought a certain consolation; we would have been close friends, and she would have meant everything to me. But friendship would mean nothing to me if she had stronger feelings for someone else. I sensed that I had to get over a passion so contrary to my repose, and which honor would not allow. “I decided to go away, and returned to the chateau to inform my brother that I was obliged to leave. But the sight of Madame de Bénavidès made me forget my resolution. I convinced myself, as a pretext for remaining nearby, that she needed me as protection against her husband’s outbursts. “This was about the time of your arrival. I found in you a certain air and manners that belied the condition in which you appeared. I offered you my friendship, hoping to gain your trust. My plan was then to hire you to paint Madame de Bénavidès’s portrait; despite the illusions I had about my love, I was still determined to go away and wished at least, before separating from her forever, to take a portrait of her with me. The way you reacted to my proposals convinced me that I could expect nothing of you, and I was on my way to find another painter the terrible day that you wounded my brother. Imagine my surprise when, upon my return, I discovered all that had happened; my brother, who was gravely injured, kept a mournful silence, casting from time to time scornful glances at Madame de Bénavidès. “He called me to him as soon as he spotted me: ‘Deliver me,’ he said, ‘from the sight of a woman who has betrayed me. Have her shut in her quarters and order that she not be able to leave.’ I tried to say something, but Monsieur de Bénavidès interrupted me before I could get a word out: ‘Do as I say,’ he told me, ‘or you will never see me again.’

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 55 “I had no choice but to obey. I approached my sister-in-law and asked permission to speak with her in her room. She had heard the orders her husband had given me. “ ‘Go on,’ she told me, shedding a flood of tears, ‘carry out what you’ve been ordered to do.’ “These words, which felt so reproachful, pained me a great deal. I did not dare respond in the place where we were speaking, but no sooner had she entered her room than I said to her, with a look of deep sadness: ‘What, Madame? Do you mistake me for your persecutor, I who feel your pain as you do, who would give my life for you? I tremble to say it, but I fear for your own. I beg you, retire to a safe place for a while. I promise to take you there myself.’ “ ‘I don’t know if Monsieur de Bénavidès would threaten my life,’ she answered. ‘I only know that my duty is never to abandon him, and I will fulfill that duty no matter what it may cost me.’ “She fell silent for a few moments, then continued: ‘I will offer you, as a measure of my complete trust, the greatest token of my esteem; indeed my confession is a means of preserving yours. Return to your brother; a longer conversation may raise his suspicions. Then come back as soon as you are able.’ “I left as Madame de Bénavidès requested. The surgeon ordered that no one be allowed in her husband’s room. I thus ran back to his wife, with many different thoughts running through my mind. I wanted to know what she had to say, and was afraid to hear it. She told me the story of how she met you, how you fell in love with her the moment you set eyes on her. She did not hide the inclination you inspired in her.” “What!” I cried out at this part of Dom Gabriel’s account. “I won the favor of the most perfect person in the world, only to lose her?” This thought filled my heart with such tender feelings that my tears, held back until then by the extent of my despair, began to flow. “Yes,” Dom Gabriel continued, “you won her love. I found in her heart such tenderness for you, despite her misfortunes and her present situation. I sensed her enthusiasm for all that you did for her. She admitted having recognized you when I led her to the room where you were painting, that she had written a letter demanding that you leave, but never found the opportunity to give it to you. She then told me how her husband had surprised you at the very moment that you were saying adieu forever, that he tried to kill her, and that it was while defending her that you wounded Monsieur de Bénavidès. “ ‘Save this poor man,’ she added. ‘You alone can preserve him from the fate that awaits him, for I know him; to avoid exposing me and what he means to me, he would endure every torture imaginable.’ “ ‘He is well compensated for his suffering, Madame,’ I told her, ‘by the esteem you have shown for him.’

56 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN “ ‘Now I have shown you the full extent of my weakness,’ she replied, ‘but you must have noticed that, if I have not controlled my feelings, I have at least controlled my conduct, and have taken no actions that even the most rigorous sense of duty would condemn.’ “ ‘Goodness! Madame,’ I exclaimed, ‘you need not defend yourself; I know too well that we cannot control the movements of the heart as we would like. I will do everything in my power,’ I added, ‘to obey you and to protect Monsieur de Comminge, although I dare say he may not be the unhappiest among us.’ “I left while saying these words without daring to look up at Madame de Bénavidès. I shut myself in my room to decide what I should do. I was determined to deliver you to a safe place, but unsure if I too should flee. The pain I felt from the story I had just heard made me realize how deeply in love I was. I had to free myself from a passion so threatening to my virtue, but it would have been cruel indeed to abandon Madame de Bénavidès to the hands of a husband who thought he was betrayed. “After much hesitation, I decided to rescue Madame de Bénavidès, and to carefully avoid her. I could not inform her of your escape until the next day. She seemed somewhat more calm, yet I thought I noticed that her affliction had worsened and was sure that this was due to her awareness of my feelings. I left then in order to spare her the trouble which my presence was causing. “Several days passed during which I did not see her. Meanwhile my brother’s condition worsened. When we began to fear for his life, I thought it necessary to visit her to alert her to the danger. “ ‘If I were to lose Monsieur de Bénavidès,’ she told me, ‘due to some ordinary accident, the loss would affect me less; but knowing my own responsibility in this case would make it terribly painful. I am not afraid of being mistreated; rather I am afraid that he will die thinking that I betrayed him. If he lives, I hope he will know that I am innocent and keep me in his esteem.’ “ ‘I too, Madame,’ I said to her, ‘must try to merit yours. I ask your forgiveness for the feelings I allowed you to see. I have been as unable to prevent their beginning as I am to conceal them from you. Indeed, I cannot even say whether I shall be able to forget them, but swear that I will not trouble you with them ever again. Indeed, I would already be far away from here if I did not think you needed my help.’ “ ‘I do confess,’ she said, ‘that you caused me much distress. Fortune has deprived me even of the consolation of your friendship.’ “The tears she shed while speaking these words had more of an effect on me than all my reasoning; I was ashamed to make an already unhappy person even more so.

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 57 “ ‘No, Madame,’ I told her, ‘you will not be deprived of the friendship which you so kindly appreciate, and I will merit yours by striving to make you forget where I have strayed.’ “Indeed I found myself more at peace taking my leave of her than I had been since our first meeting. Far from fleeing, I hoped through the meetings we might have in this new engagement to find new reasons to fulfill my duty. I was successful therein, managing little by little to limit my feelings for her to friendship. I spoke to her candidly of my progress in this regard, and she thanked me as though I were doing her a favor. In return she showed me new signs of her trust. My heart still rebelled on occasion, but each time reason prevailed. “My brother, after being for some time in great danger, finally recovered. He refused to grant his wife permission to see him despite her insistence. He was not well enough to leave his room when Madame de Bénavidès too fell ill. Youth played in her favor, and I had reason to believe that her illness revived the tender feelings of her husband. Despite his obstinate refusal to see her, even while she continued to request it during the worst of her illness, he asked about her condition with a certain urgency. “She was beginning to feel better when Monsieur de Bénavidès asked for me: ‘I have important business,’ he told me, ‘which requires my presence in Saragossa. My health prevents me from making the trip. I ask that you go in my place and have ordered that a carriage be prepared for you. Oblige me by leaving as soon as possible.’ “Being my elder by many years, I always had a respect for him that I would have had for my father, and thought of him as such. I had otherwise no reason to avoid doing what he asked of me. I was thus forced to go, but thought that this show of obedience on my part gave me license to speak to him about Madame de Bénavidès. “How I tried to soften his attitude! It seemed as though I succeeded in this regard. I even thought he began to show tenderness. ‘I loved Madame de Bénavidès,’ he said, ‘in the most passionate way possible; it is not yet extinguished in my heart. However, time and her future conduct will erase the memory of what I have seen.’ “I did not dare question the matter of his complaint; that would have surely reignited his fury. I asked only his permission to tell my sister-in-law about the hope he gave me, and he granted it. The poor woman took the news with a kind of joy. “ ‘I am aware,’ she told me, ‘that I can never be happy with Monsieur de Bénavidès, but I will at least have the consolation to be where duty dictates that I should be.’

58 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN “I left after reassuring her of my brother’s good intentions. I charged one of the head servants whom I trusted to take note of everything that concerned her and to keep me informed. “Thinking these precautions sufficient, I made my way to Saragossa. Nearly fifteen days went by without news. The long silence was beginning to worry me when I received a letter from the aforementioned servant telling me that three days after my departure, Monsieur de Bénavidès had fired him and his colleagues, retaining only one man, whom he named, and this man’s wife. “I trembled while reading the letter, and without burdening myself with the baggage I had, took the next coach. I was a three-day ride from here when I received the fatal news of Madame de Bénavidès’s death. My brother, who had written to me himself, appeared so distressed that I could not imagine him repsonsible. He described how the love that he had for his wife prevailed over his anger, how he was about to forgive her when death stole her from him, how she fell ill again shortly after my departure and that she succumbed to a virulent fever on the fifth day. Since my arrival here, where I have come to find consolation in Dom Jérôme’s company, I have learned that my brother is in the throes of extreme melancholy. He refuses to see anyone, and even wishes me to put off my visit. “I have no trouble obeying this wish,” Dom Gabriel went on, “as the places where I saw poor Madame de Bénavidès and where I shall never see her again would only make me feel worse. It is as though her death awoke my initial feelings for her; I don’t know whether love, or simply friendship, accounts for my tears. I have decided to go to Hungary, where I hope to end my life in the perils of war, or to find the peace of mind I have lost.” Dom Gabriel fell silent. I was unable to respond, my voice having given way to sighs and tears, of which he shed as many. He finally left before I was able to say one word to him. Dom Jérôme saw him out and I remained alone. What I had just heard made me more impatient to be in a place where nothing could distract me from my suffering; my desire to fulfill this goal hastened my recovery. After having languished for so long, my strength began to return, my wound healed, and my condition allowed me to leave shortly thereafter. As we bid farewell, Dom Jérôme repeatedly expressed his most sincere friendship. I wish I had responded, but having lost Adélaïde, my feelings were limited to mourning her. I said nothing of my plan so that no one could prevent my depature. I sent a letter to my mother with Saint-Laurent, whom I led to believe that I would be waiting for a response in the same place. The letter was an account of everything that had happened to me, and I closed it asking her forgiveness for going so far away. I added that I thought it necessary to spare her the sight of an unfortunate man who only wished to die. Finally, I begged her not to make any attempts to discover my retreat, and recommended Saint-Laurent to her.

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 59 When he left, I gave him all the money I had, keeping only what I needed to make the trip. Madame de Bénavidès’s letter and her portrait, which I always held close to my heart, were the only possessions I had allowed myself. I left the day after Saint-Laurent’s departure. I came almost without stopping to the T… Abbey, and asked for the habit upon my arrival.6 The Abbot requested that I begin the noviciate. When I completed it, he asked me if poor meals and the austerity of the cloister were not too much for me to bear. I was so completely distracted by the sorrow I felt that I did not even notice the change in nourishment or the austere living conditions of which they spoke. My apparent insensitivity being taken by him as a sign of zeal, I was admitted. The reassurance this gave me that nothing would interrupt the flow of my tears, that I would spend my life in this order, offered me a sort of consolation. The awful solitude, the eternal silence of this place, the sadness of everyone around me, allowed me to fully embrace the pain which had become so precious to me, and which almost substituted for what I had lost. I performed the duties of the cloister because I had grown indifferent to everything equally. Each day I walked to some far off spot in the woods. There, I would reread the letter while looking at the portrait of my dear Adélaïde, covering both with my tears and returning home even sadder than before. Three years had gone by in this way, and not the least sign of the pain relenting, when I was summoned by the bell to attend the last rites of a monk. He was already lying on the ashes, about to receive the last sacrament, when he asked the Abbot’s permission to speak.7 “What I have to say, father,” he continued, “will give new fervor to those who are listening for the one who saved me, in such an extraordinary way, from the deep abyss into which I had fallen, to bring me to the door of salvation.” To this, he added: “I am unworthy to be called brother, an honor these holy men have given me. You see before you an unfortunate sinner, a woman brought to this holy place by profane love. I loved and was loved by a young man of equal condition to mine. Our fathers’ hatred for each other prevented us from marrying. I was even obligated, in the interest of the one I loved, to marry another. I tried, even in my choice of a husband, to prove how madly I had loved him: one whom I could only hate, because such a man would fail to make him jealous. God decided that a marriage, contracted with such criminal intentions, would 6. Referred to in the original as ‘l’Abbaye de la T…,’ or the Abbey of La Trappe, home of the Cistercians of the Strict Observance (more commonly known as Trappists). Located in the old province of Normandy, it originated as a small chapel in 1122 and became an abbey in 1140, a Cistercian abbey in 1147. From the Catholic Encyclopedia entry, http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/09035a.htm. 7. Lying in the ashes for the last rites was a symbol of repentance for the Trappist monks. “Je suis Monsieur l’Abbé de la Trappe couché sur la paille & sur la cendre, prêt à rendre les derniers soupirs. See the “Éloge Funèbre de Monsieur l’Abbé de la Trappe (Lettre de Monsieur l’Abbé de la Trappe à Madame l’Abbesse des Clairets, deux heures avant sa mort),” (118). Available from Google books.

60 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN be a source of misfortune for me. My husband and my lover wounded each other before my eyes. The profound sadness I developed as a result led to illness. I had not fully recovered from it when my husband locked me in a tower in his house and reported my death. I spent two years in that place, with no consolation other than that which a servant, who brought my meals, tried to offer me. My husband, not satisfied with the suffering he inflicted on me, was so cruel as to insult me further in my miserable situation. But my God! What have I said? I can hardly call the instrument you have chosen for my punishment cruelty. All the suffering I have known failed to open my eyes so that I might see where I strayed; far from lamenting my sins, I only wept for my beloved. “The death of my husband freed me at last; the same servant, the only one aware of my fate, came to unlock the door of my prison, telling me that I was believed to be dead the day I was locked up. My fear of what people would say of my adventure made me seek retreat somewhere, and any hesitation was gone when I learned that there was no news at all of the one person who could keep me in the world. “I dressed as a man in order to leave the chateau discreetly. The convent that I had chosen, and where I had been raised, was only a few leagues from here. I was on my way there when something inexplicable compelled me to come into this church: it took only moments for me to notice, among those singing God’s praises, a voice more accustomed to touching my heart. Thinking my imagination was seducing me I moved closer; despite changes which time and austere living had made to his face, I recognized the seducer so dear to my heart. Great God, what an effect this had on me! What powerful feelings stirred within me upon seeing him again! Far from feeling thankful that he was on the path to salvation, I blasphemed the Lord for having taken him from me. You did not punish me for these impious words, oh my God! You took advantage of my misery to pull me toward you. I was incapable of leaving a place that held the one I loved; in order never to be separated again, and after having dismissed my coachman, I introduced myself to you, Father. You were deceived by my determination to be admitted to the Abbey, and took me in. What sort of conviction did I bring to these holy rituals? A heart full of passion entirely devoted to its beloved: surely God, who by leaving me on my own willed me to have still more reason to humiliate myself before him, allowed the poisoned fruits I was enjoying to breathe the same air, to coexist with me. I followed his every step, I helped him in his work as far as my strength permitted and found myself compensated in these moments for all that I suffered. But I did not stray so far as to be discovered. But by what motive did I stop? The fear of disturbing the repose of the one who had disturbed my own. Without that fear, I would perhaps have done everything in my power to tear a soul away from God that I knew belonged to him.

Memoirs of the Count of Comminge 61 “Two months ago, following the rule of our holy founder, who hoped to sanctify the lives of his monks by continually reminding them of death, each was required to dig his own grave. As usual, I accompanied the one to whom I was attached by such shameful ties. The sight of the tomb, the intensity of his digging, pained me to the point that I had to move away to allow tears to flow which might betray me. It became clear from this moment that I would lose him. This idea never left my mind, and my attachment to him grew even stronger. I followed him everywhere, and if several hours passed without seeing him, I began to think I would never see him again. “Then came the moment that God had planned in order to bring me to him: we were walking in the forest to cut firewood for the house, when I noticed that my companion had left me. Feeling worried, I had to look for him. After crossing several wooded paths, I saw him in a remote place, looking intently at something he had taken out of his breast pocket. He was so lost in his thoughts that I had a chance to see what he was holding without being noticed: how astonished I was when I recognized my portrait. At that moment I realized that, far from enjoying the peace of mind that I was so afraid to disturb, he was, like me, prey to a criminal passion. I watched as an angry God pressed him with the weight of his almighty hand. I believed that the love that I bore even to the foot of altars had drawn divine vengeance on the object of that love. Haunted by this thought, I went to prostrate myself at the feet of the same altars. I came to ask God’s permission for my conversion in order to gain the same for my beloved. Yes, dear God! It was for him that I prayed, for him that I shed tears. It was my concern for him that brought me to you. You took pity on my weakness; my prayer was not refused, as insufficient and profane as it was. My heart was touched by your grace. I experienced at that very moment the peace of a soul that is with You and who seeks only You. You tried again to purify me through suffering; I fell ill only a few days later. If my straying companion falters still from the weight of his sin, may he look upon me, may he consider whom he loved so madly, may he think about the frightful moment I will soon confront, which he too will confront, about the day when God suspends his mercy to mete out justice. But I sense that the time of my last sacrament is near. I implore these holy men to help me with their prayers. I ask their forgiveness for the scandal I have brought, and consider myself unworthy of sharing their tomb.” I recognized the sound of Adélaïde’s voice, which was ever present in my memory, from the first word she spoke. How to express what I felt in my heart at that moment? All the feelings of the most tender love, of pity, of despair came to me at once. I lay prostrate beside the other monks. As long as she spoke, the fear of missing a word kept me from crying aloud. But when I realized that she had died, I cried so painfully that the monks came and lifted me up. I broke out of

62 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN their arms and ran to kneel down beside Adélaïde’s body, taking her hands which I covered with tears. “So I have lost you a second time, my dear Adélaïde,” I exclaimed, “and this time forever. What? You were near me for so long and my ungrateful heart did not see you? At least we will never be separated again; death, less barbarous than my father,” I said holding her in my arms, “will unite us in spite of him.” True pity is never cruel. The Abbot, moved by this spectacle, pleaded with me in the most affectionate and Christian way to abandon the body I embraced so tightly. At last he had to resort to force. I was dragged to a room into which the Abbot followed. He spent the night there but was unable to change my thoughts in any way. My despair seemed to increase with each word of consolation he gave me. “Bring back my Adélaïde,” I told him. “Why did you keep me from her? No, I can no longer suffer living in the place where I lost her, where she suffered so. For pity’s sake,” I went on, throwing myself at his feet, “allow me to leave; what would you do with one so miserable whose despair would leave you no peace? Allow me to await death in the hermitage. My dear Adélaïde will ensure that God hears me, that my penitence saves me, and of you, Father, I ask one last favor: promise that the same tomb will unite our ashes. I promise in return to do nothing to hasten the only thing that can end my suffering.” The Abbot, out of compassion, or perhaps to spare his followers a scandalous spectacle, granted my request and consented to my wish. I left that very moment to come to this place. I have been here for several years, with no occupation other than to weep for what I have lost. THE END

THE MISFORTUNES OF LOVE BY CLAUDINE-ALEXANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN

Insano nemo in amore sapit.1 - Propertius

1. The verse is misquoted, the original being: “Scilicet insano nemo in amore videt” (“Of course in the madness of love no one can see ”). Propertius, Elegies, II, 14, v. 18.

Dedicatory Epistle to M***

I write for you alone. The only success I hope for is to pay you homage. You are the world to me.

Part One My grandfather, having acquired great wealth from his post in the finance ministry, put my father in a position to obtain his own by the same means. Wealth acquired so easily soon persuades those who possess it that they are entitled to it, leaving them with a certain disdain for those whom fortune has treated less kindly. My father was distinguished enough by birth to know better; in terms of wit and talent he lacked only the opportunity to put them to use. But those whose wealth comes with no effort to acquire it hardly feel the need to do so. Talent and good reasoning are almost always the result of need or suffering. My mother came from a family comparable to my father’s, and by marrying they joined fortune to fortune. I was born amidst abundance, which as an only daughter I never had to share. This had a bearing on my education. I had hardly opened my eyes when I learned that I was a wealthy heiress. My fancies were not only satisfied, they were nurtured. I was taught to be proud and haughty. I was expected to spend a great deal, but no one cared enough to teach me how to give. In short, they neglected nothing that could help me attain the status of grande dame, which I was one day to become. Custom requires that girls of a certain age be placed in a convent to fulfill the first duties of the faith. Vanity chose the one I would attend. A well-known abbey was chosen because all young women of distinction went there and because it was fashionable to be raised there. Luxury followed me into the convent. I was spared ordinary food to which the other girls, more distinguished than I, were accustomed. I required special dishes. “My daughter is of a delicate constitution,” my mother told them (since such is the nature of an heiress). “She can’t be nourished this way.” My supposedly delicate health was in fact quite robust, but if it did not require these additional things, my parents’ vanity did. I absolutely had to have privileges: for instance, they wished me to have not only a woman to serve me, but an actual governess. Although this was not usually the custom in the convent, the nuns, amazed by the amount of my generous pension, agreed to everything. There is hardly a place where wealth impresses more than in a convent: the girls who are confined there, being in continual need of an infinite number of things, look with respect to those from whom they hope to get them. Indeed I soon had a devoted following. Far from trying to correct me, they praised me constantly. I was the loveliest child they had ever known. They always reserved the best seat for me, filling my head with trivial conversation. Mother and Father, pleased by the reports they heard, continually sent gifts, spoiling me ever more. I had reached my fourteenth year, and had yet to experience either disappointment or real instruction. However, a little adventure I had offered me both. 65

66 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN My governess had me eat now and then in the refectory so that I might impress the others with my magnificence. I shared what was served to me with my more complacent friends; the others had no such luck. It was a lesson that my governess had taught me, but which nevertheless I had trouble putting into practice; deep down I found all of these expectations revolting. Mademoiselle de Renonville, from one of Picardy’s most prestigious families, as besotted with her nobility as I was expected to be with my wealth, never deigned to come near me. One day she went even further, by taking the seat I was used to having. I was about to find another when my governess, offended by this lack of respect, decided to reclaim my own. The argument was both lengthy and animated. Miss Renonville exaggerated the privileges of her birth, and spared no stinging insults about my own. I lowered my eyes during all of it, having no idea of what to do with myself. I felt a confusing mixture of spite, anger, and shame. What I was hearing was completely new to me, ideas that shocked my sense of pride. One of the more sensible nuns, in fact quite sensible, came to rescue me from this embarrassing situation and took me to her room. As soon as we were inside, I began to cry with all my heart. “Do you know what you must do?” said the nun. “Instead of crying, you should take comfort in the fact that you are not doing anything wrong.” “I know I have not,” I responded, weeping still. “If my governess had not prevented me from doing so, I would have sat elsewhere, and would not be having such trouble. What makes me angry is that the girls who were so flattering to me were perfectly content to see me mortified. What is Miss Renonville suggesting, that I owe her respect?” “You don’t owe her any,” replied the nun. “However, she is a person of quality, and you are not.” These distinctions were completely new to me, but perhaps instinctively I was afraid to ask for an explanation. Eugénie (as this nun was called) did not wait for my questions: “You have a good heart,” she told me, “and I believe you intelligent enough to understand what I have to tell you. Your head has been filled with all the wrong ideas, and you must forget them. Your father acquired his wealth by means and employment that were not very respectable. It is a stigma which never goes away entirely.” “But why,” I asked, “is nobility so important?” “Because,” she responded, “its origins are nearly always important. Besides, certain distinctions between men were necessary, and this one was the simplest.” My mother, who came to visit, interrupted this conversation. My governess hastened to exaggerate the insult I had suffered. It was decided then and there that I should leave the convent, which did not upset me. What I experienced with my companions was the same sort of shame I would have felt had they seen me completely naked. Nevertheless I missed Eugénie; although she told me in truth

The Misfortunes of Love 67 awful things, she did not dislike me at all. A glimmer of reason began to enlighten me, making me realize that indeed I needed her advice. I went to look for her in her room, embracing her with all my heart, over and over. “What you are doing, my dear child,” she told me, “is proof of your good nature: it would be a shame were you unreasonable, as you were intended to be. But the examples that come before your eyes will seduce you, and you are still too young to resist them. I love you, I want you to love me too. Come visit me often. I will give you my advice, and if you trust me, I will help you avoid ridicule, and perhaps real misfortune.” I embraced her again, both of us weeping as we left each other, and our conversation was the start of a bond to which I owe what little I am worth. Eugénie taught me almost everything. She made me see things as they really are, and while she did not prevent me from making grave errors, she at least made me aware of them. As soon as I returned to my father’s home, it was decided that I should have tutors of the kind not available in the convent, preferably the most expensive ones. The wealthy are convinced that talent can be bought like fabric for a dress. Fortunately nature allowed that this expense was not lost on me; I was born with the best of dispositions, and soon became the most promising of my tutor’s pupils. I was proud to have, besides, a charming face. So much time has passed since I was beautiful that it is no longer vanity to claim that I was, and perfectly so. Beauty and extreme wealth were more than what was needed to attract suitors. They came in droves. Fortunately, my father was determined to wait until I reached the age of eighteen before finding me a husband. Mother herself would have been able to attract gentlemen. While perhaps not as uniformly beautiful as I, she was nonetheless quite attractive, and had she been able to be content with who she was, she would have been lovely indeed. But she aspired to be a woman of quality. She took on as much as she possibly could the requisite airs and manners. But that is not all: she wanted to have more wit than nature had allotted her. There are certain expressions that persons of high society occasionally render fashionable, which signify whatever one wants, and which are amusing when heard for the first time, but precious or ridiculous when others insist on repeating them too much. Mother constantly fell victim to this habit; she had no taste for the common way of speaking, yet ignored elegant expressions and almost always misused them. I do not know whether it was the time it took for her to remember them, or that she did know their subtlety, but stumbled on the words. I hope that the frankness with which I describe my mother does not give the wrong impression: I never failed in my devotion to her. I loved her dearly, and sometimes despaired at the effort she exerted to spoil all that was good and amiable about her. I fancied that my example might help correct this, and with

68 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN that in mind was ever attentive to avoid all that had even the slightest appearance of affectation. Being of the character I have just described, it is clear that she only wished to be among persons of quality: names, titles, were everything to her. What did she gain from her efforts and expenses while trying to fit in with those people but ridicule and disdain! Yet nothing stopped her from having the pleasure of being seen at the opera with a duchess, and to be able to say to complacent persons of inferior status that the Duchess and Duke of such and such were coming to dine at our home. These good days were not without embarrassing moments: the same complacent types had to be turned away from the house, those whom my father had given the liberty to come as they wished, and of whom Mother was ashamed. Among these were a few distant relatives, which was all the more awkward as we absolutely did not want to be seen in their company, and they had no intention at all of keeping out of sight. I still recall somewhat shamefully what occurred when our most distinguished guests were scheduled to call. The house was full of activity early in the day. My mother gave instructions, beginning with how to handle my father. We could not simply send him away with the others; we had to at least try to give him respectable manners. He was, as I mentioned, a man normally quite sensible when his wife allowed him to be himself. But as a result, her incessant praise of what she called good company had gone to his head as much as to hers. He was especially encouraged to take on a relaxed air. But one must not confuse honest candor with familiarity; one learns these delicate distinctions only from worldly experience, which is why my mother and father always confused them. Never a title, never “monsieur,” even when they addressed them: they came nonetheless just as eagerly into our home. These great lords and ladies, who relished the freedom to bring along whomever they pleased, and perhaps more so the thrill of making fun of us, were as aware of the indecency of coming to see us as of our foolishness for inviting them. Mother could not refrain from playing the coquette: the status of a pretty woman, and one of high society, demands it. The challenge was to find admirers who were both noble and fashionable: in short, those who were de bon air. A man who had been at the royal court would grab her attention, but these gentlemen too have their rules: to lavish attention on a bourgeoise, to devote oneself entirely to her, would be utterly ridiculous. My presence made little difference in this regard. The custom whereby a woman should not draw attention while her daughter appeared in society had changed by that time. Everyone had their adoring suitors. It even occurred fairly often that the mother was first to receive attention, especially when there was a question of marriage.

The Misfortunes of Love 69 Among the frequent guests of the house, the Chevalier de Dammartin was the favorite, and he set the tone for the others. Ill will and even more so vanity made him caustic and critical; he despised everyone, and thus admired himself more. By constantly questioning the pedigree of others, he convinced everyone of the excellence of his own. His reputation for probity and virtue was acquired in the same fashion. He appointed himself as arbiter, royally judging matters of all sorts, but did not speak every day. He was well known for his disdain, which everyone respected. In fact I believe it became a kind of merit. My father was the only one for whom he had none. He even smiled for him on occasion. To be sure, this favor always preceded several loans, which were never reimbursed. The other men who honored us by coming to mock us were for the most part lesser snobs of the court. A great deal of arrogance, endless chatter, shocking ignorance, sovereign contempt for morality, a total absence of principles, an air of vice, and the debauchery of too much leisure: such were they all. I spent a year after leaving the convent without being admitted to these elite gatherings. In the interim I was supposed to learn to be graceful from the dance tutor, and to acquire what they call savoir-faire, politeness, and above all an air of sophistication. If I had had any desire to be philosophical, these things would have given me much to reflect on, but such thoughts would be as useless to those capable of having them as to those who never have them. I returned to my quarters just after dinner;2 there I spent perhaps the sweetest moments I have ever enjoyed. As soon as my instructors had left me alone, I began to read, or rather devour, novels. Nature having endowed my heart with its share of tender sensibility, I drew pure pleasure from them. I took a keen interest in my heroes; their happiness and misfortunes were my own. If my reading prepared me for love, it should also be said that it gave me a sense of virtue. I owe it too for having shed light on my suitors. The Marquis de Fresnoi, who became enamored with me as soon as I appeared in society, was the first to test these observations. He liked me more than he cared to admit. Indeed he was careful not to be attentive or flattering. On the contrary, he hid as much as possible his efforts to follow and observe me. I think that he wished to hide them from me; in any case, had he been more daring, he might have asked me how to go about it. Nothing was more amusing than the pains he took to disguise his gallantry with an air of nonchalance. It was just as though he were saying: you would be well advised to love me. But his tone changed when by chance he could speak to me alone. Love, no longer confused with vanity, grew more tender, more timid.

2. As Erik Leborgne notes in his edition of Les Malheurs de l’amour (Paris: Desjonquères, 2001), “le dîner,” what we now call lunch, was served between two and three in the afternoon in this period, “le souper” being served at eight o’clock or later in the evening.

70 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN As young as I was, the contrast in this behavior seemed truly ridiculous, giving me feelings for Monsieur de Fresnoi very different from those he hoped to inspire. It was not long before he had rivals. Among these, because of my beauty and status as wealthy heiress, there were two types: those who hoped to marry me, and those who thought their honor depended on chasing after all the pretty women. I ignored to which of these motives I owed the Marquis de Crevant’s attention. He was amiable enough, although not exactly without the airs and flaws of his peers. I went to tell Eugénie about all of this, and she laughed at my disgust and surprise. “Stay as you are,” she told me, “as long as you can. Your father loves you; take advantage of his affection while you look for a husband who can make you happy. Your heart and mind speak for no one at the moment. My advice would be always to conceal what your heart says, but I fear that one day it will become entangled in your affairs more than it should. Your sensibility makes me worry about your peace of mind in the future. You are doomed, my child, if you find someone who knows how to love, and to persuade you that he loves you.” Alas! I am coming to the part where her prediction would prove correct. My mother, eager to be in places where one could be seen, reserved a box for the opening night of a play. We were to go with a duchess who only agreed to have us for lack of anyone better, and who found company more to her liking. There we were, my mother and I, alone in the first balcony. The theater was packed with all persons of quality from the court and town. My mother, to savor the glory of knowing most of them, curtseyed again and again. As for me, I was entirely caught up in the joy of watching the play and hiding the tears it brought me, noticing no one. But bothered by a commotion created by the Marquis de Fresnoi, I looked in his direction: he was arguing about the merits of the play with a man I did not recognize, or rather, he criticized him for watching it, as such gentlemen often praise or condemn plays without really knowing what they are about. Seeing that he had my attention, and hearing others around him remark on my beauty, he thought it appropriate, without the least hesitation, to spend a few moments in our box. I noticed that the man he had been speaking to eagerly asked him (once he had returned to his seat) who we were. “The daughter and wife of a businessman,” he answered. “The daughter is pretty, as you can see, and what is more they have a good cook. That is how I came to make their acquaintance.” “You are not in love?” asked the man to whom he was speaking. “Listen,” Monsieur de Fresnoi responded, “if you have nothing better to do, you may come to dinner with me there. In fact I would be very pleased if you would. I also plan to recruit two or three more friends, as it is not a bad idea to have the strength of numbers in this household.” Whatever aversion the Count of Barbasan (this was his name) had to being introduced by someone he considered ridiculous, his desire to see me prevailed,

The Misfortunes of Love 71 and he accepted the invitation. They both came to the door of our box after the play. Monsieur de Barbasan was introduced casually, they saw us to our carriage, got into their own, and arrived with us at our house, where a crowd was already gathering. How different was Barbasan compared to anyone I had seen! I am not referring to the elegance of his features. I daresay that if that had been the only attraction, I would not have noticed. But what I found touching were his wit and his character; I began to form a good opinion of both that very day. Initially, the conversation concerned the play. Our courtier friends declared it execrable, as the Marquis de Fresnoi told Barbasan. “You might add that you reached your conclusion in the middle of Act One,” answered Barbasan. “Myself, I am not so quick to judge. I go to see tragedies to occupy my heart; if I find one moving, I ask for nothing more. I don’t bicker with the author about style, but am grateful, on the contrary, for the effort he has made to give me such a pleasant feeling.” After discussing the play, the principal topic, our conversation drifted to gossip of the court and town. Barbasan maintained his character throughout: he doubted, he forgave. One could say he disliked displays of wit at the expense of others. Card games put an end to the quarrels. Barbasan did not participate, nor did I. The two of us were alone and unoccupied. I realized that his eyes were locked on me, and I grew embarrassed. In order to maintain my composure, I approached the table where the game was being played. He did not dare follow at first. Luckily an incident which caused a dispute gave him a pretext. I believe he was still looking at me. As for myself, as much as I wanted to, I did not dare look up. I did not feel the need to read that night before bed as usual; a pleasant disturbance filled my heart, one I had never before felt. I imagined Barbasan’s face before me. I went over all that I had heard him say and praised myself for having like opinions. I could not bring myself to think about how his eyes had followed me, but the idea kept slipping into my thoughts. I spent the entire night in this way, and was annoyed in the morning to find that I had not slept, afraid that as a result I would not look as pretty. My appearance, to which I had given little attention up until then, became a serious affair. I wanted absolutely to look my best, and continually went over my choice of attire. “Wherever could you be going?” asked my maid, astonished by what she saw. Her question surprised me, and embarrassed me too; the feeling that caused me to behave in this way was entirely new. Some of the guests who had supped with us that night returned for dinner the next day. There was talk about the previous night’s supper. “What do you think of Barbasan?” asked one of our courtiers, addressing my mother. “He is not totally without wit, and for a man who has never been in certain social circles, he hardly seems out of place.” “Is he distinguished,” inquired Mother, “by birth?” “Supposedly he hails from one of Gascony’s oldest families,” responded the same courtier,

72 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN “but I don’t believe it myself. If it were true, why would he not speak of it? Would he not boast of his status? Would not someone with no wealth at all need to do so more than others?” “He has something greater than wealth,” said the Chevalier de Piennes,3 who had not yet spoken, “he has a sense of honor. As far as his origins are concerned, I assure you that whoever boasts of his own and goes around announcing it far and wide is far inferior to him in that way. Although aware of the value that these things have in society, he cannot bring himself to lend them importance, because in his opinion they have none.” I can not describe how this gentleman delighted me—less, I should say, for the compliment he paid Barbasan than for having humiliated the conceited courtier. We went out early that day to pay our visits: they had never seemed so boring to me. But to make matters worse, my mother, who had not arranged for supper to be served, brought me to someone’s home. I was praised, even admired, but if I made such an effort to be pretty it was certainly not for them. As soon as we returned home, I carefully read the guest list; the name I was looking for was not there. I was upset, but could not bring myself to admit the cause of my annoyance. I attributed it to what I considered a lack of politeness for not having come to thank Mother. This, I thought, was treating her in much too cavalier a fashion. We were invited out several days in a row, and finally Barbasan was among those who had come to our door. It was clear that he had only wanted to put his name on the list; it seemed to me that our company was not good enough for him.4 This idea crossed my mind several times that night. He did not seem as amiable as I had thought, and too often I found that in fact he was not amiable at all. Out of spite I became almost coquettish; I wanted to be noticed. Hurt by Barbasan’s indifference, my sense of pride needed reassurance. The theater and going for walks worked marvelously to my advantage in this regard. I always managed to recruit a suitor of some sort. The secret hope of seeing my fugitive, of being seen by him amidst a crowd of admirers, was nevertheless what kept me going. I looked for him everywhere I went. As soon as I ascertained that he was not there, my desire to please went out like a snuffed candle. The admirers, now useless to me, became insufferable. Fortune proved more helpful than my efforts. One morning we went to visit a painter whose work had a unique beauty. Barbasan was there, and despite the number of visitors, it took me no time to spot him. In fact I believe I saw no one 3. Pienne’s title in the original is “Commandeur,” a high ranking knight (chevalier) in the Order of Saint Jean of Jérusalem, of Rhodes and Malta. 4. Early in the day, acquaintances would add their names to a list of those hoping to visit a distinguished home during the day, although in this case, we see that Barbasan may have added his name to the list without intending to visit.

The Misfortunes of Love 73 else but him. My heart raced; I feared he might leave. Mother, who saw none of her acquaintances, did not hesitate to call to him. He came toward us with an embarrassed look. She chided him for neglecting us, and he said he had been several times to our door to request a visit. “Whenever you wish to see me,” Mother told him, “it is best to come to dinner or supper, today for example.” “I am terribly frustrated,” replied Barbasan. “I have an engagement I cannot break.” “Tomorrow, then,” said Mother. “I am similarly engaged tomorrow,” he answered. Offended by so many refusals, I could not refrain from saying, in a tone that betrayed my feelings: “Mother, why insist? Monsieur has better things to do.” I can still picture the way he looked at me then, his tender, timid eyes telling me, “You are so unfair!” Once we had made the round of the paintings, to which neither of us paid attention, we left. We had only just returned home when Barbasan arrived. He said that he was able to get out of his engagement and that, if we would have him, he would gladly spend the day with us. There he was, in our home. I was possessed by uncharacteristic gaiety, seeing everything in a new light. Even the guests whom I had always found boring began to inspire pleasant thoughts in me. I believe that Barbasan felt the same way; we were both full of the sweet contentment one feels when love is new, but which comes at such a cost later. The day went by as though it were a moment, and the same could be said of the next few, as Barbasan never passed by without stopping to visit us. Since I did not reflect on my feelings at all, I did not torment myself trying to fight them. On the contrary, Barbasan and I developed a kind of mutual understanding: a glance sufficed for us to know that something ridiculous had caught our attention. Our conversation followed our interests: women, if they were pretty, were subject to my mockery, and men, especially any who hoped to fall in love with me, that of Barbasan. I no longer felt eager to see Eugénie. When one is animated by much stronger feelings, friendship appears quite weak in comparison, and when it does assert itself, it is only when the need to confide makes it indispensable. I was not yet at that point; when I saw her again, and wished, as usual, to tell her about all the new things I had witnessed, I grew embarrassed. My heartbeat quickened whenever I needed to mention the Count of Barbasan. I felt as though Eugénie knew my thoughts. She asked me several questions about him. I could not resist speaking well of him, and as soon as I began, I could not stop, going on about his features, his wit, his intelligence. “Perhaps he is better at disguising himself than most,” Eugénie said. “Oh! That is not true,” I answered hastily, “I have observed him carefully.” “Why did you observe him so?” she asked. “I am terribly afraid that you like him too much for your own good. Be careful, my child. What a shame it would be if you were to fill

74 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN your head with ideas about a man you can never marry, if, as I gather from what you said, this Barbasan is not of the rank from which your husband will be found. Save your heart for the one to whom you must give it.” The bell that called her to mass prevented her from saying more, but I had heard enough. What dark shadows she cast on my spirit! I returned home pensive, preoccupied. I lacked the courage to really reflect on my situation, and was afraid to know myself. Nonetheless I was somewhat reassured by the idea that Barbasan never said anything resembling love. I did not think it possible that I could love someone who did not love me in return. We attended a concert where there were usually many in attendance. I went full of the new thoughts that preoccupied me. Barbasan sat opposite, and noticed that I was distracted. He even thought I avoided looking at him. Worried and alarmed by the change, he wished to know what was wrong as soon as he had the chance to ask. “Nothing is wrong,” I answered, with a look that signified that indeed something was wrong. “I have no right,” he answered, “to question you or complain, but for heaven’s sake, speak to me.” With his words came a look that expressed the feeling in our hearts: we understood each other in that moment, keeping silent, and for the first time felt embarrassed to be together. He was lost in his thoughts for the remainder of the evening, as I continued to be. All night I mulled over what Eugénie had told me: the way Barbasan looked at me, his dreaminess, no longer allowed me to doubt his feelings for me. I would have preferred to doubt them at that moment. It would have been a relief; I would have felt justified in ignoring my own. What to do? What decision to make? Could I forbid Barbasan to visit my father’s home? I had no right to do so. The morals of love are not that austere: I concluded that it was unnecessary to change my behavior, and that I should wait for something more worrisome to occur, or more legitimate reasons, before doing so. How could I know what was going to happen, what fortune held in store for me? Despite my resolutions, my conduct was no longer the same with regard to Barbasan, nor was his with regard to me: both of us had lost the gaiety we had typically shared. We conversed less; the things we used to say to each other no longer conveyed what we would have liked to say. Barbasan was aware of all this. I understood him even though he did not utter a word. For some time afterwards, I remained in a mood neither good nor bad. It was then that Mother and Father began to have discussions which were unusual for them. It did not occur to me that these meetings might concern me, as they did all too much, to my great dismay. I did not have to wait long to be apprised. One morning my father sent for me. I found him alone with my mother, who promptly announced that I was to

The Misfortunes of Love 75 marry the Marquis of N***, son of the Duke of the same name. She took her time listing every possible advantage of this union: that I would be at the court, that I would have a seat there.5 Finally, as if it were proof of the greatest felicity attainable, she told me: “You are so lucky; I brought your father as much fortune as we are giving you now, and I was more beautiful than you are. Yet how different our stations will be.” My father, subdued as he was, took offense at this comparison. “My God! My dear wife,” he said, “I know more than one duchess who would love to have as much money to spend as you.” This remark allowed me to express my objections: “You promised me,” I said, “that you would not even consider marrying me off before I was eighteen. I am not eighteen yet, and could not care less about being a duchess.” “You may not care, but we do,” my mother said bitterly. “But, Mother,” I answered, “Father has told me himself that you are happier.” “Your father thinks in the basest of terms,” she responded. “Go and do your hair,” she added. “I must go out, and may take you with me.” Had I been alone with my father, I would have shown him the pain this caused me. I felt that he loved me for who I was. In my mother, on the contrary, I could only sense an affection involving herself; she had besides this a haughty tone and mannerisms which I could hardly stand. I returned to my quarters in a very different state from the one I was in when I left them shortly before. My heart weighed too heavily to bear it alone. I needed to talk to someone, and Eugénie was all I had; I ran to see her. Two hours of pain and anguish had so altered the appearance of my face that upon seeing me she asked worriedly if I was ill. “I wish that I were,” I answered, sobbing. “I think I would rather be dead.” “Whatever is the matter?” she asked. “Please speak up, you are making me terribly worried.” “Oh!” I answered. “I am the most unfortunate person in the world: my father and mother just told me that I am promised to the Marquis de N***. What shall I do, dear Eugénie? Let me stay with you; I would prefer living in the convent to marrying a man I despise, who wants me only for my inheritance, who thinks he is doing me a great service, and who will have only contempt for me as soon as I become his wife. His nobility, his rank don’t impress me in the least. What good would they be to me, with a husband I find so disgusting, so mortifying? I am pitiable! Please, give me your advice.” “You will obey your parents,” Eugénie responded. “Oh! You no longer love me,” I cried. “You want me to be unhappy!” “I want you to be reasonable,” she said. “You lack even a pretext for refusing the Marquis de N***. How do you know that he is contemptuous? Why such gloom? Are you the first girl of your station 5. Only duchesses were allowed a seat—really a stool (tabouret)—in the queen’s circle: Antoine Furetière, Dictionnaire universel (1690; rpt. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1970), cited in Leborgne, 151.

76 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN ever to be brought to the court? Be poised when you are there; your birth, far from hindering you, will be to your advantage. Get others to serve your interests through your conduct and your husband will not dare disappoint you.” “But,” I answered, “I hate him. I will always hate him.” Eugénie looked intently at me, causing me to lower my eyes. “You are afraid,” she told me “that I see what is in your heart. Goodness, my child! I have been reading your heart for a long time; you only detest the Marquis de N*** because you are in love with Barbasan. I have not said anything, as I felt that you would rely on my judgment in order to come to terms with your feelings on your own. What are you thinking?” she continued. “What do you intend to do about this attachment? Do you wish to be unhappy? Because you would be foolish to think that you could marry him.” Hearing his name, the impossibility of being together, which I had but vaguely imagined, filled me with so tender, so hurtful a feeling that in an instant my face was covered with tears. “I pity you,” Eugénie told me. “Speak to me, don’t be afraid to show me your weakness. If I don’t approve of your decisions, I also feel for you. You need advice, you need courage. Is Barbasan aware of your love for him?” “My God!” I exclaimed. “How could he know, when I hardly know it myself?” “Has he spoken to you?” she asked. “How has he acted? How have you acted?” I was in that state in which one badly needs a confidante: the friendship that Eugénie showed still touched me, but then too the joy of speaking about someone you love! So I related, in every detail, not only what Barbasan had said to me, but everything I had heard him say to anyone. “If only you knew,” I added, “how wise, how different he is from all of the others!” “I believe it,” said Eugénie, “but, my child, this is not the husband for you.” “Well, then!” I retorted emphatically. “I shall put myself in a convent.” “Of all the paths to take, that would be the most unfortunate,” she answered. “Do you fancy yourself the heroine of a novel, who locks herself in a cloister because she does not get the suitor of her choice? Believe me, your sorrow will not last forever; you will have no trouble forgetting about Barbasan. It is just a matter of will. However, to be happy in a convent it is not enough to want it. Be careful not to let the Marquis de N*** notice your disgust, for he would never forgive you. It is important to be proper, but you must not show disdain.” Eugénie’s lecture failed to persuade me. It agonized me and I reproached her for that, in tears. But, far from taking offense at my complaint, she responded as would a true friend, and spoke to me in a way so touching, so reasonable, that I had to promise to heed her advice. I was to avoid Barbasan, never give him a chance to speak with me, and if despite my efforts he succeeded, I was to beg him never again to come to my father’s home.

The Misfortunes of Love 77 We argued for some time over this last point; I said that I had no right to ask this of him. “Don’t be fooled,” she responded. “If Barbasan is as you have described him to me, he will obey you. If he is not, then he is not worth the sorrow he has caused you.” She made me promise to come see her, and to keep no secrets. I parted with more pain than I had brought: she had cast a mournful shadow over my heart. My affection for Barbasan presaged only sorrow for me. I found nonetheless infinite sweetness in allowing myself to dwell on it. I even imagined taking pleasure in suffering for the one I loved. I had just returned home when Madame the Duchess of N*** came to introduce her son, as is the custom. My eyes were still red from crying so much. The Duchess took the opportunity to go on and on in platitudes about my fear of leaving my mother and father, which she saw as a sign of my good nature. “I hope you appreciate,” she said to my mother, “the virtue of loving a mother as young and pretty as you are.” Then, addressing me: “Don’t give all that affection to this mother, save some for me. Truthfully,” she added, “I do believe I love her with all my heart.” She then spoke about how wonderful I would look in certain outfits, referring here and there to something or other at the court. I listened to all these remarks with the utmost disdain. Perhaps it was stubborn vanity which showed despite my normal disposition, and the distracted, almost bored expression of the son, which was as much to blame as his mother’s speech. I saw him looking first at his watch, then at the clock. It was nearly time for the theater. What a farce, as if seeing me rivaled the need to show off his tasteful new outfit that day! The duchess, in an effort to hide the conspicuous impatience of her son, concluded her visit. “I have work to do at the duchy,” she said as she took her leave. “I am dying to conclude this marriage. I believe it cannot be soon enough that we are all brought together, and right away. But after all, why wait? Are we not quite certain that our child will be a duchess?” Mother’s vanity served me well in this instance: since the famous seat at the court was the objective of this marriage, she said to the duchess that it would be preferable to hold to their agreement, and to wait until the duchy was transferred to her son. I breathed easier, knowing the delay that this clause would bring. The rest of that day and those that followed went by in the usual way. The Marquis de N*** came to visit during the hours in which he had nothing better to do. Although we heard no congratulations, there was talk of our marriage. Barbasan’s sad expression told me that he had heard the news. Mine, which I could not mask, must have shown him my own thoughts. I avoided him nonetheless, to save myself from having to tell him to stay away. I enjoyed more freedom to do as I wished, since it was established that the wedding would take place in a matter of days. I took advantage of this by staying

78 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN in my room. One day, just after my harpsichord tutor had left, I was in the dreamy, emotional mood into which music inevitably plunges us when something weighs heavily on the heart. My eyes stared at a sheet of paper without seeing it at all, when a noise I heard forced me to look up, only to see Barbasan just a few steps from me leaning against the back of a chair and wearing such a sad expression, his face so altered, that even had I been indifferent to him I would have pitied him. For several moments we said nothing. I started in the direction of an adjacent room where my maidservant was working. “I beg you, just a moment,” he said, dumbfounded. “If it were only a matter of my life that was at stake, I would not risk offending you. But this is about the happiness or misfortune of yours: the Marquis de N***, whom you are to marry, is a man with neither character nor convictions. He even pretends to have vices he does not have. Far from knowing and feeling his good fortune, he is vain and presumptuous enough to consider you too honored to take his name. The wealth that you will bring him will serve only to augment his foolishness. He will forget that he owes it to you, that you should enjoy it, and will make the most loathsome use of it before your eyes.” “Do I have any choice in the matter?” I said, wiping away tears I could not help shedding. “I can see all too well the misfortune that awaits me.” “Yet you resign yourself to it!” cried Barbasan. “You make no effort to persuade your father, who loves you! Choose happiness out of pity for me, to keep me from dying out of desperation.” “Alas, I shall never be happy!” I exclaimed, carried away by my feelings. “Oh, you would be,” he cried, throwing himself at my feet, “if fortune had not treated me so cruelly. Yes, you would have been touched by a love like mine. I wouldn’t have known any other glory, any other felicity than those I gain from adoring you.” I cannot recall how I was going to answer when I noticed the Marquis de N*** only two steps from where we stood, heading for the door. He had seen Barbasan at my feet. He might even have overheard what he said to me. I was profoundly troubled: what would he think of me, and what worried me ten times more: what would others think of me in public? I reproached Barbasan for his indiscretion, the sorrow he was going to cause me, and finally broke down in tears. He himself was so hurt by the pain he was causing me that he needed no other justification. At first I had asked him emphatically to leave my room, and though I continued to plead with him, it was no longer in the same tone of voice. The heart provides all the mistakes one could ever need. This episode, which should have worked against him in my esteem, had quite the opposite effect. I began to think that we had common cause. Eventually, I discussed with him the consequences of what had transpired, and the conduct that I should adopt. I fancied that my marriage would be cancelled. “I hardly dare hope so,” he told me; “the Marquis de N*** has neither the love nor the sense of honor to be so sensitive.”

The Misfortunes of Love 79 His rival’s lack of love naturally brought about testimonials to the strength of his own. In any case, I don’t know how I reconciled all of this in my mind, but it seemed to me that I could listen to him, and, before parting, I promised to update him on any news of the matter. I asked that he wait several days before his next visit. He refused to consent to this: “Prudence counsels, to the contrary,” he said, “that there be no change in my behavior.” My own was rather unreasonable. But I was seventeen, with a tender heart, a natural attachment to Barbasan, and a powerful aversion for the Marquis de N***. He came to supper as usual. If I could have doubted that he had seen Barbasan at my feet, his air and expression would have made me do so: he spoke to me with the same nonchalance, engaged Barbasan in conversation enthusiastically, and, far from acting bitter, agreed with his opinions on everything. Looking at each other, we silently expressed our surprise at this behavior. I imagined it a tactful and considerate way of breaking our engagement without causing trouble. He suddenly began to appear worthy of my respect. However, my opinion changed dramatically when two days later I learned that he was hastening more than ever to conclude our marriage, making every attempt to persuade my mother not to insist that he possess the duchy beforehand. Such unworthy conduct gave me once again (in addition to the antipathy I already had) the most profound contempt for him. I made it a point to consult with Barbasan about what I should do: he had so well understood the Marquis de N***’s character that he could not fail to give me useful advice. How quickly passion carries us away as soon as we concede to it in the least! I found myself in perfect understanding with my beloved Barbasan; I heard him say that he loved me, and let him know some of my feelings. I believed that I was permitted to speak with him in private, that it would not offend propriety, that it sufficed to be with my maidservant, whom, incidentally, I had persuaded to defend my interests. Thus I had several conversations with Barbasan, who always found various pretexts to justify their necessity. I confess that they seemed as necessary to me as they did to him. We decided that I would speak to my father, to make him fully aware of my disgust. “He was born with an excellent nature,” said Barbasan; “only his outside has been spoiled by those around him; he has a capacity for good judgment that will decide in the end. It often occurred to me,” he continued, “to acquire his friendship and that of Madame in the same way that the others have won it, but my heart was always repelled by this idea. I would have, besides, failed you indignantly by adding to the ridicule that you abhor.” Barbasan’s virtuous sentiments were not lost on me: they became the excuse for my weakness. Father always rose early in the morning, so I took advantage of this time to speak with him. He was astonished to see me up so early. Kneeling before him,

80 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN I took his hand and kissed it several times without uttering a word. “What is it, my child?” he asked. “Speak up: you know how much I love you.” “Oh, Father,” I exclaimed, “that is what sustains me, that is what gives me hope. No, you will not make me the unhappiest person in the world! You will not force me to marry the Marquis de N***. Father,” I continued, still kissing the hand that I had held all along and moistened with tears: “have pity on your daughter!” “You cause me such sorrow,” he said in a voice full of tenderness. “Pull yourself together, my child. Why do you have such an aversion for the Marquis de N***? Do you think he will not love you?” “It is much worse than that,” I answered; “he deserves my contempt. I am quite sure too that he has no respect for me, but what really degrades him most of all in my mind is that he has no need to respect a girl whom he wants to marry.” “Where did you get such ideas?” asked my father. “I am all too certain,” I answered. He was undoubtedly going to pressure me to explain my certainty, at which point I think I would have confessed my attachment to Barbasan, when one of his friends came to speak to him about some urgent business. My father hugged me, and only had time to say: “Your mother is making this difficult, see if you can change her mind.” I would have tried in vain, but the way my father spoke gave me hope: I left convinced that if he lacked the courage to oppose my mother’s wishes, he would at least forgive me for disobeying her. I reported all of this to Barbasan, as I did nothing without consulting him; our interests were now one and the same. Yet I still had not dared confess to him that I was saving myself for him. However, on this point, as on so many others, we understood one another without a word spoken. Meanwhile the wedding preparations forged ahead: the Marquis de N*** did not register the disgust that I tried to show him, and turned a blind eye to the relationship between me and Monsieur de Barbasan, which, far from concealing, I made conspicuous to him with some exaggeration. I was near the point of exasperation, but was spared by a very sad and painful event. My father, who had always been remarkably healthy, suddenly succumbed to a fever which resisted all the usual remedies. Friends and relatives came out in force during the first few days, but the length of the illness discouraged them. Suddenly the antechamber, which had been full day and night of those anxious for news of the patient’s progress, emptied. My mother held out for a long time, but in the end grew as fatigued as the others. She began once again to have visitors and host suppers. To justify this, guests were told that Father’s illness was not dangerous, only that he needed rest. The physicians spoke in the same terms to placate my mother, but I was not reassured. A secret foreboding, a profound sadness devoured me and warned me of the misfortune that lay ahead.

The Misfortunes of Love 81 I was nonetheless expected to be present at supper; my mother insisted, and I did not wish to draw attention to the indecency of her conduct, through one so contrary to her own. I gave up sleep to compensate for the hours these obligations caused me to spend away from Father’s side. I asked to stay in a room adjacent to his. As soon as his emptied of all but those required to spend the night there, I got up, fraught with worry, to give him the kind of care that no one else seemed as capable of giving him. One evening while I was reading aloud to him by his bed, trying to give him a chance to rest, I noticed him suffering more than usual: his condition, the effects of which made me shudder, overcame me to the point that, as hard as I tried, I could not hold back my tears, and had to interrupt my reading. Father remained for some time in silence. Then, holding out his hand, he said: “Don’t worry, my child. You must accept it; my life is in God’s hands. His grace has given me time to see. The length of my illness has allowed me a better understanding of death. My only regret is you, my dear Pauline; I am leaving you at an age when passion has the greatest hold on you. You have only yourself to guide you: your mother is more capable of leading you astray than of helping you. Oh, that you could see things in the light in which I see them now! But did I see them myself when in good health? I had to reach the point at which everything disappears before feeling nothingness. What have I gained from all this wealth, which took such effort to amass? Its use has been lost on meaningless things, sometimes just for the thrill of spending it. My inability to see myself for what I am and what others thought of me has cast a bitter veil over my life that has spoiled everything. But these secret warning signs have had less influence than my wife. How could I resist? She loved me then, and I adored her. Alas,” he went on with a sigh, “it is because I adored her that I should have resisted her! I allowed her to follow the pernicious guide of others’ examples, and now I am dying from the unfortunate truth that she followed it too well. What does it matter to me anyway?” he continued, wiping away his tears. “It is just another reason to embrace death.” “Oh, Father!” I cried out, falling to my knees at his bedside and taking his hands, which I washed with my tears. “Have pity: don’t say such things; it hurts me so. Do you wish to leave me? What would I do! What would I be without you?” I could hardly breathe from the pain. I stayed, resting my head on the edge of the bed. Father kissed me. “Seeing your affliction, my daughter, I am beginning to understand more clearly the others’ intentions. She did love me,” he added, “but no longer. You need not fear henceforth that she will pressure you to marry the Marquis de N***. I foresee her plans for you, dear Pauline. If at all possible, choose a husband based on your reason; beware of following your heart, or if you do follow it, promise me at least to put whomever you choose to the test. I will give you

82 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN the means to do so. Here is a small purse containing most of my wealth. The one that will be opened after my death is too insignificant to attract those who would marry you out of self-interest. If it is a man of high rank, you will reward his love and his generosity by revealing your wealth to him. He will love you all the more for having allowed him to show his love in its purity, by keeping it hidden until then. If on the contrary the one you choose is of mediocre rank and status, you will have the distinct pleasure, perhaps the greatest of all, of making your beloved’s fortune.” While he spoke, Father held out the purse, or rather the treasure, for that it was indeed. But not at all inclined to take it, I got up and moved away from his bed. I felt as though taking it would surely bring on the tragedy that loomed over me, that it would hasten that fateful moment. Struck by this thought, I left the room as quickly and as frightened as I would have been had an abyss opened up before me: I suffocated from agony and collapsed onto a bed, where I allowed my tears to flow freely. I have had many misfortunes; I doubt, however, that I have known a more painful moment than this one. Father, who no longer knew where I was, woke up an attendant who had been asleep, and asked that I return. I could not bring myself to go, asking only if his condition had worsened. “No,” the attendant answered, “but he would like you to read to him.” I was in no condition to read; my eyes were full of tears, and I could barely breathe from the sobbing. Father was told, in order to give me more time to compose myself, that I had returned to my quarters. He ordered someone to come get me. I cleaned up my face and composed myself as best I could. The purse, which my father still held in his hand, forced me to keep away from the bed. “Come near, come near,” said Father, “don’t be obstinate, if you don’t wish me to be angry and make my illness worse. Take what I am giving you.” “No, Father,” I said, “I will never change my mind. You break my heart in the most painful way: you really wish to die! My God, how miserable I am!” “Well, then,” said my father, “take this and keep it in trust for me; my honor and my own interest demand that it be in your hands. You shall return it to me if God restores my health. If he decides that my time has come, you shall execute what I have written in this testament written in my hand. Take every precaution to assure that those to whom you give the amounts I have allotted have no knowledge of their source: they would clearly see that they were restitutions. Though I deserve the shame, it would no longer fall on me, but on you alone, and you don’t deserve it. Go quickly now, my dear Pauline,” he continued, pushing the purse against my breast, and absolutely forcing me to take it, “put this away somewhere safe. Speak of it to no one, and let me rest. I need it.” I had to obey. His last words helped lessen my repugnance. I could see that the orders he gave could only be entrusted to me. But this did nothing to

The Misfortunes of Love 83 relieve my sorrow; on the contrary, I suffered from a kind of pain. The more love I showed Father, the more he showed me confidence and kindness, and the more he did for me, and the worse I felt that he blamed himself so. As this was nearly the time when I would spend several hours resting in bed, I lay down, not in order to sleep—I was hardly capable of it—but to be free to cry. My mother once again began to overwhelm me. I had no doubt, after what I had just heard, that she was solely to blame for my father’s condition. She was nevertheless my mother; I had to love and respect her. How to reconcile this duty with the distance I began to feel (despite my efforts) between us? I resolved at least to be in control of my appearance, and to keep all that I had learned to myself. Barbasan himself was not exempt from the silence that I forced myself to keep. In all honesty, a bit of pride prevented me from portraying someone so dear to me in such a negative light. During the next few days, Father’s condition improved somewhat. I felt joy in proportion to what he had done for me: the poor man was touched by it, and to avoid spoiling it, appeared to gain hope which was unrealistic. I was often alone with him, and he took advantage of these moments to express his affection and give me advice. His good judgment and natural qualities were unrestrained. “You will encounter ungrateful types,” he told me. “What do you care? Ingratitude is their concern. Yours is to do as much good as you are able. This is for your own pleasure as well; I have never known more delight than when I did an important favor for a man dear to me. For a long time he ignored what I had done. He could have gone on ignoring it as far as I was concerned; for me the satisfaction from the self-esteem I gained from this sufficed.” If I relate this story it is because in what follows one will see an example of how it inspired me. Barbasan did not follow the example of the other supper guests: he inquired caringly about Father’s health, and when he was allowed to visit him, he stayed in the room as long as he could. This was all the more admirable as his attention went almost unnoticed. My affection for Father eclipsed all other sentiments for him. Barbasan complained in an endearingly sweet way: “You are only thinking of your father,” he told me. “I wonder if you even notice when I look at you, when I speak to you. It breaks my heart, and yet I don’t think I would have you any other way: anything that enhances you in my regard, or that confirms the perfect image that I have formed of your character, satisfies my heart.” After several days of hope, I not only began to worry, but had a cruel certainty that my father would not recover: he languished for a while longer before dying with the resignation of a man with unshakable faith and the steadfastness of a philosopher. Mother and I were taken to the home of one of my aunts. I was stricken with the most awful pain. My mother, on the other hand, had difficulty keeping up the appearances which decorum prescribes, and I grieved all the more

84 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN for being the only one grieving. When my mother returned home I refused to go with her, asking permission to be instead with Eugénie, which she granted without hesitation. I had become, one might say, an inconvenient witness. So I went once again to the convent. But since no longer a child, and there only by choice, I had my own quarters. Only Eugénie could keep an eye on my conduct; I had no trouble submitting to an authority that I myself had given her, and which our friendship had allowed. The causes for discretion regarding the Count of Barbasan no longer mattered with Eugénie, so I kept nothing secret about what my father had made me suspect. “I would have spoken to you about it long ago,” she said, “if I had not thought it appropriate to protect you from matters of which you need not be aware.” I was no less candid about the purse. We opened it together, not out of impatience to revel in its contents; I may rightly declare that I felt neither the desire nor any pressing need to do so. Indeed I considered the wealth a collection which I was to give out strictly according to my father’s conditions. Nonetheless, I was anxious to execute the orders he had given me. To this end I found Eugénie’s help and especially her advice indispensable. The amounts indicated were returned to their rightful owners. Everyone was astonished at the small portion of wealth allotted me. I no longer had to worry about the Marquis de N***. He did not bother to maintain even the appearance of politeness around me: a short note placed on the convent door signed by his mother and him put an end to his claim. The Marquis de Crevant held out somewhat longer, but his attention impressed me so little, that I did not think it worth mentioning. I was nevertheless delighted that he cared enough for me to concede to Barbasan. I had yet to see him since my return to the convent. I asked Eugénie if he would be permitted to visit me: “You would be angry indeed, if I were to say no, but in truth I am eager to test his mind, his character; if I find that these differ from your descriptions, I will not indulge either of you, and will do everything I can to separate you.” The test did not alarm me. Could Barbasan fail to please? My heart jumped nonetheless when someone announced that he was in the parlor. Our opinions, even our feelings always seek the approval of others. I took an interest in Barbasan’s countenance and speech which I had not had previously, anticipating his words. I believe that at that moment I did not so much need him to show me his love as to show that he was worthy of loving me. His efforts to engage me in conversation were in vain; determined to examine him, I didn’t respond. This imposing silence, the cause of which he might not have guessed, affected him measurably; he no longer had the strength to continue the conversation. I did what I could in the end to get him to speak, and my eyes continued to tell him what they told him all along. That is all it took to free his mind: he tried hard to impress Eugénie, and he succeeded.

The Misfortunes of Love 85 Despite the pleasure of seeing him, I was truly impatient for the visit to end in order to relish the praise I expected to hear. “Was I mistaken?” I asked Eugénie, as soon as we were alone. “You would not ask me,” she replied, “if you were not sure of my response: he is amiable, it is true, and what I admire even more, is that he appears to be a man of honor. Perhaps he is merely a good actor.” “Oh!” I cried out, “what an unfair statement, and how cruel to say such a thing to me.” “I am only echoing what your own reason tells you. How unfortunate it would be for you if his mind, his graciousness, his seductive appearance were masking vices! Even were it not a matter of vice, or flaws of character, fickleness and inconstancy are enough to make you unhappy.” “No, my dear Eugénie,” I said, embracing her, “he is nothing of the sort. Promise me that you will not be against him.” “Promise me, too,” she responded, “to take no action without consulting me, and to trust my opinion of your suitor, whom I will observe closely.” I promised to respect all of her wishes, and in good faith. What risk is there really in allowing the one you love to be put to the test? So Barbasan became a fixture of my parlor, spending entire days there, love lending its secret charm to our most banal activities, as it does to everything. Even in his absence I subsisted on the sweet joy that filled my heart during our time together. My mother came to see me only on rare occasions. Notwithstanding our ties, we had almost no desire to be together. I was no longer useful to her ambitions; my fortune seemed too mediocre for a prestigious marriage. In short, I was but an aging maiden who threatened to diminish the beauty of her mother by making her look old. In fact I was inclined to do no less. I could not get what Father had told me out of my head. My mother’s behavior made this all too clear: her relationship with the Marquis de N***, for which I could no longer serve as a pretext, began to create quite a stir in society. She had evidently come up with a plan to marry him, as soon as she possibly could. When it came time to execute her plan, she spoke to me in terms so vague as to signify nothing, but which nonetheless allow one to say, “I told you.” I found out several days later that the wedding had taken place from my tutor, who was ordered to inform me about it. This man, whom my father had trained and who earned somewhat of a fortune thanks to him, loved me like a daughter, and felt afflicted about an event that he considered highly unfair to me. My insouciance consoled him, especially the firm resolution I appeared to have made to stay in the convent. Alas! It cost me little: what place on earth could be more wonderful than one where I could see the man I loved? My mother’s marriage, which did not trouble me personally, did so in another way: it reminded me of my father’s death, my father who had loved me so tenderly. Had I cried enough over him? I blamed myself, and blamed Barbasan for

86 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN having dried my tears too quickly: “You tore me away,” I told him, “from righteous sorrow. For all I know one day you could cause me as much. How I will regret it!” My God, how he answered! What expressions, what emotion! How sad that I could form such doubts! In order to stop his protests I had to ask his forgiveness, which I did with delight, made sweeter still by the pleasure of submitting to the one I love. I had told Eugénie that I was saving myself for Barbasan, although I had not yet had the courage to tell him. My mother’s marriage allowed this to happen naturally. After discussing it with him, I concluded that I was free to do as I wished. He cast his eyes downward, looking at once tender and embarrassed. He did not dare speak. “I understand,” I told him, “but listen to me: would I have welcomed your attention? Would I have allowed you to see what goes on in my heart?” Barbasan’s joy did not allow me to continue; he fell to his knees. What rapture! What ecstasy! In how many ways did he show his gratitude! The happiness that ravished him was nonetheless far in the future: I had to wait until I was twenty-five. I was only twenty at the time. “What does it matter?” said Barbasan to Eugénie, who wanted him to understand. “I will see her, I will love her, I will be hers. For what more could one hope? You will test my heart,” he said to me, “and I will win yours more and more.” Goodness! It was hardly necessary, a natural attraction which, far from resisting, I strengthened, giving him the rights that he hoped to acquire. What happiness I enjoyed then! I was happy with the man I loved, and more flattering still, he felt the same for me. This felicity lasted for a few months, but was too perfect to last. Fortune began to turn against me when I learned of my mother’s pregnancy. Thus I fell under the dominion of my father-in-law, who had no intention of leaving me in control of my destiny. My wealth, as modest as it was, tempted him; for as long as I remained unmarried it would go to my mother’s children. For this reason, any marriage had to be prevented, especially one with Barbasan. The Chevalier de Piennes, who had developed a strong friendship with me, came to warn me that I would soon face obstacles. “The Duke de N***,” he told me, “knows of your ties to Barbasan, and will use this knowledge to show his power. Don’t underestimate him,” he added, “he could easily obtain an order to separate you and Monsieur de Barbasan, perhaps forever.” These words had a chilling effect on me, as I realized all that could happen. I decided to take the Chevalier’s advice to see Barbasan, but see him only rarely. The trouble was in persuading him; he made light of my caution. “Doing so,” he said, “you resign yourself to the unfortunate situation that threatens you.” He was, besides, so furious at my stepfather, that it took all my authority to keep him from doing something rash. He told me that soon he would have to leave on a short trip to Chartres, where he needed to conclude some important business. The night before he was

The Misfortunes of Love 87 to leave, we found it extremely difficult to separate. Barbasan came back two or three times to the door, always with one more thing to tell me. A valet who had been with him since childhood delivered a letter every morning: never did I doubt that he would return the next day at the same time, since his master would have to wait for his return before leaving on horseback. I nonetheless told him a thousand times not to forget to send letters. I rose earlier than usual, and went to find Eugénie, just to express my chagrin for not having seen Barbasan for a few days. Even before the hour had arrived when I was accustomed to meeting his valet, I grew worried that he was not there yet. It was another matter altogether when that hour and several more passed. My footman, whom I had sent for news after being made to wait two more hours, which seemed like years, returned to say that he found no one. Because of this, I became agitated to the point of being incapable of staying in one place for any significant length of time. Then someone arrived to alert Eugénie that there was a visitor asking for her in my parlor. This unexpected event now had me truly worried. I ran and found an old valet there. “Where is your master?” I asked him, my voice trembling. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “everything is ruined …” These words, which filled my head with horrific thoughts, were the only ones I heard. I fell back into my chair, unconscious. Eugénie came to my aid, and had me carried to my room. She learned from the young man that Barbasan had not returned that evening, and that after having waited all night for him, he searched for him in places where he might receive news. On his way back to the house, he had come across one of his friends, who said that his master had fought with the Marquis de Fresnoi, that he had killed him in the town square, and that no one knew where he was taking refuge. The attempts of Beauvais, the name of his man, to learn more proved useless. This news, frightening though it was, in fact gave me some consolation. Barbasan’s death, which had first occurred to me, and which had such an effect on me that I fell unconscious for hours, made me see the lesser of two evils as good. But once over this initial reaction, I thought about the incident and found myself in nearly the same state I had been in initially. I appealed to the Chevalier de Piennes to help me understand. He returned the same day, and despite the care he took to protect me, his story broke my heart. Barbasan had escaped to the home of a friend, hoping to leave in the night to take the coach, but had been arrested just as he was preparing to leave. The Chevalier added that he would do everything he could to keep the witnesses at bay. Imagine, if possible, the night I spent: my mind dwelled only on the darkest, most tragic thoughts. Eugénie never left my side. She was too intelligent, too

88 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN sensitive to attempt to lessen my pain with false reasoning. She suffered along with me, and, in doing so, gave me the only consolation that could make a difference. The Chevalier came, as he had promised. His mournful expression and perplexed air terrified my soul. There was more than enough proof; witnesses came out in numbers. “The number of them,” added the Chevalier, “is too great to be credible; their depositions will be contested, and we will buy some time.” Although I had cried the entire time the Chevalier was with me, his presence, his words, lifted my spirits somewhat. As soon as he was gone, far from retaining any hope, I could not see how I had ever had any at all. That night was a thousand times worse than all of those that preceded it. I shook with horror at the thought of what might happen. The idea shocked me such that I could not even mention it to Eugénie. I think I would have died had I spoken the horrible words “scaffold” and “executioner”: what I felt at that moment left such a profound scar in my mind that I can scarcely think or write about it without emotion. I had been told by the Chevalier de Piennes that the Marquis de Fresnoi’s disparaging remarks about me provoked Barbasan into a duel. Knowing this, however, did not add to my sorrow. Is it necessary to have caused the misfortune of one’s beloved in order to feel it? As though I was not unhappy enough! No, I still had to tremble faced with more imminent danger. I learned that Barbasan was dangerously ill, and that he refused all attempts to care for him. What to do? Go and tell him myself that he was killing me? The Chevalier and Eugénie opposed this idea with all their strength. But my desperation was such that they were forced to consent, even to help me. The Chevalier engaged a woman employed by a friend, who was in charge of the prisoners, to take me with her. He introduced me under a false name, as a close relative of Barbasan. They were to come get me the following morning. Never did a night seem so endless; I counted the minutes, and as if my diligence could turn the clock, I was ready hours before the Chevalier’s arrival. We left together. My sadness appeared so profound and my movements showed such languor that the woman was soon aware of my motives and my plan. She was only more inclined to assist me. It is generally the case that women always show indulgence for all that is tender, and this applies to the pious ones more than others. This one had something more which compelled her to take in my suffering: the memory of a man she loved, taken from her by death. Well disguised in my bonnet, I found my way into a room, a dungeon rather, where only a dim light managed to enter through a very high, small window with iron bars that blocked the daylight. Barbasan lay in a crude bed, with his head turned to the wall. The woman sat on a chair made of straw, as were all of the furnishings in this frightful place.

The Misfortunes of Love 89 After a few moments and some consoling words to the patient, she got up to visit other prisoners, leaving me alone with him. He sat upright in order to thank the person who spoke to him. I stood before his bed, trembling, overwhelmed, drowning in tears, and lacking the strength to say anything. Barbasan stared at me for a moment, then, recognizing me, exclaimed: “Oh! Mademoiselle, what are you doing?” The tears that he tried in vain to hold back kept him from saying more. Coming from a loved one, the slightest gesture can be moving, and one becomes even more sensitive in times of misfortune. That title, Mademoiselle, with which we had done away, struck me with a painful feeling. “So I am no longer your Pauline,” I said, taking his hand and squeezing it between mine. “Do you wish to die? Are you abandoning me?” Without answering he kissed my hand and moistened it with his tears. “What happiness,” he said at last, “I am forced to renounce! You must forget about me,” he went on, letting out a deep sigh. “Yes, I love you too much to ask you to remember something that would leave you no peace.” “Ah!” I exclaimed, sobbing uncontrollably, “for my sake, my dear Barbasan, save your life; it is for my own that I am asking you.” “Alas, my dear Pauline,” he replied, “do you realize what is in store for me? Do you realize that I am losing you, that I adore you, and that you are my only reason to live? What does it matter, really,” he continued, after falling silent for a few moments, “how I finish my life? At least I will have obeyed you until the very end.” The woman who had accompanied me returned to the cell. She had bouillon brought in for the prisoner. I gave it to Barbasan, who took it while holding my hand. Neither of us was able to talk, choked by tears. My God! I thought then that this was the last time we would see each other. The pious friend who took pity on me removed my bonnet, took me by the arm, led me out of the cell, and helped me into her carriage. We traveled in silence all the way to her home, where the Chevalier de Piennes and my maid were waiting for me. That very night I came down with a violent fever. For the next few hours I myself veered precariously between life and death. My illness, as grave as it was, had little effect on the feeling that dominated my thoughts. Solely concerned with Barbasan, I demanded constant reports on his condition. Eugénie only left my bedside to find out more about his status. She told me only what she thought apt to reassure me, without success. The slightest gesture, word, or relatively sad expression from her was cause for alarm. Finally, after a fortnight, I felt sure of Barbasan’s recovery. My own depended on his. But as soon as I stopped fearing the consequences of his illness, I became as alarmed as ever about his worrisome situation. That I had seen the prison in which he remained only augmented my sympathy and emotion.

90 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN The Chevalier de Piennes increased these feelings with the news he brought me. The incident had been executed with such purposefulness that it pointed to a secret enemy: this turned out to be none other than my unscrupulous fatherin-law. His reasons for hating Barbasan need no explanation. I am still surprised that I did not drop dead on the spot when the Chevalier made this announcement. “Our only hope,” he told me, “is to win over the jailer and to make sure that Barbasan escapes.” For this to work, money was the only means. Could that which my father had left me be put to better use? I handed the Chevalier a considerable sum, and even while he repeatedly said that it was much more than required, I tried desperately to add more. I believed that by doing so I was further guaranteeing Barbasan’s freedom, and in the midst of all the pain, felt a secret satisfaction about what I was doing for him. I awaited the outcome of the negotiation as though it would decide my life or death. A brief note from the Chevalier told me that everything was proceeding as I hoped, and he came to tell me in person: the jailer was willing to help, but he demanded that not only he but his children accompany the prisoner, and that they have the means to live in foreign lands. Meeting this demand was easy: I would not only have emptied my purse, but would have given them all of my worldly possessions. Barbasan did not yet know of our plans. The jailer’s son, who brought him his meals, offered to inform him. It was not enough to secure his freedom, but a matter of finding protection for him wherever he would take refuge. We had settled on Frankfurt; to go a lesser distance would not have sufficed to assuage my fears. The Chevalier de Piennes wrote bills of exchange to a well-known banker from that city. I enclosed them in a package which Barbasan was to receive upon his arrival. I wished, if at all possible, for him to ignore that they came from me, and to wait for a more felicitous time to tell him. All the arrangements were made and the day chosen for the escape, which was to begin at midnight. I waited all night, as shocked and impatient as one can imagine, for the sign upon which the Chevalier and I had agreed. Daybreak arrived and still I had no news. The Chevalier, for whom I had sent several times, at last came to tell me that the jailer’s son had been absent two days and two nights, and that his father insisted on waiting for him. There I was, my life still depending on the return of the son. There was no time to lose. The sentence was to be announced in three days. Although the Chevalier only told me what he could not keep from telling me, it was quite clear what was at stake: I myself was on the scaffold, and did not think it possible that those who were truly there could be in a state more deplorable than I that night. Joy replaced suffering when I learned from a note, at seven o’clock in the morning, that the plan had succeeded and that Barbasan was safe. I kissed the

The Misfortunes of Love 91 precious note and embraced Eugénie, falling to my knees to thank God with such sweet tears that those I had shed before seemed bitter in comparison. Barbasan wrote to me en route. What a letter! What love! What gratitude! What protests! It was worth a thousand times what I had done for him. I could not be content for long, waiting with such a heavy heart. I began to panic at the thought of being separated forever: he could not return to the kingdom. The plan to go and join him there now seemed as difficult as it did easy when I first conceived it. In order to carry it out, I would have had to be twentyfive years of age. Who knows what additional obstacles I would have faced? All these thoughts kept me constantly preoccupied, and threw me into such a melancholic state that it alarmed my good friend. What a good heart she had! Never annoyed, never impatient, she listened with the same attention, the same interest, to what I had told her already a thousand times. There are great acts of kindness that cost less to give and show less strength than conduct like this; they reward us with their impressive displays, but the only reward which such tender compassion offers is the feeling that produced it. Since Barbasan’s unfortunate incident I found various pretexts to be able to stay in the convent. Mother never came to visit. I sent regularly for news of her, and learned that she was in good health, but that her pregnancy did not allow her to go out. As she never asked me to come to her, I concluded that my father-in-law did not want her to see me. One morning I received word that she was soon to give birth, and that she wished to see me. I left as quickly as possible and when I arrived I found the servants all in tears: not daring to ask questions, I was walking in the direction of her quarters, when a chambermaid ran toward me, crying out: “Ah! Mademoiselle,” she said, “where are you going? Your mother has left you.” I cannot describe what I felt at that moment: the dramatic change within me, all the faults I found with Mother, all that Father had given me to think about, everything reproachable about her conduct with me, it all disappeared, leaving me only memories of the acts of tenderness she showed me as a child. I was deeply moved. My tutor, who was in the house, led me despite my resistance to the carriage in which I had arrived and put me in Eugénie’s hands. This new misfortune renewed all my suffering; it nourishes a heart already accustomed to it, as though more suffering brought with it a sort of relief. My father-in-law, intending to secure considerable wealth, had sacrificed my mother’s life to preserve that of the child she was expecting, and he succeeded: his son survived. It became necessary to divide our share of the estate. I should not have been so gracious, but out of respect for my mother I let him keep everything he wanted. Time, admittedly not much time, dried my tears. My affection for Barbasan, who dominated my feelings, helped me find some consolation in the thought that I was suddenly free, and able to make my own choices regarding marriage. At the

92 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN same time, however, I had to suffer an inopportune offer, which naturally required my attention. The Marquis de Crevant had lost his father a few days before the death of my mother. He loved me sincerely, his love having endured my refusals, producing in him what it always produces, provided it is true: it had given him manners, and had corrected the airs and ridiculous behavior associated with being a courtier. As soon as the death of his father left him free, he came to offer me his name and fortune. Eugénie and the Chevalier wanted me to accept his offer. Crevant was in just the sort of position that my father had recommended as a potential husband. I had to accept, they said, to save myself from my own weakness, and to protect myself from the madness, even the shame, of going to marry a man like Barbasan, banished from his country, and cut off from society. “I am all he has left,” I exclaimed, “and you want me to abandon him! Has he hurt me? Is he guilty, just because he is unhappy? I will go live with him in some remote land if I must.” This idea, so pleasing to the affection in my heart, asserted itself more in my mind due to the pleasure I found in being capable of what I thought an act of generosity. It was at this moment that I firmly resolved to go join him. Eugénie and the Chevalier’s protests were fruitless. The Marquis de Crevant was shown the door. Meanwhile, it had been over a month since I had news from Barbasan. The idea that he knew of the designs of the Marquis de Crevant and was jealous stuck in my head. My eagerness to set him straight further reinforced my desire to leave. After quickly finishing the preparations for my trip, I said that I was going with my tutor, whom I had won over to my cause in advance, to see a property which composed all the fortune I was known to possess. We obtained passports under the name of a German lord. As soon as I reached the first stop my maid Fanchon and I dressed ourselves in men’s clothes. As I was tall and in good form, the disguise suited me well; I was even more beautiful than in my usual outfits. But I looked so young that my beauty, my delicate complexion, and fine features were not unrealistic. After ten days’ travel and several small adventures that do not warrant digression, we arrived in Frankfurt at eight o’clock at night. Our coachman, whom I had told that we wished to avoid staying in cabarets,6 led us to the home of a French woman who let apartments. Hardly had I settled into mine when I asked her about Barbasan. I had requested that we speed through the posts so as to be able to see him that night. “Wouldn’t you know,” she told me, “I just met him on his way home with Madame, and only minutes ago. Now there’s a good husband, that one!” 6. Not the smoky nightclubs of the early twentieth century, but small inns; the word “cabaret” is derived from the Old French, meaning “wooden structure.”

The Misfortunes of Love 93 As persons of her sort usually do, she told me, without prompting, everything that people were saying about Barbasan’s adventures. Alas! I was not of a mind to ask her questions; the words “husband” and “wife” had hit me like a lightning bolt as soon as she had uttered them. My tutor and maid, being much calmer than I, took on this pitiful task. She told them that Monsieur de Barbasan had met his wife while a prisoner, that she had put her father’s life in jeopardy along with her brother’s and her own in order to save him, that Monsieur de Barbasan had married her, and that she was pregnant. During this terrible story I was in a state of mind easier to imagine than to describe. Fanchon, who understood what I was feeling inside from the change in my expression, sent our hostess away and asked my tutor to leave to allow me more privacy. “He does not love me?” I asked, shedding a flood of tears. “What have I done to him to deserve this? I risk my reputation, desert my fatherland, and all this for an ingrate? But Fanchon, do you believe that he is so? Do you think that he has erased me from his memory? No wonder then that I no longer receive his letters. My God, and I thought him jealous! I can no longer believe that.” The entire night was spent mulling over the same thoughts: I wanted to see him, to call him ungrateful, to move him with my tears, then abandon him forever. The idea occurred to me to hand him the money I had brought with me. I wanted him to regret losing me, no matter the cost. That was the only revenge I was capable of taking on my ungrateful Barbasan. My tutor, who failed to grasp such acts of sensibility, opposed my plan, saving despite my resistance what remained of the sum my father had given me. There was no doubt about what I had to do next. Only by returning promptly to Paris could I conceal the signs of the rash step I had taken. My tutor, who had regretted his complacency prior to this, convinced me that an immediate return was urgent. I felt the same way, but it meant never again seeing the Barbasan I had loved so dearly, whom I had come so far to find, shunning all rules in the process. How could I leave without seeing him, even from a distance? How to resist the curiosity of seeing my rival, and to give up any hope of seeing her other than as described to me? My hostess, who never asked the reason for my curiosity, took me to a church where all the persons of quality attended mass. I found a seat where I could observe those who entered. There I waited in position, my heart palpitating all the while, still more when I heard someone arrive. The one causing me so much trouble appeared at last: I thought her just the type to make a man unfaithful. It seemed that the jealousy I felt, far from diminishing the beauty of her features, only increased it, as if to torture me. Never have I seen a more interesting physique, so much grace, so much beauty, along with the first freshness of youth, and such a sweet,

94 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN modest expression. It seemed to me that she kept looking back to see if Barbasan was following her. He did not delay. She whispered something in his ear and he responded with a smile that put an end to any hope I had left. As I was not far from them, he noticed me, gazing at my face for some time. He then lowered his eyes, and I thought I noticed him sigh. He looked at me again even more intently, and after this second look I saw him leave the church. If I had had the strength, my initial reaction would have been to follow him, but my legs trembled so badly that I was forced to remain there. How many thoughts about what I had just seen raced through my mind! I was sure that he recognized me! Was it the shame of confronting me after his betrayal? Was it the fear of the reproaches I had every right to make that made him flee me? Would this fear have had the better of him, if he did not still have feelings for me? I felt at that moment that the slightest apology, the least expression of regret would have made me forget everything. Perhaps I would even have asked for it. I considered myself almost guilty that he no longer loved me. The effect this thought had on me will seem incomprehensible to those who have never known true passion. My reputation exposed, the betrayal I received in return for my love, the marriage which placed an insurmountable barrier between us, had almost no effect on me. Everything was ruined by the excruciating pain of knowing I was no longer loved. I wanted at least to have the sad consolation of shedding tears in front of him. My tutor was sent to look for him, to do everything he could to bring him to me, and not be afraid to say whatever necessary in order to convince him. He did not find him at home. After returning several times, he learned at last that he had mounted a horse after leaving the church, but that no one knew which road he had taken. Whenever we are unhappy, those around us take on more authority; my tutor, even my maid thought that they could rightly speak to me in this way. Without listening, and with no consideration for my pleas to stay a few more days, they forced me to leave right away, and to make my absence as short as possible, we left in great haste. I soon found myself back in Paris in the arms of my dear Eugénie. My rapid return, the sorrow which she could see had overcome me, my tears and my sobs had led her to think that Barbasan was dead. The consolation that she tried to give me told me what she was thinking. I lacked the strength to disabuse her of this notion; I was ashamed for Barbasan and for myself to say that he had betrayed and abandoned me. Besides this, my heart could not tolerate speaking ill of him. I suffered terribly for lowering him in Eugénie’s opinion, for showing him in such a different light than what she had seen thus far. Despite my unwillingness,

The Misfortunes of Love 95 I was obliged to confess everything. What shock, what indignation my friend felt! What contempt for Barbasan! What pity, mixed with anger, to find me still so attached to such a thankless scoundrel, the worst man who ever lived! “Please indulge my weakness,” I told her, “since you know about it. Spare the unfortunate man. Goodness! Perhaps he tried as hard to be faithful to me as I tried to stop loving him.” “The more you try to diminish his crime,” Eugénie answered, “the more odious you make it. Your disappointment will heal you, and your reason even more so. But disappointment is a new evil, and reason comes only with time. I want you to look for new distractions to restore your self-esteem. You will not believe me,” she added, “but mark my words: it is partly to blame for your suffering.” In truth I would never have believed it. The entire world at my feet could not have made up for the precious heart that I had lost. The distractions I was advised to seek, which I never would have sought, came to me despite my reluctance. My father-in-law, whose extravagance put him in continual need of money, and who was never hindered by any scruples regarding the means to acquire it, refused to respect the agreement we had established. A lawsuit resulted. The anger that I felt for him (because I considered him, rightfully, the source of all my misfortune) gave me courage and a defense which self-interest alone would not have provided. Before long I knew my case better than the lawyers. Beauty does not always produce love, but it makes us interesting to men, even the wisest ones. Mine gave me the full attention of my judges, adding more weight to my arguments. It had an even greater effect on the President of the court, Monsieur d’Hacqueville, one of the most admired for his nobility, his position, and especially the respect that he had earned. He declared, the third or fourth time I went to see him, that he could no longer serve as a judge in my case: “Don’t ask me to explain,” he said, “I dare not tell you. I only hope that you will care to guess the reason.” My embarrassment showed that I had guessed correctly. We both fell silent, and when my lawyer, who had stopped to speak with someone in the courtroom, came into the office, his presence delighted both me and Monsieur d’Hacqueville, whose embarrassment matched my own, although he composed himself quickly enough. “I will not,” he told him, “be among the judges of Mademoiselle’s suit. I would like to be more useful to her. Come tomorrow morning and bring me her files. We shall then go to inform Mademoiselle about our progress.” I left without saying a word. “Don’t be afraid,” said the President, giving me his hand, “of accepting services for which I expect nothing other than the satisfaction of offering them to you.” Eugénie, to whom I related my adventure, did not take it as seriously as I did. “What am I to do,” I asked her, “with a suitor?” “I hope,” she responded, “that you will make him your avenger. Enjoy his passion. Who knows? You may come

96 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN to like him. You know his appearance; his mind is far superior. It is merit, much more than birth, which has earned him the honor of mortarboard president,7 at a time when those in subordinate positions are barely recognized. My heart tells me that he is destined to put an end to your drama.” My God! She could not have been further from the truth: on the contrary, as one will see, he only made me unhappier. Under the pretext of helping with my case, the President d’Hacqueville saw me nearly every day. His assiduousness and attention needed no explanation, although not a word was spoken that might give me reason to forbid his seeing me. So much attention, so much respect should have made a much different impression on me than they did; they reminded me inevitably of Barbasan; this was how he showed his love, but he no longer loved me. I sighed with horrible pain. Eugénie often criticized me for my weakness: “How,” she asked, “can you maintain such affection for someone whom you could never respect?” “Respect,” I answered, “does not create love, it only helps to justify it. I confess that I can no longer excuse my weakness, but that only makes me more miserable. Pity me, my dear Eugénie,” I pleaded. “What do you expect? I can only be as I am.” After a few months, she and the Chevalier de Piennes spoke to me more directly. The lawsuit had ended in my favor, and I was indebted to the President d’Hacqueville, whose efforts helped bring me justice and a tranquility I might have enjoyed had my heart been of a different nature. It was not possible to receive him as a guest, as there was no longer a pretext for his visits. I was too embarrassed to tell him myself, and needed Eugénie and the Chevalier to deliver the message. “He has sent one himself of a much different sort,” the Chevalier answered; “he wishes to marry you, and to allow you to respond freely, he asked us to give you his proposal.” Right away, they both told me that I was too young, and had a figure that would bring too much trouble were I to stay unmarried. My father-in-law, still bitter about his loss in court, could find new ways to persecute me. My adventure was not entirely a secret, and made it necessary to change my status. When I was alone with her, Eugénie added that I should be wary of myself, that the affection I kept for Barbasan made her tremble: “If he returned,” she said, “you would not even wait for him to ask your forgiveness to forgive him yourself.” “Then,” I said, “I will take the veil.” “So,” she answered, “because Barbasan is the unworthiest of men, you want to bury yourself alive. Believe me, my dear child, this sort of sorrow passes and gives way to boredom perhaps more intolerable than the pain. I have often promised to tell you the story of the misfortunes which led me here. I need to keep my word. Perhaps you will learn something from them: at least, for example, that there are sorrows worse than those you have experienced.” 7. “Président à mortier,” the principal magistrate of a parlement or appeal court, who wore a square cap known as a mortier (similar to the academic mortarboard). Montesquieu, a regular of Tencin’s salon, became président à mortier of the Bordeaux parlement in 1716.

The Misfortunes of Love 97 What she told me of her adventures made such an impression on me that, to be able to reread them, I begged her permission to put them in writing, and that is what follows. END OF PART ONE

Part Two Eugénie’s Story Eugénie was brought to Paraclet Abbey at the age of six, going by the name of Mademoiselle d’Essei.8 The woman who accompanied her, a type of governess, asked Madame de la Rochefoucault, the Abbess, to take charge of the education of the young child, and for this purpose put a considerable sum of money in her hands. She also said that she was the daughter of a gentleman from Bresse, with little fortune and many children, and that she needed to develop a taste for the cloistered life, the only one suited to her fortune. In this convent also lived Mademoiselle de Magnelais, the daughter of the Duke of Hallwin, two years older than Mademoiselle d’Essei. They were raised together, although very differently. Mademoiselle de Magnelais was destined to inherit a very large fortune, while poor Mademoiselle d’Essei, to the contrary, could hope for no other future outside of this residence, or some other of its kind. Their early years passed in occupations one would expect for girls of their age. Mademoiselle de Magnelais, who enjoyed the superiority that rank and fortune gave her over her companion, appeared to be friendly. Envy of beauty, which so often creates distance between two young persons, did not trouble their friendship. Mademoiselle d’Essei’s features, still not completely formed, raised doubts about her beauty later in life. Being sensitive and appreciative by nature, she responded with the most sincere affection to the gestures of friendship offered her. The separation caused her terrible pain when Mademoiselle de Magnelais was withdrawn from the convent to be with her family. Two years after their separation, Madame the Duchess of Hallwin and Mademoiselle de Magnelais, her daughter, returning from the Netherlands, stopped for several days at their property near Paraclet. The area reminded Mademoiselle de Magnelais of her friend, whom she wished to see again. Her beauty had by then blossomed to perfection. Mademoiselle de Magnelais was astonished, finding her too beautiful to keep as a friend. There was nevertheless no change at all in her manners: she told her of all that had happened since 8. Significantly, Paraclet Abbey held the remains of Héloïse and Abélard, where they were transferred in 1497, Héloïse having directed the abbey beginning in 1129: Leborgne, 152. The surname “Essei” recalls the real-life figure Charlotte-Élisabeth Aïssé (1693–1733), known as “Mademoiselle Aïssé,” the daughter of a Circassian chieftain whose palace was attacked and looted by Turks. Aïssé was only four years old when she was sold by slave traders to Charles de Ferriol, the French ambassador to the Ottoman Empire. Ferriol brought Aïssé to France, where his sister-in-law (and Tencin’s sister), MarieAngélique de Ferriol, raised her along with her own sons. A celebrated beauty, Aïssé was known for her letters, which were edited by Voltaire in 1787.

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The Misfortunes of Love 99 leaving the convent, less out of a sense of trust than the malicious desire to flaunt her happiness before Mademoiselle d’Essei, who would never know such felicity. The subject of lovers was not neglected, and this was somehow reassuring to Mademoiselle de Magnelais’s vanity, a consolation for having seen Mademoiselle d’Essei’s beauty. Among all those she mentioned, her highest praise was for the Chevalier de Benauges, whom she described as both the most amiable and infatuated. She did not conceal her strong attraction to him. “But,” she added, “I should not speak to you of such things; the life you will have here will keep you from knowing them. Indeed I almost feel sorry that you are beautiful.” They had several more conversations of this sort, and after a few days, Mademoiselle de Magnelais left again for Paris, leaving Mademoiselle d’Essei sadly alone in her retreat. Two more years passed, bringing closer the day when she would have to take her solemn vows. Her unwillingness increased each day as the time grew nearer. At last, ashamed of being so weak, she resolved to make an effort to change. She spoke of her dilemma to Madame the Abbess of Paraclet, who loved her sincerely. “My affection for you,” answered Madame the Abbess, “makes me want the distinct pleasure of keeping you at my side forever. However, dear child, that same affection tells me to consult your interests rather than mine: you are not made for the cloistered life, and loathe the thought of it.” “I confess it is true,” said Mademoiselle d’Essei, in tears. “Madame, I am rational, yet I have no choice in the matter.” “These are heavy chains to accept,” answered Madame du Paraclet, “when reason alone must decide to wear them or not. Wait a few years more. I want you to learn about worldly life if you must choose the cloister; you will see many things that will perhaps make you find your fate less onerous.” Madame de Polignac, Madame du Paraclet’s sister, a widow who had spent much of her time in mourning at this convent, broke into the conversation: both sisters loved Mademoiselle d’Essei as they would their own daughter, and though loath to tell her, they still hoped that her extraordinary beauty would bring her a husband. Some business of considerable importance forced Madame de Polignac to go to Paris during the time that the King’s wedding festivities attracted everyone of importance in France. She had little trouble convincing her sister to entrust her with Mademoiselle d’Essei, who accompanied her on the trip. The Count of Blanchefort, taking the same route, met them at the first inn. He asked permission to see Madame de Polignac, who knew him well. He spent the evening with her and in the course of their conversation complained that his carriage had broken down en route, and was causing him much trouble. Madame de Polignac offered him a seat in hers. Her offer was accepted, and the three left together the following morning.

100 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN Mademoiselle d’Essei, who had seen only her convent, spoke little, but what little she did have to say she expressed so eloquently, and her beauty, so simple, so naïve, so natural, endeared her to the Count of Blanchefort, who had no defense against such charms. During the voyage, he employed everything he thought likely to please. But his attention, his zeal, and his praises failed to convey the impression that she had made upon him. The language of love which she was hearing was unfamiliar, and her heart showed no signs which might speak in favor of the Count. Madame de Polignac, eager to further the interests of her friend, was delighted, seeing in the Count of Blanchefort’s advances a step toward the kind of future she had envisioned for Mademoiselle d’Essei. Upon their arrival in Paris, the Count asked their permission to see them again. “He has a reputation for being a man of honor,” Madame de Polignac told Mademoiselle d’Essei. “You have inspired in him so much love and so much respect; since he wishes to see you, his motives could only be legitimate.” “You know,” responded Mademoiselle d’Essei, “how I dislike the convent, but I must also confess that I would find it very difficult to marry a man who would do so much for me. It seems to me that to be felicitous, marriages should be more equal, and I would not want my happiness to depend on an illusion which I fear may not last.” Madame de Polignac made light of Mademoiselle d’Essei’s delicate sensitivity, and made her promise to welcome the Count’s attention. She did not like him in the least, but respected him, and since she had stronger feelings for no one, she treated him in a way that gave him at least some degree of hope. It was then that the festivities for the royal wedding began. Mademoiselle d’Essei followed Madame de Polignac to the carousel at the Place Royale, where she was going with the Countess of Ligny.9 There were platforms built for the ladies, who took great care to appear with all the ornaments of beauty. Only Mademoiselle d’Essei was dressed simply and modestly: this simplicity, which so distinguished her from the others, showed her beauty all the more. The Marquis de la Valette, the eldest son of the Duke of Epernon, who had by chance paused before the platform where she sat, was astonished to see such a beautiful person. He passed before her again and again, gazing at her with ever increasing pleasure. 9. The carousel in question refers to wedding festivities to honor the future Louis XIII in the Place Royale, in 1612, the inaugural ceremony known as the “Roman des chevaliers de la gloire.” Henri IV had the square built for public celebrations like these, although carousels at this time no longer included actual tournaments, but rather equestrian ballets and competitions, like the course de la bague, the game of the brass ring (Leborgne, 152). See “Le ‘Roman des chevaliers de la gloire,’ grand carrousel donné place Royale du 5 au 7 avril 1612,” part of the Musée Carnavalet’s Histoire de Paris, http://www.carnavalet.paris.fr/fr/collections/ le-roman-des-chevaliers-de-la-gloire-grand-carrousel-donne-place-royale-du-5-au-7-avril.

The Misfortunes of Love 101 All the ladies chose their combatants. Mademoiselle d’Essei, who had not noticed the attention which the Marquis de la Valette had paid her, charmed by his graceful air and skill, declared her support for him and, as was natural at these events, her eyes followed him around the arena, showing her enthusiasm each time he gained an advantage. As soon as the competition was over he came onto the platform to ask Madame the Countess of Ligny, his aunt, the name of this beautiful person. “Come,” said Madame de Ligny as soon as she saw him, and without waiting for him to speak to her, “thank Mademoiselle d’Essei for supporting you.” Mademoiselle d’Essei, embarrassed that a man as handsome as the Marquis could be thanking her, was quick to interrupt Madame de Ligny: “Madame,” she said, “you will give Monsieur de la Valette the impression that he owes me more than he does.” “You prefer,” responded Monsieur de la Valette, in the most respectful way, “that I should not be grateful, but despite what you say, one cannot help feeling so the moment one has the honor of seeing you.” This gallant remark only increased Mademoiselle d’Essei’s embarrassment. Madame de Polignac, seeing her discomfort, entered the conversation, and the Marquis said many more eloquent things which made Mademoiselle d’Essei realize what an impression she had made on him. After having given his hand to see them into their carriage, he hurried to Madame de Ligny’s home to learn more about Mademoiselle d’Essei. Madame de Ligny naturally told him the little that was known about Mademoiselle d’Essei’s family, and of Monsieur de Blanchefort’s love for her. “I imagine,” replied the Marquis, as soon as Madame de Ligny had finished speaking, “that Blanchefort’s efforts are merely tolerated.” “I see what is on your mind,” she answered, “but if you are wise, you will avoid, to the contrary, seeing Mademoiselle d’Essei.” “I am afraid that is no longer possible,” said the Marquis; “I have seen her too much and would do everything I can to see her always.” Already the following day his devotion at Madame de Polignac’s home equaled that of Monsieur de Blanchefort. They soon recognized each other as rivals, yet their characters could not have been more opposed. The Count of Blanchefort sought in all his actions to win the public’s support, and had so well succeeded therein that no one enjoyed a more established reputation. The Marquis de la Valette, on the other hand, made no show of reputation unless it was reinforced by the conclusions he drew himself. He did what he considered his duty, and let the public be judge. He was the most amiable man in society when he wanted to be, but only sought to please those who pleased him. Mademoiselle d’Essei had great affection for him, and for this reason treated him with more reserve than his rival. This caused him to despair: “Is it possible, Mademoiselle,” he said to her one day, “that my present situation, of which I am painfully aware, that of being unable to offer you a fortune of which I am not yet

102 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN in possession, could be in fact a blessing? Yes, Mademoiselle, I would despair if you refused the offer of my hand, and can see that you would refuse it if I were to compete with the Count of Blanchefort.” Mademoiselle d’Essei was not prepared for the Marquis de la Valette’s reproach, because in that moment she heard only her penchant for him. “No,” she said with a smile full of charm, “you should not think that he has my preference.” The joy she saw in the Marquis’s expression made her aware of what she had just revealed. She blushed. He was too observant not to notice her embarrassment, and to add to it with still more words of gratitude. He considered himself well rewarded, and did not attempt to prolong a conversation that, he knew, embarrassed Mademoiselle d’Essei. But how she regretted her words once alone! “Now I have become,” she said to herself, “just what I feared becoming: I am a coquette. I have two suitors, and am certain that they both fancy they have a claim to my heart. How could I stand being seen by the Marquis de la Valette after what I said to him in the presence of the Count of Blanchefort? How will I conduct myself with the other as I have so far, after having given his rival reason to think that I prefer him? Women of the most shameful conduct begin this way. I must run away from this shame, and give up this frivolous pursuit of becoming established. I should return to the convent; I would rather live in solitude than to have legitimate reason to blame myself.” Feeling distraught, she wanted to talk to Madame de Polignac when she saw Mademoiselle de Magnelais come into her room. They hugged each other, showing their affection over and over. The latter had arrived the previous night from the country, where she had been for several months. Once they had greeted each other, they both wanted to know all that had happened to the other since their separation. Mademoiselle d’Essei was not so vain as to boast of her conquests. Besides, she felt so displeased with herself at the time that she desired even less to speak, saying simply that Madame de Polignac had wanted her to stay with her for a time, and that she would return to Paraclet in just a few days. “Please, I beg you,” Mademoiselle de Magnelais responded, “not to leave until after my wedding, which will take place very soon. When I marry the man who loves me I must have the satisfaction of sharing my happiness with you.” “So it is the Chevalier de Benauges you are marrying?” asked Mademoiselle d’Essei. “He had fooled me with a false name,” Mademoiselle de Magnelais answered. “He is the Marquis de la Valette. He does not yet know the good news; his father and mine have made all the arrangements, and we have returned for the wedding.” If Mademoiselle de Magnelais had been attentive to the change in Mademoiselle d’Essei’s face, she would have suspected the intense interest her friend was taking in what she was saying. What a shock for Mademoiselle d’Essei! It

The Misfortunes of Love 103 could not have been more hurtful. A man to whom she had been foolish enough to show her inclination in fact loved someone else, and had merely been trying to trick her. The most painful and humiliating thoughts crossed her mind at that moment. Nevertheless, she had to do her best to conceal her distress. Now quite resolved to leave the following day, she let Mademoiselle de Magnelais think that she would wait until after the wedding. This conversation, so hurtful to her, finished at last, and she went to lock herself in her room to collect herself before coming out again. She hardly had the chance to do so before Madame de Polignac entered. “My dear child,” she said, in her usual way, “I was right to be hopeful for your future happiness. The Count of Blanchefort has just announced to me that he is ready to marry you, and would consider himself too happy if it pleased you to share his rank and fortune, which will be yours to enjoy.” “You are not answering me,” Madame de Polignac asked. “Could you be hesitant about the proposal?” “I should not be,” Mademoiselle d’Essei replied, “but I confess that I am. The disproportion between the Count of Blanchefort and me could not be greater. It offends me. The more gratitude my heart tells me will be required, the more I fear the necessity of it.” “Such gratitude is a small price to pay for the most honorable man in the world who adores you, and whom you will inevitably respect,” replied Madame de Polignac. “But, were I to give you my opinion, perhaps you would not hesitate if this were about the Marquis de la Valette?” “Oh! Madame,” Mademoiselle d’Essei exclaimed, “spare me: the Marquis de la Valette never loved me, and I have just learned from Mademoiselle de Magnelais herself that he plans to marry her.” “Well, then,” said Madame de Polignac, “punish him by marrying the Count of Blanchefort for having led you to believe he loved you.” The idea of taking revenge struck Mademoiselle d’Essei. It is never easy to say with assurance that one is not loved. Her certainty that the Marquis loved Mademoiselle de Magnelais notwithstanding, she believed that her marriage to the Count of Blanchefort would cause him to suffer a great deal. Another motive proved decisive in convincing her: the thrill of being of the same rank as Mademoiselle de Magnelais. The difference that their birth placed between them had not concerned her until that point. But learning of the Marquis’s love for Mademoiselle de Magnelais, it humiliated her. The Count of Blanchefort’s courtship, which seemed so noble, made her feel even more acutely the unfair advantage she had given to his rival, and now led her to favor the former. Nonetheless, before committing in any way, she wanted him to hear the reasons that spoke against their marriage. “You are aware,” she said to him, “of my humble origins; think about how a man of your rank must account in one way or another for his actions to society. What you are planning with me will surely

104 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN meet with disapproval. I like to think that my conduct will justify your decision more than enough, but that takes time, and before it can succeed, you will be the subject of malicious gossip. No one will dare speak of your marriage, and if they do, it will be to criticize it. You may never again take the same pleasure in society as you have until now.” “Oh, why would I not?” replied the Count. “I am thinking of my own happiness, it is true, but what I am doing is laudable: sharing my fortune with the most admirable woman in the world.” “The most virtuous acts,” replied Mademoiselle d’Essei, “become less respectable when there is reason to believe that love is behind them. I ask you, for your sake and mine, not to rush into this; leave time for reflection. I want to return to the Abbey. If after a reasonable absence you are still of the same mind, I could then be persuaded.” “No, Mademoiselle,” he said, “I don’t agree to your leaving: surely you must hate me to impose such strict measures. What does it matter to me that my marriage is approved of by the society with which you threaten me? You alone are all I need to be happy; you would be much less dear to me were you of the highest nobility.” “If my condition were equal to yours,” she answered, “I would be happy for the honor you are doing me. But it is the distance between us that forces me to be cautious.” She had barely finished saying these words when the Marquis de la Valette entered the room with several others from the King’s entourage. Mademoiselle d’Essei was too proud to allow him to think that she was touched by this effort on his part. So she welcomed him in her usual way; she saw, however, such a look of contentment on his face that it troubled her, leaving her unable to maintain the air of gaiety that she had initially affected. The Count of Blanchefort left almost as soon as the Marquis de la Valette entered. Mademoiselle d’Essei got up at the same time, saying aloud that she was going to see Mademoiselle de Magnelais. “So you know her,” said the Marquis. “We have spent much of our lives together,” replied Mademoiselle d’Essei, “and I can assure you,” she added, “that she trusts me completely.” “Mademoiselle,” he said, approaching her, so as not to be overheard by the others present, “please allow me to reassure you, for my part, that she has not told you everything.” Mademoiselle d’Essei, who did not wish to engage in conversation with the Marquis, pretended not to hear this, and took her leave. She was informed at Mademoiselle de Magnelais’s door that Monsieur the Duke of Hallwin had fallen ill, that his daughter was by his side, and thus was unavailable. Mademoiselle d’Essei, embarrassed by this visit, felt relieved not to have to go inside. As soon as she was alone with Madame de Polignac, they agreed that she should return to Paraclet without delay. Mademoiselle de Magnelais’s marriage giving Mademoiselle d’Essei more reason to keep a distance, she began her

The Misfortunes of Love 105 journey to the convent the very next day. Madame de Polignac was charged with inventing a pretext for this sudden departure. The Count of Blanchefort’s efforts followed Mademoiselle d’Essei to her retreat: hardly a day passed without his sending signs of his love for her. While touched by them, she did not respond, being unable despite his efforts to get the Marquis out of her thoughts. She remembered his words from the last time he saw her, and it occurred to her that Mademoiselle de Magnelais was perhaps not as loved as she thought after all. Why indeed, she thought, examine whether she is loved or not? Do I intend to hold onto my claim to her lover’s heart? Do I even wish to be loved by him, I who have nearly promised myself to another? However the Marquis may feel, I must never see him, and feel guilty even at the thought of having to make such a resolution. Meanwhile, it was as though absence had made the Count’s love grow stronger. Madame de Polignac, engaged in prayer, and anxious to see the lovely young woman established, decided to take her out of the convent. They agreed that Mademoiselle d’Essei would accompany her to one of her country homes, that the Count would come join them, and that their wedding would take place without festivities, and remain secret for some time. The plan was executed. Mademoiselle d’Essei did not leave her retreat without shedding tears. “I cannot,” Madame de Polignac told her, “forgive your sadness: so that you will appreciate your good fortune, I will tell you about Mademoiselle de Magnelais’s misfortune. La Valette, after having loved her for years, abandoned her at the last moment, when all the preparations had been made for their wedding. She still loves him, and is devastated. Her sorrow, which she does not hide, is compelling, and as if he were not hateful enough, La Valette fought over a woman with Bellomont, who had saved his life in the Battle of Amiens.10 The Duke of Epernon refuses to see him and threatens to disinherit him, even though he is badly wounded and in great danger. One should not forget, of course, his adventure with Mademoiselle de Luxembourg, who is now the Duchess of Ventadour. He refused to marry her, despite the fact that their marriage bad been arranged and that he had consented to it. He is a man condemned by society. He appeared to love you, and you may not have hated him. But do you see how indebted you are to the Count of Blanchefort for having saved you from the peril that awaited you?” The Marquis de la Valette’s conduct made Mademoiselle d’Essei so indignant with him, so angry at herself for the preference her heart had given him, that the Count grew further in her esteem. She thought it well to set things right with

10. The Siege of Amiens, a battle between France and Spain fought during the French Wars of Religion (1562–98). The French were led by Henry IV (referred to as ‘our late King’ below), whose army took back this northern city from the Spanish in 1597.

106 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN him, and he came to join them, even more in love, if possible, than he had been heretofore. Madame de Polignac was somewhat ill when he arrived, but her malady appeared so mild that it did not worry Mademoiselle d’Essei. The fever rose so high the next day and those that followed that everyone began to fear for her life. When she realized the extremity of her condition, she asked Mademoiselle d’Essei and the Count to come closer to her. “My death,” she said to the Count,” will deprive Mademoiselle d’Essei of the help that she would expect from our friendship. But as I leave her with you, she will gain more than what she loses when I am gone. Would that I could witness your union and your happiness together.” “No, Madame,” cried the Count, “we will not lose you; our tears will keep God from taking you, and you will live to witness our happiness. Why, though, should we defer it longer?” he continued. “Why, at this very moment, should I not receive Mademoiselle d’Essei’s vows in exchange for my own? Make me a happy man,” he said, throwing himself at Mademoiselle d’Essei’s feet. “Reward the most tender love with a little confidence. Goodness! For what am I asking? Don’t think of me as the worst sort of scoundrel. If the arrangement I need to make requires that I keep our marriage secret at first, I am certain that I will soon be able to announce it publicly.” Mademoiselle d’Essei broke down in tears, and this moment full of emotion and pain worked to the Count’s advantage. Indeed, feeling generous, she drew satisfaction in giving something to a man who would do anything for her. The less she loved him, the more she felt in his debt. The authority of Madame de Polignac finally convinced her. “Offer your hand, child, to the Count of Blanchefort,” she said to her, after having sent for the priest of the village. “Make your conjugal vows of trust in our presence. Your integrity,” she continued, “answers for your word. Here,” she added, addressing Mademoiselle d’Essei, “is a box containing some jewels. I beg you, my dear child: accept them. If I could dispose of the rest of my wealth it would be yours.” Mademoiselle d’Essei was so troubled by the engagement that she had just made, so oppressed with sorrow, that she fell, from weakness, at Madame de Polignac’s feet. She was taken out of the room, put to bed, and spent the entire night crying. The Count remained all the while at her side. Meanwhile Madame de Polignac’s health showed signs of improvement for several days. The hope that this provided, which gave such joy to Mademoiselle d’Essei, did not last; the illness worsened, and she was told that she should prepare for death. She wished to speak further with Mademoiselle d’Essei. “When I am gone,” she said to her, “you must go and stay with my sister. It is there that you will receive your marriage certificate. Any other place would offend propriety. You can trust her with your secret. Her affection for you will guarantee her discretion.”

The Misfortunes of Love 107 Madame de Polignac lived but a few hours after this conversation before dying in the arms of Mademoiselle d’Essei, leaving her inconsolable. The Count of Blanchefort pulled her out of the chateau and brought her to Paraclet Abbey, and from there to a house in the country where the Abbess was staying, without her even being aware of where she was going. Madame du Paraclet loved her sister dearly. She cried over her loss with Mademoiselle d’Essei, a sad occupation which lasted several days. But when Mademoiselle d’Essei’s sorrow abated somewhat, her situation, of which she had thought little about, began to frighten her, and she spoke to Madame du Paraclet. “I am convinced,” she said, “that the Count of Blanchefort will keep his word. But, God forbid, he may not. He sees you every day; you must, without showing signs of hurtful suspicion, exhort him to act on this word.” Mademoiselle d’Essei’s pregnancy, of which she then became aware, did not allow her to defer her marriage announcement any longer. “I gave you my trust,” she said to the Count, “the most flattering mark of my respect I could give you. I would wait patiently for the arrangements that you most likely have to complete before announcing our marriage, if my condition, which I can no longer doubt, allowed it.” At that instant, the Count appeared to burst with joy at the news that Mademoiselle d’Essei was expecting, and kissed her very tenderly. “The new tie that will exist between us,” he said, “makes our bond even stronger, if possible. I will go tomorrow to ask the high constable of Luynes, with whom I enjoy a unique friendship, to have the marriage approved by the King and the Queen. I am of course bound by duty to the court, and need to be certain that you will be welcome there as well you should be.” “I don’t wish to give you orders,” replied Mademoiselle d’Essei, “but I beg you to remember that every moment you delay puts my reputation further at risk.” “Could you doubt,” he said to her, “that it matters to me as much as it does to you? My journey will take only a few days, and I will soon have the satisfaction of being the envy of the entire court.” Mademoiselle d’Essei, who saw no cause for suspicion, watched the Count leave with a tranquil heart, convinced that he would return to fulfill his promise. He returned indeed almost exactly after the amount of time he had predicted. But in their first few moments together, she found something so restrained about his manners that it worried her. “Whatever is the matter, sir?” she asked him, her voice weak with emotion. “Can you not look me in the eye? Did you encounter some trouble of which you are afraid to speak? Oh! Don’t be so unfair; I am more eager to share your pain than I am your fortune.” Monsieur de Blanchefort sighed, lacking the courage to respond. “Speak,” she said once again, “break this awful silence. Prove to me what you have told me

108 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN so many times, that I will be everything to you.” “Again, I assure you it is true, but can I be sure that you love me?” the Count asked. “What doubts you have!” Mademoiselle d’Essei exclaimed. “Are you aware that you are speaking to your wife? Have you forgotten about the knot that binds us together?” “No,” he replied, “but do you love me enough to understand my reasoning? Would you be willing to help me make arrangements that will improve my fortune? The high constable, with whom I hoped to share my plan to marry you, has offered me his sister in marriage: to tell him that I had become elsewhere engaged without his approval would be the end of me. All that I could do was to ask for time. Your condition should not worry you; I will take precautions to assure that the birth of the child remains secret, and to ward off suspicion, I will see you but on rare occasions.” “Could it be possible that what I just heard is true!” cried out Mademoiselle d’Essei. “No, Monsieur, you have gone too far: you will not subject your wife to the shame of giving birth in secret; you will not subject your child to being born in disgrace. His status and mine are guaranteed; you gave me your word.” “I realize what I promised you,” he replied, “but you yourself have created an insurmountable obstacle. I think constantly about what you told me, about how society will judge our marriage. I must say, I am flattered by the good reputation I have had thus far; I don’t wish to expose myself to criticism.” “You worry,” she said, “about being criticized for something, and yet you don’t worry about breaking the most sacred engagement of all. Look at me, on my knees,” she pleaded. “Now with my heart full of pain, I ask you for mercy, just as you did, from the same position. It is not due to my weakness that you won me; I believed that I was giving myself to the most honorable man in France. Have you decided to lose that distinction in my eyes? Could you perhaps have enjoyed a reputation that you no longer deserved? My God! I can’t describe the status to which you will reduce me. I sense you no longer have feelings for me. But does this creature, who shares our blood, deserve nothing from you? Could you allow it to be born in shame? Condemn me to the ends of the earth, ignored by everyone, but do not take away the consolation of my respect for you. Promise me you will protect the status of this child, and however badly you treat her unfortunate mother, she will never blame you.” Seeing this woman whom he had loved so, and still loved, stricken by sorrow and drenched in tears, the Count could not be unmoved. He helped her up as would only a person of the greatest sensibility. He wished that, by hope and the most generous offers, he might calm her despair. “How dare you propose such an idea!” she said. “What could you offer that is worthy of me? You yourself only seemed worthy because I thought you virtuous. But,” she continued, looking at him with eyes that tears rendered more touching, “could it be that you are no longer so? Can you imagine the misery of being

The Misfortunes of Love 109 dissatisfied with yourself? Have you hardened yourself against the pangs of your own conscience? Have you thought about the flattering view I have taken of you, and how that will change?” “I realize,” he replied, “how horrible you will find me. It weighs on me greatly, because despite my unfairness, my passion remains as strong. Be that as it may, I simply cannot do what you ask of me.” “And I,” she said, “can no longer stand to look upon a man who has tricked me so cruelly. Enjoy, if you can, the virtuous reputation you merit so little, while I, with a virtuous soul, suffer the shame and humiliation which go with the crime.” Saying these words, she withdrew to a room and locked the door. Monsieur de Blanchefort left immediately, mounting his horse and heading to Paris. Madame de Paraclet, surprised by this sudden departure, and seeing no sign of Mademoiselle d’Essei, went looking for her. The state in which she found her only confirmed her misfortune: awash in tears, all of her movements were those of a desperate person. “Ah, Madame! she said to her. “I have been betrayed and abandoned, dishonored by the most cowardly man! “What!” she cried. “I will be an object of contempt, and yet could go on living, could go on enduring the shame! No, death will free me from the horror I feel for that traitor, and for myself.” Her complaints subsided with sobs and tears. Madame du Paraclet, moved and frightened by this violent outburst, did everything to calm her. “Don’t be so ashamed,” she said. “The Count of Blanchefort loves you, and will not resist your tears. Besides, the scandal this may cause will frighten him.” “Yet, Madame,” she answered, “he saw my despair, he saw me dying at his feet without appearing to be moved. Who is there to condemn his crime? Madame de Polignac is no longer, and you can be certain that the priest and two witnesses of our marriage have been carefully kept away by a false-hearted man.” “Perhaps,” said Madame du Paraclet, “but when you have nothing else remaining, you still have friendship and virtue: believe me, one is never completely unhappy when one is innocent. Don’t make me endure,” she said, embracing her, “the fatal pain of losing you. You are strong; may my affection for you and that which you owe me persuade you to make use of it. I will stay here with you for a while, and will take all precautions necessary to keep the circumstances of your ill fortune secret.” Mademoiselle d’Essei wept and kept silent. At last, when Madame du Paraclet had begged and offered her tender affection, with hope for the Count of Blanchefort’s repentance, she calmed down somewhat. “The price of his repentance will be my life,” she said, “and look at the horrible situation in which I find myself; what I wish for so arduously would put me back with a man whom I can only despise.”

110 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN The days and nights were almost entirely spent in conversations of this sort. Madame du Paraclet’s pity for Mademoiselle d’Essei brought her even closer to the unfortunate young woman. “I was truly destined,” she said, “to know bad faith and treachery; the Marquis de la Valette should have raised my suspicions about all men.” She then told Madame du Paraclet how he had feigned love for her, all the while being engaged to Mademoiselle de Magnelais. After several days she wrote to the Count of Blanchefort in the way most apt to evoke tenderness and touch his heart. Madame du Paraclet wrote to him as well, and gave him ample cause for concern over Mademoiselle d’Essei’s life, sending a man in her service to Paris to deliver their letters into the right hands. One can easily imagine how anxious and impatient Mademoiselle d’Essei felt while awaiting the response. She was alone in her room lamenting her misfortune when told that a man with a letter for her wished to see her. She quickly ran out to meet the messenger and took the letter, not noticing that he was following her. How surprised she was when, after reading a few lines, she realized it was from the Marquis de la Valette. “Good God,” she said, letting herself fall into a chair as tears filled her eyes, “he wants to fool me again!” “No, Mademoiselle,” said the messenger, falling to his knees, revealing himself as none other than the Marquis. “I don’t wish to fool you. I adore you and have come to put in your hands a fortune which I now possess.” Surprise, confusion, and still more, the sinking feeling of her misfortune, of which this adventure made Mademoiselle d’Essei so painfully aware, left her unable to speak or even look upon the Marquis. “You don’t even deign to look at me,” he said to her. “Was I mistaken in thinking that you were moved reading my letter? You think I am guilty. You had the same reaction to my affair with Mademoiselle de Magnelais as everyone. I suffered. In fact I was indifferent to how people judged me, but I cannot remain indifferent with you. I must have your respect. My own for you makes it as indispensable to my happiness as your affection.” So many expressions of respect, of which Mademoiselle d’Essei no longer thought herself worthy, began to overwhelm her. “For pity’s sake, listen to me,” the Marquis de la Valette continued. “It is for you alone that I wish to break the silence to which I have sworn myself. But it is of the utmost importance for me to dispel any suspicions you have which hurt me so.” In the situation she was in, his explanations became useless. But her attraction to him made her feel a sort of sweetness which made it hard to find him guilty. “What you have to tell me,” she said to him, after getting him up off his knees, “will change neither your situation nor my own. But speak if you must.”

The Misfortunes of Love 111 “It is never enough to be a man of honor,” said the Marquis. “One must also have fortune on one’s side, and not be forced into situations in which true honor demands that we neglect to keep up appearances. “You have undoubtedly heard talk of how I broke off with Mademoiselle de Luxembourg: we were about to be married, and I had no objections. Nevertheless I broke our arrangement at the very moment it was to occur. My decision, bizarre though it may seem, and which earned me so much blame, was generous nonetheless. Mademoiselle de Luxembourg told me that she loved the Duke of Ventadour, who loved her in return, but that she lacked the courage to disobey her father, and begged me to take responsibility for breaking off our engagement. Could I refuse to respect her wishes? “Our late King was then at war in Picardy: I went to fight for him there with a small troop which I had formed at my expense. In the Battle of Amiens, my desire to distinguish myself put me too quickly in danger. I was thrown back by the besieged from atop their fortifications. I fell into the moat, badly injured, and would likely have perished there, without the help of Bellomont, who pulled me out, staying by my side until he had put me in the care of my soldiers. “This was a great service, and my gratitude was proportionate. That very day I no longer wanted the Chevalier to use a tent and equipment other than my own. He was of such inferior birth and fortune with respect to me that he could accept my offer without shame. We became inseparable, and the praise I heaped upon him brought him flattering attention from the King and his highest officers. The more I did for him, the more attached I grew and considered myself in his debt. “He wanted to accompany me to Flanders, where the King had sent me to negotiate with several lords in his service. Because the negotiations required the utmost secrecy, the King would only allow me to go there under an alias, in the guise of an ordinary traveler. I went to Lille, where I was to meet the lords in question. It was there that I saw Mademoiselle de Magnelais and Madame, her mother, who had returned to their estate. “I could only go to their home as the Chevalier de Benauges, the name I had taken, and was welcomed by Mademoiselle de Magnelais much more than should be a man of the rank in which I appeared. I believed she found me pleasing, and was flattered to owe this entirely to my own qualities as a person. At first I found myself more interested in her out of vanity than love. But I gradually came to love her, and would have thought that I could not have chosen better if what I feel for you did not show me the true sensibility of my heart. “The King having ordered the disguise to remain secret, I did not reveal it to Mademoiselle de Magnelais, but continued to delight in the thought of her reaction, when she would learn my true identity and find in the Marquis de la Valette a lover worthier than the Chevalier de Benauges.

112 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN “I stayed three months in Lille, and was delighted to learn as I was leaving that Mademoiselle de Magnelais would soon be in Paris. She had allowed me to share our secret with Bellomont, and whenever some minor disagreement arose between us, it was always he that put us on good terms again. “Some days after my return, Mademoiselle de Magnelais was introduced to the Queen. I was in that princess’s quarters, and enjoyed seeing the joy and confusion on Mademoiselle de Magnelais’s face when she recognized me. Following this I went to visit her, and although she reproached me for the mystery I had created, she was so relieved to know that the Chevalier de Benauges was the Marquis de la Valette that she had no trouble forgiving me. “I gave her all the attention that propriety allowed. The sweetness of our time together was occasionally troubled by her bouts of jealousy: I never saw a woman from whom she did not take umbrage, and was nearly at the point where I dared not speak with any of them. There were times when I came close to rebelling, but the certainty of knowing that I was loved quickly made me submissive again. “Whenever my conduct was beyond reproach, I had to face one of a different sort. I was taken to task for being insufficiently jealous myself: ‘You lead me to believe, Mademoiselle,’ I said to her, ‘that I am fortunate to be loved by you. Could I be jealous without offending you, and would you forgive me for it?’ ‘I don’t know that I would forgive you,’ she replied; ‘however, at least I would be more certain that you love me.’ “I found this idea bizarre, and shared my displeasure with Bellomont. He defended Mademoiselle de Magnelais and made me forgive this whim of hers, which I could not understand. Meanwhile, there was much talk of my devotion to her. The Duke of Epernon, who hoped to see me married, spoke of it to me, and found me quite willing. The marriage was soon arranged by Monsieur the Duke of Hallwin and him, but there were details that forced them to postpone it. “In the meantime, as word got out, I was at liberty to see Mademoiselle de Magnelais whenever I desired. I spent the days with her, and was very satisfied with how she treated me. One day, when I had entered her quarters to wait for her, I heard her coming up the stairs with someone, a man, I thought. The thrill of making a joke about my supposed lack of jealousy, for which she reproached me so often, gave me the idea to hide myself. I slipped into the space between the wall and the bedside, which was arranged in such a way that I could not be seen. “ ‘You are wrong,’ Mademoiselle de Magnelais said to the man who was with her, whom I could not see. ‘Instead of blaming me, you ought really to be thanking me; I am ambitious, it is true, but I am marrying him much less out of ambition than of my desire to be able to see you.’ ‘Why,’ answered the man she was addressing (whom I recognized as Bellomont) ‘make him believe that you love him? Why all these complaints that he is not jealous?’

The Misfortunes of Love 113 “ ‘I admit,’ she replied, ‘that the vanity I found in being loved by him attracted me at first. Your love had not yet shown me my heart’s worth; I almost thought that I owed that to him. We should let him think that he is loved. That will ward off his suspicions, and by criticizing his lack of trust, I will do so even more.’ “The first words of this conversation surprised me to such a degree that they were in themselves enough to check my anger. But all of the feeling agitating me soon gave way to resentment and indignation, which took the place of love and friendship in my heart. I did not even feel ashamed at having been betrayed. This could have happened to any man of honor, and knowing that was enough for me. “Mademoiselle de Magnelais and Bellomont continued to say things that made me understand that their relationship had begun almost as soon as I considered myself loved. They parted, fearing that I would arrive, because despite being sure about me, they needed to take precautions all the same. Mademoiselle de Magnelais went into her mother’s quarters, allowing me to leave the room. “I went home to decide what actions to take: I could dishonor Mademoiselle de Magnelais, but would this not amount to punishing her too cruelly for an error which in the end would not hurt me? And could I avenge myself in such a way that, were the situation reversed, she could not also direct against me? As for Bellomont, this was a betrayal, but he had saved my life. It was easier to forgive the insult than to deny my gratitude. “In order not to deprive the Chevalier of discretion, as necessary for him as to Monsieur d’Epernon, I resolved to hide from him what I discovered by chance. With regard to my marriage, I had time on my side. I only had to take precautions to avoid any encounter with Mademoiselle de Magnelais. She had become from this point forward so indifferent, that I scarcely needed to blame her. I thus planned a trip to the country, only to learn that she had already gone there herself. “I had the honor of meeting you, Mademoiselle, at about this time, and from that moment I no longer thought a union with Mademoiselle de Magnelais possible. I then began to feel the jealousy she had expected from me, which I had not felt until then; suddenly all that surrounded you became threatening. Everyone seemed more likely than I to appeal to you, yet I could not imagine anyone worthy of you. “Nevertheless I feared the Count of Blanchefort more than the others; I, who up until then had given no heed to pleasing the crowd, felt distressed at my rival’s success therein. He was thus in a position to offer you his hand in marriage, while I, as long as the Duke of Epernon was alive, could only propose marriage in secret, something I could not suffer without losing my dignity. That is what held me back the day I spoke to you of the Count. What joy, Mademoiselle, you brought my heart! I thought I could see how touched you were by the strength of my passion.

114 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN “However, Mademoiselle de Magnelais’s journey to the country, which provided some relief, was in truth only undertaken to further my troubles. She had convinced the Duke of Hallwin to delay our wedding no further, and upon their return he and the Duke of Epernon arranged the date. “My refusal brought on my father’s disgrace. I offered him no explanation. That which Mademoiselle de Magnelais’s conduct provided was far from credible, and besides, ever since I had laid eyes on you, Mademoiselle, I felt that it was not the greatest obstacle to our marriage. But I also thought it wise, initially at least, to hide my attachment to you from him. “Nonetheless I could not resist the pleasure of seeing you the next day. I was full of joy at having been freed. I wanted you to see this, and fancied that you would guess the motive. My happiness was short-lived, however. Your expression and tone of voice paralyzed me with fear. Do I dare confess it to you? Would you forgive me for having thought so? What you told me about Mademoiselle de Magnelais gave me reason to hope that she was privy to the cold treatment I received. “That idea came as a relief to me, and I decided at that moment to conceal nothing of what had happened between us. Being thus resolved, I returned to Madame de Polignac’s home. I learned from her, Mademoiselle, that you had returned to Paraclet Abbey. I planned to go there, and had made all the necessary arrangements. “Two nights before my departure, I received a note from Bellomont in which he asked me to meet him in a remote part of a Paris faubourg. I am not normally inclined to suspicion and, indeed, would have preferred to know that he was not so guilty. I concluded that he planned to admit all that had happened, and with my help, find a way to marry Mademoiselle de Magnelais. “The conversation began with reassurances of his friendship. After this preamble, which only confirmed my idea about his intentions, he asked: ‘How is it possible that you could make miserable a girl who loves you so dearly? Yesterday I again witnessed her crying. It was she who asked that I speak to you; she knows of your love for Mademoiselle d’Essei.’ I will omit, Mademoiselle,” the Marquis de la Valette added, “what he had the audacity to say about you afterwards. “Perhaps my response to so many lies and so much trickery should have been the deepest contempt, but I was no longer in control of my anger when he had the gall to show you no respect, which all the world owes you. ‘Silence,’ I told him with fury in my voice, ‘or I will make you regret your insolence. You and Mademoiselle de Magnelais deserve each other, and I would have punished you for all your betrayals had contempt not spared you from my vengeance.’ “ ‘To whom are you speaking?’ Bellomont asked. ‘Have you forgotten that you owe me your life? But you will no longer enjoy the privilege you abuse.’ He came at me saying these words, and before I could defend myself struck me twice with his sword. I drew mine, and as he was about to strike again, I defended myself

The Misfortunes of Love 115 by wounding him on the hip and he fell. Standing over him, I disarmed him and said: ‘I will spare your life, and will thus spare myself the shame of being indebted to the vilest of men.’ “Meanwhile my wounds were bleeding profusely. I myself would have collapsed and been vulnerable to the rage of this scoundrel, whose wound was not as serious, had several farmers coming to town not happened upon us. My clothes, which were very elegant, led them to me first. They carried me to the nearest house, which by chance belonged to a man of our acquaintance. I sent him to inform the Count of Ligny, with whom I had shared a very close friendship since childhood. After several days the surgeons, having earlier concluded that my life was in great danger, began to express hope for me. “As the danger became less extreme, my worries began to increase. My recollection of the Count of Ligny’s discretion and the need to talk to someone made me confide in him. We agreed that he would send one of his men to Paraclet to try to speak to you. I would have preferred to speak to you in person, but had neither the strength nor even the boldness to do so. “The man who had been sent to Paraclet reported to us that you were no longer there, but had gone to Madame de Polignac’s home, where he tried in vain to speak to you. This news nearly plunged me into despair. How could I think that the fleeting signs of affection you showed me were enough to counter the very conspicuous wrong I had committed, or the attention of my rival? “The Count of Ligny tried in vain to console me. He himself was forced to admit that my fears were legitimate. I wanted, as weak as I was, to go myself to Madame de Polignac’s home, but the effort it required would further delay my healing. To make matters worse, the Duke of Epernon fell ill at the same time, and died without agreeing to forgive me as I had asked of him. In the end, Bellomont’s slander had put me at odds with him; he had had the gall to tell him that I had attacked first, and that I had resorted to violence only because he had tried to remind me of my duty. “This deception compelled me to see him again, sword in hand. I waited impatiently to regain the strength I needed, when some more pressing news made me defer my vengeance. The Count of Ligny came to my room three days ago with an air of gaiety I found surprising: ‘Be happy,’ he told me. ‘The Count of Blanchefort, your formidable rival, just announced his marriage to the sister of the constable.’ ” Up until this point, Mademoiselle d’Essei had listened to the Marquis de la Valette gripped by a painful feeling, which she had trouble concealing, but which she could no longer contain. “What!” she exclaimed, shedding a flood of tears. “The Count of Blanchefort is married!” These were the only words her lips could utter. Her knees grew weak and she fell. The Marquis de la Valette’s condition was almost as worrisome;

116 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN the sight of Mademoiselle d’Essei dying, and for his rival, made him fully realize how cruelly trying love and jealousy can be. He remained for several moments in his seat. Finally, love prevailed. He took Mademoiselle d’Essei in his arms to try to revive her. While he was calling for help, Madame du Paraclet, surprised to no longer see Mademoiselle d’Essei, came to find her. She was extremely surprised to see her unconscious in the arms of a man she did not know. But the need to revive her took precedence; she was unconscious for a long time. At last she opened her eyes, and looking at all her surroundings, saw the Marquis de la Valette at her feet and holding her hand, which he covered with his tears. The dread of losing her had extinguished his jealousy; at this moment, he would have conceded willingly to the Count of Blanchefort’s wishes. “Leave me, Marquis,” she said to him, pulling her hand away, “your love and your pain will be the death of me.” “Leave you, Mademoiselle!” he cried. “That is impossible. I can only die here of despair for not having touched your heart and for seeing it touched by another. How did he succeed? What sign of love did he offer you? For what reason does he merit preference over me? Surely I am destined to be either hated or betrayed. Alas! I came to place my fortune in your hands, and it is from my rival that you would rather take what my love would give you.” Mademoiselle d’Essei’s tears and sobs prevented her from responding for some time. At last, she spoke, as though having suddenly made up her mind: “I will show you that I am even unhappier and more pitiable than you. The Count of Blanchefort is my husband. The disappointment, or rather more so the resentment I felt against you, led me to accept his proposal, and in the interim that his honor and my own demanded before announcing our marriage, I heard of his engagement to another. You must concede, by what I have confessed to you, that at the very least I deserve your pity. I daresay, moreover,” she added, as she began to weep again, “that if you knew the depths of my heart you would hold me in your esteem.” “Yes, Madame,” replied the Marquis, “I may no longer be permitted to speak to you of my love, but I can at least prove my respect for you by taking vengeance on the unworthy Count of Blanchefort.” “You speak of your respect for me,” Mademoiselle d’Essei answered, “yet you offer to avenge me against a man with whom I have exchanged vows!” “Ah! Mademoiselle,” the Marquis said, deeply hurt, “you love him; only love could restrain such legitimate vengeance.” “I told you, perhaps more than I should have, that my decision was based on reason and Madame de Polignac’s advice alone. But the Count’s betrayal does not free me of my obligations: he will be father to the miserable creature I am carrying. Could I put his life in jeopardy, and could I expose yours as well! Adieu, Monsieur,” she told him, “perhaps heaven will be touched by my innocence and misfortune. It will be there that I am avenged, if at all. But keep away from me, and

The Misfortunes of Love 117 allow me to enjoy the consolation of only crying over my misfortune, and not feel shame for my weaknesses.” Monsieur de la Valette, whom the tenderest pity and admiration brought even closer to Mademoiselle d’Essei, could not leave her without feeling cut to the quick. “It costs me so dearly to obey you,” he said, leaving, “that you should at least be kind enough to remember that your power over me is immeasurable.” She was in fact all too convinced of this for her own peace of mind. “I am the only one,” she said to Madame du Paraclet, “for whom the fidelity of a man like the Marquis de la Valette could be yet another curse. All of my feelings are blocked,” she added; “I don’t dare allow myself to hate, or to love.” She remained in the abbey as long as was necessary to hide her unfortunate condition. She wrote again to Monsieur de Blanchefort, with news that she had given birth to a boy. All of her discouragement gave way to the full attention the infant demanded of her. Nothing was spared in the letter that might arouse Monsieur de Blanchefort’s pity, but all of it was of no use. Not only did he give her no response whatsoever, he did not so much as try to discover her whereabouts. Mademoiselle d’Essei, though deeply offended by the silence, persisted in the role of supplicant for nearly six months, which was how long the poor child lived. But as soon as she had lost him, she wrote to Monsieur de Blanchefort in a very different tone a letter, which read as follows: LETTER “The death of my son has broken all bonds between us: I took great care to preserve him from the shame that you cast on his birth. That was my main motive in acting as I have, and it was to no avail. I hope that repentance plants the seeds of virtue, the appearance of which you affect so convincingly, even while deep down in your heart you hide the most despicable vices.” After having written this letter, Mademoiselle d’Essei considered herself free, and prepared to take her vows at Paraclet Abbey. She had been undergoing the novitiate there for hardly two months when the woman who long before had brought her to this cloister arrived with a man whose air and cross of the Order of Malta revealed to be someone of quality. They inquired with Madame the Abbess about the young woman named Mademoiselle d’Essei, whom they had placed in her care at the age of twelve. “She is here,” replied the Abbess, “and her parents’ expectations have been met: she is a nun.” “Ah!” cried the man. “She must leave the convent and come to console her mother, who has lost both a husband and only son, and to enjoy the wealth that her brother’s death leaves her. She is one of the greatest, richest heiresses in all of

118 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN France. Please,” he said to Madame du Paraclet, “allow me to see her and speak with her. As her uncle, I have the right to do so.” They summoned the young novice, and as soon as she appeared her uncle hastened to tell her that she was the daughter of the Duke of Joyeuse, and that the desire to give her brother even greater status as a lord had led her parents to conceal her birth and have her raised in a convent, where she was to become a nun. However, it appeared as though fate had delighted in confounding a plan so unjust, as her brother, for whom she had been sacrificed, was dead, and her father had survived him only by a few days. “I was witness to his repentance,” said the Bailiff of Joyeuse, “and am executor of his will. Come,” he went on, addressing his niece, “and claim the great fortune of which you are the sole beneficiary. Forget, if you possibly can, the inhuman treatment which you have endured, and which I would have opposed with all my might had I known anything of it.” “What you are telling me, Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle de Joyeuse, “will change nothing in my life but my name. Nothing could make me break the commitment I have taken.” “You are not yet committed,” the bailiff responded, “since you have not yet taken your vows.” “Vows will prove my commitment to others, but the veil I wear suffices for me.” The bailiff ’s pleas and reasoning failed to break Mademoiselle de Joyeuse’s determination. Without blaming her mother, she reasoned, in a tone both gentle and strong, that the treatment she had been given had exempted her from strict obedience. The bailiff appealed to Madame du Paraclet, but she was too aware of Mademoiselle de Joyeuse’s troubles to offer him any hope. After several days spent at the Abbey, during which Mademoiselle de Joyeuse became aware of the wealth she would possess, the bailiff left in order to inform Madame de Joyeuse of her daughter’s resolution, and the impossibility of changing her mind. Meanwhile the letter she had written to the Count of Blanchefort had not only led him to regret his actions, but had fully revived his love. He had thought up until then that she would come back to him whenever he desired it. On the contrary, the certainty of being hated, an object of contempt, his regret for having lost by his own doing a treasure whose value he then fully recognized, nearly drove him mad. His marriage to the constable’s sister had not taken place; nothing prevented him from going to confirm his engagement to Mademoiselle d’Essei. At times he fancied that the same reasons that had first made her accept him would make her do so again, and that she would not be able to resist the rank and fortune he offered her. He left for Paraclet, resolved to use every means possible, even violence, to reclaim a possession to which, he believed, the intensity of his love had once again given him rights. What renewed despair he then felt after learning of Mademoiselle d’Essei’s true status, and the commitment she had made. His grief was so pronounced and so real that Madame du Paraclet, who had given him the terrible news, could not deny him some measure of pity, and could not resist speaking to

The Misfortunes of Love 119 Mademoiselle de Joyeuse. “I beg of you,” he said to her, “persuade her to listen to me. Her virtue will speak on my behalf. The memory of our commitment will come back to her. She does not want to risk knowing what despair will make me do to myself, or to her.” “The Count of Blanchefort’s treachery,” replied Mademoiselle de Joyeuse, when Madame de Paraclet tried to deliver the message, “freed me from the commitment he has the gall to claim. I am not afraid of his despair. Let him make my story public; my shame will be buried in this convent, and I will bear it more easily than I would seeing and hearing a man for whom I have the most righteous indignation and the deepest contempt.” This initial refusal did not discourage Monsieur de Blanchefort. He did everything he could to speak with Mademoiselle de Joyeuse and, not succeeding, he waited secretly in a house in the village for the moment she was to give her solemn vows, determined to stop her. But when she did appear covered by the veil, when he noticed the pall that would be placed over her, when he thought that it was he, his treachery, that had compelled her to bury herself in this cloister, that this life, perhaps so contrary to her liking, seemed less onerous than living with him, he felt overcome with such a painful feeling, and unable to conceal it, was ushered out of the church. The Viscount of Polignac, the Abbess’s nephew, who was present, took him back to the home in the village. His despair was so terrible that they had to save him from his own fury. At last, after much suffering, he obeyed the order to leave which came from Mademoiselle de Joyeuse, and returned to one of his properties, haunted by the love and happiness that he had lost.11 After several months, severe languor put an end to his life and his grieving.12 Meanwhile, the scene that took place in church, so unusual for the nuns, caused a great stir among them. The higher ranking nuns argued before Madame du Paraclet that a disturbance of this type warranted that Mademoiselle de Joyeuse undergo further examination, and defer her vows. There was little choice but to accept these conditions. Before this waiting period had ended, Monsieur de la Valette arrived at Paraclet. It was not long before he learned of Mademoiselle de Joyeuse’s new fortune and status. If, out of respect for her, he had obeyed her order to renounce visiting her, he had not become less attentive, nor did his feelings for her diminish. Although he no longer held out any hope, he nonetheless could not imagine the horror of eternal separation; this idea occurred to him for the first time when he found out that Mademoiselle de Joyeuse had taken the veil. 11. In the original it is “Madame de Joyeuse” who orders Blanchefort to leave the church, but clearly this is an error, meant to be either Madame du Paraclet, or perhaps Mademoiselle de Joyeuse, as Leborgne notes (119). 12. “Languor” is used here not in its modern meaning of indolence but in its original sense of a debilitating illness.

120 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN He ran to Paraclet Abbey. Mademoiselle de Joyeuse could not bring herself to treat him as she did the Count of Blanchefort: she came to the parlor where he was waiting. For some time, neither of them had the courage to speak. The Marquis de la Valette, choked by tears and sobbing after seeing Mademoiselle de Joyeuse shrouded in the strange habit she had adopted, remained motionless in his chair. “I should not have come to see you,” said Mademoiselle de Joyeuse at last. “Ah!” cried the Marquis. “I will pay dearly for the favor! I will die, yes, I will die before your eyes if you persist in this resolution.” “My misfortune,” Mademoiselle de Joyeuse responded, “has not left me in control of my destiny. I must live in solitude, since I can no longer be seen in the world with honor.” “Oh! Why subject yourself to such a cruel maxim?” asked the Marquis. “Why punish yourself for the fact that the Count of Blanchefort is the greatest blackguard alive?” “It is nothing,” answered Mademoiselle de Joyeuse, “to leave the world when one can’t be with that which makes us love it.” “What are you suggesting!” cried the Marquis de la Valette. “Could I be both the happiest and the unhappiest of men? No,” he went on, looking at her with the tenderest eyes, “I will never give up my claim, which your heart does not appear to disdain.” “I confess,” Mademoiselle de Joyeuse replied, “that if I had listened to it, it would have spoken in your favor. I must also confess,” she added, “that it was in order to take revenge on you, thinking that you had betrayed me, that I plunged myself into the abyss of misfortune I am in now.” “Then allow me,” the Marquis interrupted, “the glory of saving you from it.” “It is enough for me,” answered Mademoiselle de Joyeuse, “even that you conceived of the idea. But I would be unworthy of it if I could accept it. Even if the entire world ignored my disastrous affair, even were I entirely convinced that you never knew of it, merely the thought of it, of being obliged to hide something from you, would poison the rest of my days.” “Ah!” the Marquis de la Valette said with great sorrow. “I was too quick to flatter myself, and you too were mistaken. You thought you were doing me a certain favor, simply because I am not as contemptible to you as the Count of Blanchefort.” “It would be better for my peace of mind,” she answered, “if I were as you think I am. Remember, however, that forgetting the offenses I have received is not the only sacrifice I have to make in giving my life to God. We must,” she added, “end a conversation too intolerable for us both. Adieu, Monsieur, I am going to pray to heaven for your happiness; remember from time to time what would have sufficed for my own.” She left while saying these words, leaving the Marquis de la Valette in a condition easier to imagine than to express in words. Madame du Paraclet, for whom Mademoiselle de Joyeuse had asked, came to console him. It took some time for him to regain the calm required to answer; his movements, his words betrayed the disturbance in his soul. He wanted to see Mademoiselle de Joyeuse,

The Misfortunes of Love 121 to speak with her one more time. “I ask of her,” he said, “only a few more months; I will then submit to all her wishes.” The feelings that Mademoiselle de Joyeuse had for Monsieur de la Valette compelled her, on the contrary, to find the means to combat her own weakness: “For pity’s sake,” she said to Madame du Paraclet, “convince the Marquis to allow me to try to forget him. Make him go away. The price I pay to wish it should be consolation enough for him.” Monsieur de la Valette could not accept being condemned to leave. But Madame du Paraclet showed him so vividly how much Mademoiselle de Joyeuse suffered from his presence, and how useless it was to resist, that he was forced to obey. Ever preoccupied by his love and his regrets, he spent two years at one of his estates, returning to the court only when the necessity of fulfilling his duty required him to go. Mademoiselle de Joyeuse, who after saying her vows took the name Eugénie, suffered shortly thereafter the terrible grief of losing Madame the Abbess of Paraclet. After this loss, it was no longer possible to stay in a place where everything reminded her of it. She obtained permission to come to the Abbey of Saint Anthony in Paris. The arrangements she had made while managing her inheritance put her in a position to be very well treated there. Following his return to the court, the Marquis heard that she was there and requested permission to see her. Whether, as may be expected, time, absence, and the loss of all hope had had the usual effect on him, or whether he had the self-control to restrain himself, the only feelings he expressed were acceptable to Eugénie. The relationship that they established thereafter allowed them to savor the charm of a friendship both tender and lasting. It was in vain that Eugénie tried to get him to marry; his response was always that he would rather devote himself entirely to their friendship. “You see,” Eugénie said to me, when she had finished telling me her story, “that if the misfortunes we have had in the world could guarantee us peace and repose in our retreat, no one would hope for it more than I. I admit, however, to my great shame, that reason has often led me astray, and that my sights have too often turned toward worldly matters, which have hurt me in so many ways.” “Since my affairs,” I said, “are not a secret, marriage could only be a source of suffering for me.” Eugénie responded by saying that the President had warned her about this; that he demanded only complete sincerity from me, that truth was for him almost as critical as innocence, and that, besides, I had nothing dishonorable to confess. I was not as convinced as she of the President d’Hacqueville’s indulgence; I could not imagine that he would want a woman who had shown such disdain for all propriety. I imagined that the confession I would give would make him loath

122 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN to marry me and that, although not my fault, the marriage (the advantages of which I could easily see, but for which I nevertheless felt such repugnance) would be cancelled. Only someone unfamiliar with the ways of the heart could conceive such a thought. The suffering, the betrayals that a pretty woman has endured only make her more interesting. Indeed my own were but the consequence of my trust, and by showing that my heart was so tender, so sensitive, I only increased the desire to win its love, and gave reason to hope. The President listened to me so attentively that it was easy to detect his tender affection, and when I tried to characterize my behavior as madness, as it should be, he justified it for me. Anyone else would have done as I had, would have behaved as I did; he did more than just say it, he believed it. I had several conversations of the sort with him, which must have convinced him of my honesty. I in turn was sure of being loved as much as I could hope to be. My mind might have been sure, yet my heart was far from being touched. Eugénie and the Chevalier de Piennes told me repeatedly that it was enough for a person of honor to respect a husband. However, without the jealousy and spite that compelled me, their arguments would have been unsuccessful. A man I trusted, whom I had sent to Frankfurt well before this time, then returned. He told me that Barbasan’s wife went to be with him, that she had brought with her the child born to her, and that it had not been possible to discover where they were staying. This effort to hide their location could only be on my account. It occurred to me that they feared some act of passion on my part, similar to my trip to Frankfurt. I wanted to spare the thankless man such a humiliating concern. I wanted, at whatever cost, to prove to him that he was no longer loved. I fancied, moreover, that the full effect of losing me would strike him once it became irreparable. This was what kept me from seeing the precipice from which I was about to fall, and what forced me to give the consent asked of me. My courage withstood well enough during the few days before the marriage. I might not have appeared happy, but at least showed no sign of despondency. Monsieur d’Hacqueville was filled with joy, expressing his gratitude in a way that only increased what I owed him already. Oh but what a change the terrible I do brought about, the I do that separated me forever from the one I loved! What became of me, good Lord, when I found myself in the bed my husband would share with me! All of my thoughts were upset. I considered myself solely to blame. I was betraying Barbasan; if I really loved him, would I have imitated his example? He could still come back to me, and I relinquished the pleasure of forgiving him, I relinquished even that of thinking of him, of loving him without being criminal. Was I worthy of Monsieur d’Hacqueville’s affection? Was it not a betrayal to marry him, my heart full of passion for another?

The Misfortunes of Love 123 After having sent out the others who were in the room, he asked my permission to get in bed. An outburst of tears was my first response. “The condition you see me in,” I told him at last, “tells you all too well what is going on in my heart. Have compassion for my unfortunate weakness: do not demand what I would only give out of duty. Allow my heart time to get past its wayward behavior. My respect and friendship for you are too great not to conquer it.” “What are you asking, Madame!” exclaimed my husband. “Do you know what torture this will be for me?” He stopped speaking after these few words. We both remained in a gloomy silence. After a few moments I broke it to ask his forgiveness. “It is I, Madame,” he said, “who should be asking yours: I have forced you by my importunity into the most awful situation. “I am punished indeed. Don’t fear anything on my part; to say the least, I will never be your tyrant. I only ask you,” he continued, getting up to go into an adjoining room, “and ask in your interest more than mine, to prevent anyone from knowing what took place between us.” But this precaution was unnecessary; my conduct seemed to me so blameworthy, that I was in no way tempted to speak of it. I spent the night regretting and applauding what I had just done. I understood my unfairness and blamed myself for it. Yet I could not help feeling a secret joy for having given the Count of Barbasan a sign of my love, although I would have despaired were he to discover it. Monsieur d’Hacqueville left my room early the next morning, saying only that he advised me to feign illness, in order to give him a pretext to stay in his own quarters. This feigned malady made us the subject of many jokes. Finally, after several days we were treated as an old married couple to whom no one paid attention. With the exception of just one thing, I did everything possible to make Monsieur d’Hacqueville happy: all of his friends soon became mine, I acquired all his tastes, my care and attention did not flag even for a moment. But our private conversations were awkward. We had few words to say to each other. Monsieur d’Hacqueville would look at me, sigh, and look down. He would often begin sentences which he could not finish. He would squeeze my hands and kiss them. When we parted, he would embrace me with a tenderness that expressed what he did not dare to say. I felt his unhappiness, and it made me ashamed. I blamed myself constantly for making someone unhappy who thought only of my happiness. And what obstacle was there still to keep me from my duty? A mad love affair, which self-respect alone should have conquered. The melancholy into which Monsieur d’Hacqueville fell, the effort he made in order to hide it made me pity him, and moved me still more. Respect, friendship, gratitude formed together a sort of illusory emotion, and by dint of wanting to love him, I convinced myself that I did love him, hoping to escape from the constraint that trapped us. Initially I had

124 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN spoken to him without great difficulty of the unfortunate penchant that attracted me to Barbasan; when I thought I had done with it, I suddenly found myself embarrassed to tell him. We had spent the autumn in a country house that my husband, always eager to please me, had purchased simply because I had spoken highly of its location. As it was only a short distance from Paris, we often had many guests. Mostly I found this inopportune. It was, moreover, getting in the way of a plan I was hatching, which my husband’s melancholy made me more anxious to undertake. At last we were alone, a few days before the date we had set for our return to Paris. I was in my bedroom, on the pretext of a slight indisposition. He came to look for me there, and sat down at the foot of a chaise longue on which I was resting. “My God!” I said to him. “Guests can be bothersome! I don’t know if you are like me, but I needed a little time alone.” “What shall we do with our time alone?” Monsieur d’Hacqueville asked. Then, falling right away on his knees: “I adore you, my dear Pauline,” he continued. “You know my heart, and know that I realize what yours is worth. Will I always be unhappy?” I lowered my eyes. My husband took my hand and kissed it. I felt his tears and cried with him. “Will you ever forgive me?” My husband’s only response was the most passionate embrace. His caresses only paused so that he could express his love in words. After taking possession of all his rights, he asked my permission to do so again: he would have liked to share my bed; however, my maids being unaccustomed to this, I could not accept it, and my husband kindly agreed to the precautions I demanded in order to keep our private moments together a secret. The air of mystery this created, leaving Monsieur d’Hacqueville desiring ever more, maintained the intensity of his passion, leading him to give me the care and attention for which only lovers are known and which even they dispense with quickly once they know they are loved. Upon our return, Eugénie, whom we saw almost daily, seemed delighted to see the joy and satisfaction in Monsieur d’Hacqueville. I did not feel the same, but no longer had the worry and anxiety, which never go away entirely when one’s duty is not fulfilled. In the end I did what I could to be happy, and was as much as one could hope to be, at least as far as the mind is concerned. Our home in the country took on a new charm for Monsieur d’Hacqueville, and he wanted to return there as soon as the good weather arrived. Due to some domestic arrangements that required my attention, I had to let him leave without me. The following day I received a letter from our parish priest begging me in God’s name to come to a place he described, saying that it was a matter of great importance, and that there was no time to lose. The priest, an honorable man, offered to take me there. The letter and its contents made me so emotional that I lacked the confidence to ask for an explanation for the adventure.

The Misfortunes of Love 125 As soon as I entered the room into which he led me and stood close to the bed, the person lying there attempted to sit upright. “I ask your forgiveness, Madame,” the person said in a feeble, trembling voice, “for daring to appear before you. I am the wretched one who caused you such pain. It is I who took you away from the one you loved, I who caused this misfortune for both of you, who caused his flight, and perhaps his death. But the condition I am in deserves your grace. Have pity on me: please soften the bitterness of my final moments. Be generous enough to forgive me. Dare I ask for more, dare I implore your goodness for a miserable creature? It is the product of my crime, but the child of the one you loved, and my death will leave him helpless.” The tears this woman shed so heavily prevented her from continuing. Being of a good nature, I would have been very moved by the state she was in, if the sharp sting of jealousy had not snuffed out other feelings. The list of all she had done to me, the forgiveness she asked, were new offenses; I felt humiliated. The good father, who failed to see what went on in my heart, appealed to me with all the zeal that charity inspires to have pity, both for the mother and for the child. “Neither,” I said at last, “has any need of me. Madame de Barbasan,” I added, “has the titles necessary for the restitution of her husband’s estate.” “Goodness! Madame,” the woman cried out sorrowfully, “I am not his wife.” “You are not?” I asked her with great surprise. “No, Madame. I can see what led you to think so. But listen to me for a moment: I owe you, Madame, and I owe Monsieur de Barbasan the confession of my shame. What does it matter how I suffer for it? My suffering does not warrant telling. It is merely the result of my waywardness. “I am the daughter of the jailer in charge of prisoners at the Châtelet prison. My mother, who died giving birth to my brother and me, bore no other children for my father. As is often the case with twins, the similarity between us was so perfect that in order to recognize us in our childhood, we each needed an identifying mark. Even at an older age, those who did not look closely were easily fooled. “We had exchanged clothes for a small social gathering the day that Monsieur de Barbasan was taken to Châtelet. My father, who saw me first, told me to go with him to lead the prisoner to the room assigned to him. I noticed when we arrived that there were a few bloodstains on his clothes. Worried, I asked if he was wounded. To my great relief, he was not. His noble air, his features, the gracefulness of everything about him made an impression on me from the outset. “How different that night was, compared to all those I had spent before it! I was in an emotional state that I took for the effect of pity. Goodness! If I had known the emotion that had taken over my heart, I might have had the strength to resist it and conquer it. The next day I obtained my brother’s permission to go in his stead to serve the prisoner. “My offer to help the prisoner came just before he was to be interrogated. The sadness that overwhelmed him filled my soul. I have hardly spent an hour

126 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN more agitated than the one during which the interrogation took place. It seemed that I too was in danger. I considered the witnesses testifying against him my own enemies. Every day, every minute I grew more sorrowful. I heard someone tell my father, whom I kept pestering with questions, that the affair was very serious, and that the consequences could only be deadly. “Monsieur de Barbasan’s infirmity stopped the investigation without diminishing the enmity of those who sought his punishment, and this made me still more fearful than I had been thus far. “Rarely did I leave the patient alone. For this I did not even need a disguise; he paid so little attention to me that he barely noticed my presence. How many tears I shed worrying about the peril in which I saw him! As that peril increased, so did my endearment, and my passion took on new strength. Finally, after struggling for several days between life and death, his youth and determination saved him. “It was about this time that someone made an offer to free the prisoner. My father deemed his situation preferable to the considerable fortune offered him, for which he would have to leave the country, even risk great danger. But his love for my brother and me prevailed; our prayers and solicitation persuaded him to do as we asked. I had not kept my brother wondering about my passion; I revealed it to him in all its violence, certain that his friendship for me would make him eager to help. “I had convinced him that I was loved in return as much as I loved, and that Monsieur de Barbasan would marry me as soon as we found a safe place. My brother was assigned to accompany Monsieur de Barbasan, and my father and I had to take a different route. Just before leaving my brother allowed me to take his place. This switch was made easier by the need to leave after nightfall, and because I would follow my father dressed in men’s clothing, as we had decided. My brother was charged with informing him, while they were en route, of my plan to marry. I explained that had he been told earlier, he would have spoken to Monsieur de Barbasan, and would thus have given him reason to suspect that I did not trust him. “How can I do justice to what I felt in my heart? My concerns about the success of our plan, the impatience for it to begin, and the joy that I would have savoring the presence of Monsieur de Barbasan, of not having to share the delight of serving him, all of these different thoughts made me more nervous and worried than had I been in a purely physical state of pain. The agreed upon time of our departure was delayed by an incident which nearly caused me to die of fright. “I was in Monsieur de Barbasan’s room, having just given him a monk’s habit, by means of which he could leave as if just having heard the confession of a dying prisoner, when my father came to warn us that there were orders not to go to sleep. The order, the reason for which we could not imagine, made us suspect that our plan had been discovered, and frightened us. Fortunately, our fears were

The Misfortunes of Love 127 assuaged: it was only due to a prisoner’s arrival that same night. He arrived at about midnight, and his arrival, the occasion for much coming and going within the prison, helped to facilitate our escape. “We arrived in Nancy with no encounters along the way, and without Monsieur de Barbasan suspecting my disguise in the least. After resting for several hours we remounted our horses. My dear master (this was the name I gave him, which came more from my heart than from my lips), was horribly impatient to get to Mayence: his eagerness to open his letters, even before we dismounted, the intensity with which he read and reread one in particular which, judging by the handwriting, came from a woman, all this made me foresee the trouble awaiting me. The feeling in my heart at that moment clearly showed with whom Monsieur de Barbasan was in love. “How many sighs, how many tears did this cruel discovery provoke! Jealousy, in all its horror, overcame me. I accused him of ingratitude, nearly of treachery: he should have guessed my feelings, he should have known who I was. Would he have made the mistake if he had not been in love with someone else? Forgive me, Madame, but I could not imagine that this someone had done as much for him. After abandoning my country, after putting my father, my brother, for whom I would at other times have given my life, in the greatest danger. Indeed, what had I not done? Alas! I told myself, in return I hope to be rewarded with love. I would have settled for less: it would have sufficed to know that the feelings he refused me were not reserved for anyone else. Several times it crossed my mind to throw myself at his feet, to shed before him the tears that secretly devoured me, but a trace of modesty I somehow retained held me back. “The boots he was wearing, not being made for him, hurt him so badly that we had to spend several days in Mayence, and because the correspondence he was expecting had yet to arrive, Monsieur de Barbasan decided to get some rest. I was asked to go to the post to retrieve his letters. This, Madame, is when my betrayals began: I found two there, one in the handwriting I wanted to curse, and the other, in that of a man. I opened the former first. My curiosity was excited by a need too strong to resist. For this I suffered; what I read made it all too plain that its author deserved his love, much to my despair. I had not yet decided whether I should conceal it, but decided to do so after reading the next. “It was from a man who appeared to be a friend of yours and of Monsieur. He pleaded with him for the sake of honor, even for the sake of love, to let go of you: ‘Do you wish to make her a fugitive? Do you want her to be the wife of an outlaw? Be generous enough to allow her to think you unfaithful. Madame Eugénie and I will convince her of the change in your behavior, and we will try to restore peace to a heart to which you owe too much not to allow it, whatever it may cost you.’ “The letter, which I read over and over, took away any scruples I had. Far from regretting what I had just done, I realized that I was doing Monsieur de

128 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN Barbasan a great favor trying to cure him of a passion that could never make him happy. The best way to do that was to prevent him from receiving your letters. I began with the one I held. I thought it extremely important, on the other hand, to give him the one from the friend, which I then resealed. “I observed very attentively, anxiously, the impression it made upon him. Alas! He could not read it with dry eyes; his grief, his sorrow were so extreme, and I so moved, that at times I was tempted to give him the letter I was concealing. But my passion, for which my consideration of Monsieur de Barbasan’s interest was merely a mask, stopped me from doing so and made me believe in the plan I had conceived. I took all the letters, only allowing him those of the friend, whose advice fit so well with my plans. “Monsieur de Barbasan’s chagrin did not help his condition; we were obliged to remain in Mayence for several months. At last we left, but we had hardly traveled two days when I found myself unable to pursue the journey. I was taken with such a violent fever that Monsieur de Barbasan, out of friendship and humanity, which he would have for me for as long as he ignored my identity, stopped in the village where we were located, which happened to be on the courier’s route. “At several points I nearly expired. In the delirium, I might have revealed not only my feelings but my sex to Monsieur de Barbasan, had he been listening. However, I believe he would have gone on ignoring them had a woman hired to attend me not told him. The care that he gave me led her to think that I was very dear to him. She was quite eager to show that she could keep our relationship a secret. Monsieur de Barbasan had trouble understanding her promises of discretion, which she kept repeating. Finally, by questioning her, he convinced her to speak clearly. The discovery of something that put my honor at risk saddened him noticeably, as much as if it were a matter of his own. He resolved to find a husband for me as soon as I recovered, and until then, to put me in a convent. “As my condition improved, his visits became shorter and less frequent. I became desperate, and dared not complain other than by the joy I expressed each time I saw him. “A few days after I had left the room where I had been recovering, he sent word to have me come to his. The request was not surprising in any way. It nevertheless disturbed me; I had a premonition that some misfortune awaited me. Good God! What a blow it was for me when, after sitting me down and saying that he no longer ignored who I was, he finally declared that we had to go our separate ways. “When I heard this fatal decision, the grief I felt seemed limitless. ‘Why,’ I asked, ‘did they do so much to protect my life? Why did they tear me from the clutches of death? It was then that they should have abandoned me. I would at least have died with the sweet thought that had you known of my feelings, you would have been touched by them. On the contrary, I am horribly sure that you

The Misfortunes of Love 129 find me odious. Why, if you don’t hate me, do you want me to leave you? Why deprive me of the joy of being at your side? If necessary, in order to have that privilege, I would promise never to reveal my feelings to you in any way, and to be in total control of my behavior, of my words. Yes, I love you enough to hide my love for you. The pleasure of seeing you, of inhabiting the same space, will suffice for me.’ Goodness, what else did I promise him! But it was to no avail; he would not be dissuaded from sending me to the convent. I only managed to be allowed to choose one in proximity to where Monsieur de Barbasan settled. “We left the day after the conversation took place. Miserable, fatal day for Monsieur de Barbasan and me! We stopped at an inn so packed with guests that the best we could find was a small room of the worst sort, with but one bed. Monsieur de Barbasan, out of respect for my sex, and due to the weak state in which I remained, insisted that I take it. I protested as much as I could, but had to respect his wish. “Shortly after lying down, I had a sort of episode which caused Monsieur de Barbasan to approach my bed. He had held my arm in order to take my pulse. I held onto his hand when he tried to take it away, squeezing it for some time in mine with such a tender feeling that I could not hold back tears; they fell on the hand I held. He was apparently more moved than he had been up until then. “How shall I say this, Madame? At that moment he forgot what he owed you, and I forgot what I owed myself. It is hardly possible, for a man of Monsieur de Barbasan’s age, to resist such an opportunity, especially knowing how passionately he is loved. “After some time I realized I was pregnant. Far from feeling sad about it, I was overjoyed. Monsieur de Barbasan did not feel the same; on the contrary, he became extremely saddened over it. Perhaps my condition showed him more vividly how he had done you wrong, and me as well. He could not forget that he owed me his life. My father, in the hope of gaining a lifelong protector for my brother and me, did not let him forget what we had done for him. It was no doubt this consideration, more than my tears, which kept him from abandoning me. I convinced him to stay with me until the time came when I could enter a convent. “When we arrived in Frankfurt I dressed according to my sex, and had the honor of passing for his wife. This idea flattered me too much not to play along with it. Monsieur de Barbasan, who saw no one, was not aware of it. I had also taken care not to allow my father and brother to join us in Frankfurt, under the pretext that they needed to wait until we reached Dresden, where I thought we could stay a while. “The solitude of our life, along with what some considered my attractiveness, led others to think that Monsieur de Barbasan was deeply in love and, moreover, jealous. My conduct only reinforced this perception, as I rarely left his side. His melancholy, which worsened every day, made him go for the most solitary

130 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN walks. Either I would go with him, or would go looking for him, but I did not dare disturb his daydreaming, nor show him how much it hurt me: I was too afraid of his reproaches, which often enough he could not refrain from giving me. I deserved them too much to take offense. “I had for myself some very cruel ones in fact. What did all my mad passion and manipulation bring me! I had plunged myself into a pit of sorrow, and even beyond that, had brought shame upon myself. I spent entire nights crying. Alas! Could I possibly have thought that one day I would regret such a frightful time? How could I imagine that misfortune a thousand times worse awaited me? “One day which, despite being so near death I only recall with pain, I left to go to church. Monsieur de Barbasan arrived shortly after I did. I thought I noticed that he looked distracted, with some new cause for concern. I made an effort to engage him in small talk, but he did not answer, and was the first to leave. A woman I knew retained me for a few minutes in conversation, preventing me from following him. When I went to the house I learned that he had not yet returned. After waiting for part of the day, I sent others to look for him, while looking myself in all the places I could expect to find him, even in some where I would not. A day and a night went by without any news of him. “My God! What a day, what a night! My impatience and worry caused me pain almost as intense as that I felt reading the fatal letter that a stranger brought the next morning to a woman in my employ. “Here it is,” Hippolyte told me, holding out the letter. I took it with a trembling hand, and read these words: LETTER The remorse that tortures me, which I have not ceased to feel, even during the moments for which I am most guilty, forces me to abandon you. The depth of misfortune into which I have thrown you has made me the most shameful of all men. If I had shown you my heart, if you had known the passion that filled it, if I had told you how attached I was to the one I adore, you would have risen above an unfortunate affection that has damned us both. Adieu forever; I am going to some remote corner of the world where the memory of my crime will make me as miserable as I deserve to be. What a revolution this letter and what I had heard produced in me! What tenderness awoke in my heart! Barbasan appeared in my imagination, overwhelmed with sorrow for a mistake that could no longer be called that, for which I no longer blamed him, since he had always loved me. And even were he the guiltiest man alive, what crimes would not be erased by repentance such as his? I alone was responsible for his unhappiness and for my own.

The Misfortunes of Love 131 Although I had looked upon this woman as a hateful rival, I felt compassion for her. I pitied her bad fortune, forgave her weaknesses, and even felt friendship for her; could I turn her away? She seemed to have loved Barbasan only to prove to me that I was the only one he could ever love. For my part I encouraged the priest to do all he could to help the patient, and I reassured her that she would receive all the help she needed. I asked to see the unfortunate child. I looked at him tenderly, and felt him becoming dearer to me. My affection for the father turned to the son’s advantage. I had no scruples about what I was doing. To the contrary, it seemed to me that I would have done the same out of mere humanity. The patient begged me to have the child taken away. “I feel,” she said, shedding tears, “as though my heart were being torn out. But I am only anticipating by a few days a separation that my death will soon make inevitable. Perhaps, oh my God!” she continued, “you will find it in your heart to pity me! Perhaps this sacrifice, forced as it is, will diminish your just anger! These,” she said, hugging her son, “will be the last signs of my love for you. May you be more fortunate than your father, and may you learn from the misfortunes of my life how quickly we fall into an abyss of suffering when we stray from the path of virtue!” The priest offered to find a home where the child could be raised. I asked that nothing be spared. But the secret I was obliged to keep prevented me from doing all that I would have liked to do. This unusual adventure, the pleasure of having heard, from my rival herself, that Barbasan had always been faithful, the spectacle of a woman dying, dying only from the pain of abandonment, and for my sake alone, put me in a situation in which I felt at first tenderness and pity. But upon reflection, with some perspective, thinking of what I owed my husband, and what gratitude, what duty required of me, I was overwhelmed with grief. How could I look my husband in the eye while his goodness, his trust constantly condemned what I felt in my heart? How would I react to the respect he paid me when I was no longer worthy? How could I respond to the signs of a passion which I did not share? These thoughts, which filled my head and my heart, preoccupied me day and night. I had promised to stay only a day or two in Paris, but I needed time to gain control of my appearance. Eugénie, to whom I related all that had just happened, saw beyond all the pain I felt the secret joy which Barbasan’s fidelity gave me. “There is your real trouble,” she told me. “You are putting up a weak defense against feelings which, it seems to me, you only oppose out of duty. You must nevertheless put an end to them; your peace of mind demands it as much as your duty. Even though the offense this would commit against your husband is safeguarded deep in your heart, it is an offense all the same, and you should not blame yourself any less for it. Indeed,” she continued, “you should take precautions in the future: Monsieur de

132 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN Barbasan could return to this area, and try to see you.” “Ah!” I exclaimed, “were I so fortunate to be in a position to avoid him: he will have met the death he set out to find, and you want to take away the sad consolation I get from crying over him.” My tears, flowing abundantly, prevented me from saying more; Eugénie, who pitied me, was on the verge of weeping herself, but her friendship, ever so wise, allowed her only brief moments of indulgence for my weakness. She urged me to be with my husband. “His presence,” she said, “will support you.” I had trouble following this advice, but Eugénie insisted, and made me go. My appearance was so altered that Monsieur d’Hacqueville thought I was ill. His care, his tenderness, his concern only doubled my grief. I felt as I had already at the start of our marriage: that there is no situation more difficult to endure than that of being at odds with oneself. Hippolyte’s death, of which I learned some days later, made me cry even more. Goodness! Why did I cry for her? Her lot was better than mine: she no longer had the frightful misfortune of not being loved. I dared not enjoy the pleasure of existing. What constraint! When alone with my husband I had nothing to say. It was, besides, impossible to conceal my sadness or to hide my discomfort when he wanted to know the cause. After several months of this, during which time I had no other consolation than to indulge Barbasan’s son with caresses, I learned that Monsieur d’Hacqueville had left at dawn to go to a property he owned in a remote part of Gascony. His sudden departure, unbeknownst to me, should have caused me to worry. Indeed I should have remarked that for some time my husband behaved differently with me. But what occupied my head and heart eclipsed all that did not depend on the one all-important object. So I believed the message I was given, that Monsieur d’Hacqueville had to leave promptly after receiving some news. As I had been promised that I would soon thereafter receive letters, I waited ten or more days, but they never came. This long silence was unnatural. I recognized that I was guilty in some way for what had happened. Eugénie, with whom I had shared this new concern, approved my decision to go and join my husband, without waiting for his permission, without even consulting him. I found him bedridden with fever. It seemed moderate enough that I should not have been alarmed, but I was nevertheless. Something told me that his malady had to do with me, and the way he greeted me made this all too clear. Instead of his usual enthusiasm, I met with cold disdain. I could hardly get him to look at me, and, pulling out of my arms when I tried to embrace him, he said: “Spare me this effort, or rather this guile, I can no longer be fooled.” “What, Monsieur!” I cried. “You accuse me of guile? Ah! What have I done to merit a judgment so bitter, and so painful?” “Don’t ask me,” he said, “for explanations which are pointless and embarrassing for us both.” “No, no,” I cried

The Misfortunes of Love 133 again, “you must tell me what my crime is, or give me the respect without which I cannot live.” “You would have kept it,” he responded, “if you had the sincerity I had asked of you. It would have preserved your innocence; far from condemning your errors, I would have done all I could to console you, and help you forget them. But you did not respect me enough to think me capable of such a generous act: you thought it easier to deceive me, and did not even bother to take the necessary precautions.” I was so shocked and troubled by what I heard that Monsieur d’Hacqueville had time to express all that his resentment inspired before I had the strength to respond. I had no notion, however, that he thought I was the mother of Barbasan’s son. I cannot describe what I felt when finally I was told about my supposed crime. All my previous sorrow seemed trivial in comparison to this. One lacks the strength to face misfortunes such as this, or one would have to care little about honor to use that strength. My tears were for some time my only defense. “What!” I said in a tone of voice that, through the despair, expressed my surprise and indignation. “Are you accusing your wife of a shameful crime? Ah!” I continued, “I will prove you wrong. You force her to justify her conduct? You put her through such humiliation? The priest at Saint-Paul will tell you how I came to know this unfortunate child.” “Will he also tell me,” asked Monsieur d’Hacqueville with a bitter smile, “how it is that the child resembles your lover?” “I know no one,” I said, “who may claim such a title. I have already confessed to you; I had an inclination, even affection, for a man I thought worthy of it. But if I have thought of him since duty has commanded me to forget him, I have also been punished, and you avenged, by the criticism I have directed at him. I would have helped any other child in such circumstances. I took him from the hands of his mother, his dying mother, but don’t take my word for it: my honor demands an indubitable explanation. Perhaps then you may regret somewhat the pain you are causing me.” The truth has a power never entirely lost: as determined as Monsieur d’Hacqueville was, it made its impression on him. “I thought,” he said, “that I would have more strength to oppose you. Please, let us end a conversation for which I no longer have the strength.” His servants, whom he had called, entered at that moment. He told me in their presence that he needed rest, and asked me to go to the room that had been prepared for me. I was too worried to stay there. I returned to spend the night in his room, and did not leave him again. His fever rose considerably that night, and in the course of five days grew so violent that we began to worry for his life. Monsieur d’Hacqueville did not need the physicians to describe his condition: far from being alarmed over it, the impending peril he foresaw gave him a sense of peace and tranquility he had not come close to knowing until then. I could easily tell that his peace was the

134 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN effect of great pain, and knowing this tore my heart. How I blamed myself for my conduct! I could have avoided the tragedy I was facing had I not chosen to hide my last adventure. Despite my unfortunate inclination, the friendship I felt for my husband awoke in my heart: I could not believe that I was going to lose him without feeling overwhelmed by pain. I was constantly awash with tears; the need to conceal them made it necessary to move away from the bed from time to time, despite my need to remain close to him. I was resting in a small bedroom adjacent to his when he asked to speak to me. “Death,” he told me when he saw me alone next to him, “will separate us; it will do what I have perhaps never had the strength to execute.” “Ah!” I cried, shedding a flood of tears. “What are you suggesting? So shameful, so horrid! Is it possible that I have become so hateful in your eyes?” “It is the very opposite feeling,” he answered, “that should have made me spare you from living with a husband whom you could not love, and who gave you cause to hate him. Guilty or innocent, I have offended you in ways that are unforgivable.” “The condition in which you see me now,” I said, “serves as my answer: I would gladly give my own life to save yours.” “What would I do with it?” he asked. “It would only bring me sorrow. My fatal curiosity took away the illusion that afforded me happiness. I saw with my own eyes your affection for the child, and know all that you have done for him. I suspected you. For all I know I would have gone on suspecting you. For all I know you might not have been able to fully justify your actions, and what would our fate be then? Preyed upon by my love and by jealousy, I would become what I fear most of all, a tyrant to you. Adieu, Madame,” he said, “I feel the end approaching. For pity’s sake do not let me see you weep, and let me die without weakness.” Saying these words, he turned toward the opposite side of the bed and, despite my efforts, refused to listen to me. His head, which had been clear until this point, began to suffer that same night. After losing consciousness, he died in my arms. I already hurt to such a degree that the horror of this spectacle had no effect on me. I was losing the most honest husband in the world, one who had adored me, to whom I owed so much, who was like a friend to me, and for whom I had the tenderest friendship; and it was I who caused his death, who had stabbed him in the heart. Some suffering brings with it a feeling of sweetness, but that only occurs if we cry over someone we love, not over our own errors. I was in a much different situation. All my memories hurt; I could not stand looking at myself, and could not bring myself to appear in company: it seemed as though my actions were written all over my face. I thought only of the loss I had caused. Even Barbasan failed to distract me.

The Misfortunes of Love 135 At first I thought of him only in terms of my desire to renounce him altogether. I felt that I owed this sacrifice to my husband’s memory. But solitude is no remedy for love. My passion was gradually rekindled; the melancholy into which I sank only made it worse. My dreams reflected the darkness of my thoughts, and Barbasan always appeared in them in some fashion. In one of them, I thought I saw him fall at my feet all covered in blood, and when I tried to speak to him, he answered only: “You gave yourself to another.” What an impression this dream made in my heart! I believed it an omen of Barbasan’s death, and that he had died full of resentment for me. I brought this new source of pain, perhaps the most overwhelming of all, to an old-growth forest, where I took my customary walks. The silence and the solitude that reigned there cast a kind of horror that matched my state of mind.13 Without being aware of it, I grew accustomed to spending almost entire days there. My servants tried in vain to convince me that it was full of wild boars, and than an accident could befall me. The stories I was told of some that had already occurred were enough to frighten anyone. I thought that this sort of accident would not happen to me. Besides, what did I have left to lose? A miserable life, the end of which I hoped for constantly. I had stayed in the forest later than usual. Lost in a daydream, I suddenly felt myself being seized by a man who, despite my cries and struggles, began carrying me away when another appeared out of the thickest part of the woods and confronted him sword in hand. I took advantage of the freedom their fight gave me to escape as fast as I could: my servants, alerted by my cries for help, ran to aid my defender. I was so disturbed and bewildered, that they had to put me in bed as soon as I returned. Shortly afterward I learned that the man who had saved me had mortally wounded the one trying to kidnap me, but that he had taken a bullet from another who came to rescue the first; that my defender had the strength to then fight this man, plunging his sword clear through his body and leaving him dead on the spot; that others who were guarding a carriage and horses not far from there, apparently intended for me, had escaped. I ordered that my defender be carried to the chateau, at the same time sending others on horseback to determine the care he required. My steward, out of humanity and in order to gain information about the authors of this violence, also had the other wounded man carried back to the chateau, a precaution which proved useful. The man, whose proximity to death caused him to realize the gravity of his crime, told my steward that the Duke de N***, my stepfather, was responsible for the kidnapping, that his plan was to take me to an old chateau he owned in the 13. An anticipation of the Gothic landscape similar to that of the Memoirs (40). See the Introduction (135).

136 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN Gévaudan mountains, that the considerable wealth I had acquired when I married gave him the idea of appropriating it himself, and that in order to do so, he planned to hold me physically and to force me, a dagger to my throat, to donate money to my brother.14 The man added that my stepfather would not have left me enough time to take back what I had given, but that I no longer had to be afraid, since it was he who had been mortally wounded by my rescuer. My steward, who apprised me of all he had just learned, gave me a deathly fright. The danger I had risked increased still more my concern and gratitude for my defender; I constantly asked for updates on his condition. My servants, who saw that I was in need of rest, kept me from knowing its gravity for as long as possible. He only regained consciousness after the examination of his wounds. He wanted to know his prognosis, asking in such a way that the surgeons had to admit that he had less than twenty-four hours to live. One man, who must have been his valet, came during the night. As soon as he saw him he requested that they be left alone. I did not hear this sad news until the next day, and soon thereafter, that he was about to die. One can easily imagine how moved I was by the death of someone to whom I owed my life. I was still in shock, when someone told me that the valet who had spent the night by his side had asked to see me. He approached my bed and tried to give me a letter he was holding, but I was in no condition to take it. Hardly had I glanced at him when I lost consciousness entirely. I regained it only after several hours, and then but for a few moments. I spent the entire day and night this way. As soon as I was able to speak, I asked to see the man again. Notwithstanding the effects that the others feared for me, they were obliged to obey me. It was then that he gave me the letter, which read as follows: LETTER Would you be so kind, Madame, to consider the character of an unfortunate man, whom you must look upon as the guiltiest, the most perfidious of men? Alas! Madame, I have judged myself perhaps more rigorously than you would have judged me yourself. Sorrow and repentance have tortured me every moment of my life. I thought myself unworthy of bringing my sorrow and repentance before you, and it is only now that I have only a few hours to live that I dare tell you, as guilty as I am, that never for one moment have I stopped adoring you. I will no longer be alive, Madame, when you receive this letter. If you should recall now and then your miserable Barbasan, remember too how many regrets he had.

14. The former province of Gévaudan, well known for its “beast” or man-eating wolf in the eighteenth century, is the modern-day département of Lozère.

The Misfortunes of Love 137 I could hardly make out the letters on the page, my vision was so clouded by tears. “He is dead!” I exclaimed to myself after reading it. “I will never see him again! I will never be able to tell him how I have always loved him! Why did he save my life? How I wish that I had lost it instead!” Beauvais, as this very devoted valet was called, cried with me. Because he too grieved, I needed him and wanted to be with him only. I spoke to him day and night about Barbasan, and got him to do the same for me. I made him repeat over and over what he had already told me. He told me that he had gone to be with his master in Frankfurt, that he had found him in the deepest melancholy, and feeling justified by his years of service to him, took the liberty of asking him several times the reason, for a long time without success, and that finally Barbasan, overwhelmed with grief, could not refuse the consolation of telling him. Beauvais then repeated what I learned from the jailer’s daughter. He added that Barbasan had seen me in a church, that at first he could hardly believe that it could be me, but that the resemblance alone had made such an impression on him, it had increased his remorse to such an extent that he could no longer tolerate looking at Hippolyte, that he then sought refuge at the home of a compatriot he knew, and that, driven by his concerns, he had sent Beauvais for more information about the stranger. Finally, Beauvais, after several fruitless attempts to know more, by chance discovered the woman in whose home I had stayed. The details she shared with him fully illuminated Barbasan’s story. This new sign of my unique, my extraordinary love, increased his confusion and despair such that he was ready to take his own life. He wanted to follow me, he wanted to throw himself at my feet, only to realize afterward that he was unworthy of any grace. “What shall I tell her?” he asked. “That while she was doing everything she could for me I was betraying her in such an unworthy manner? Would she believe me, if I were to protest that I had always adored her?” At last, after much hesitation, his desire to see me prevailed; he set out, determined as he could be to follow me to France. Far from being put off by the peril he would encounter by appearing there, he found on the contrary a certain satisfaction in going: at least he was showing me proof of what I meant in his eyes. He took the same route I had traveled. His haste was such that despite the lead I had, he would undoubtedly have caught up to me had he not been delayed by an accident. The governor of Phillipsburg had just received an order to arrest a man of some repute, who had left the Emperor’s service for that of France.15 The pressing requests for horses which Barbasan made at the post, and especially his elegant 15. Philippsburg, a town in present-day Germany but under French control when it was captured by forces of the Holy Roman Empire in 1676; it was recaptured by France in 1688.

138 CLAUDINE-ALEX ANDRINE GUÉRIN DE TENCIN features, raised suspicions that he was the target of this search. He was arrested, and led to the governor, a man incapable of neglecting his duty. All that Barbasan tried to tell him was of no use: he sent him in chains to the citadel. He was held there for more than a year, and only released when the Marshal of Estrées took over the city. He knew Barbasan, and had great respect for him. The Marshal advised him to join the service of the king of Sweden. Because he learned about my marriage at the same time, he chose a course of action that he hoped would put an end to his suffering. In seeking out death, he performed such heroic deeds that the king of Sweden did not think he could possibly reward him enough. He refused all that the king offered him, even to rise above the humble rank of volunteer. Beauvais told me furthermore that Barbasan, still haunted by love and grief, had returned to France with no purpose, no desire other than to see me, if only from afar, that he had arrived in Paris at precisely the time that I had left to be with my husband in Gascony, and that, convinced of the role Eugénie and the Chevalier de Piennes had played in my marriage, refused to see either of them. Without their help, Barbasan soon learned all that he needed to know. He did not lose a moment in following me to Gascony, stopping in Marmande, a small village a quarter of a league away from where I was staying. It was there that he learned of my husband’s death and how horribly grieved I was. Since I never left the chateau, he managed to introduce himself there, and saw me several times at mass in the chapel, each time feeling as shocked as the first. When I began to take my walks in the forest he left Marmande to stay in a small house on the edge of the same forest. Apprised by his host of the peril I faced, he followed me even more carefully, the thickness of the woods giving him the opportunity to hide whenever necessary. Countless times he was ready to either throw himself at my feet, to beg my forgiveness, or to end his life, but the tears he saw me shed, which he attributed to my grief over losing Monsieur d’Hacqueville, held him back and at the same time made him experience the cruelest effects of jealousy. Finally that frightful day, the day that took my misfortune to new heights, poor Barbasan, who could no longer stand his deep despair, approached me, when he heard me suddenly cry, seeing the danger that befell me. Beauvais’s story broke my heart, and yet it was the only one I wished to hear. At my request, Barbasan’s body had been put in a lead coffin, on which I would shed many tears. I nourished my grief with the hope that at least one day the same earth would cover the two of us. I would have spent the rest of my life in this mournful occupation if the Chevalier de Piennes had not come to take me away from that place. His pleas and solicitation would have been useless, however, if my desire to see the child, whom the death of his father had made a hundred times dearer to me and who became my only possession, had not called me back to Paris. I discovered that the

The Misfortunes of Love 139 death of the Duke de N*** was already forgotten. Hoping to hide the shame of my adventure, his family had announced his death from a stroke on his property in Gévaudan. I went to shut myself in with my dearest Eugénie, and without pronouncing the vows that would commit me, I renounced worldly life forever. The thought of my misfortunes provided me, for many years, enough occupation to live in solitude. Although the intensity of the feelings I had finally dissipated with time, I was left with a reserve of sadness and melancholy which will be with me until my last breath. The future of the poor child is the only thing that provided some distraction from the grief I experienced. I had him join the royal forces at a young age, where he has earned a brilliant reputation, rising to the highest rank. I thought that I must never to allow him to know his true identity. He does not even know the source of the pension he receives: I would rather renounce any claim to his gratitude than give him the mortification of knowing who he is. END OF THE SECOND AND LAST PART

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English Translations  Tencin, Claudine-Alexandrine Guérin de. The History of the Count de Comminge. Translated by Charlotte Lennox. Edited by Marianna D’Ezio. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2011. [Based on the text as it appeared in The Memoirs of the Countess of Berci. Taken from the French by the author of The Female Quixote. 2 vols. London: A. Millar, 1756.] __________. The Siege of Calais by Edward of England. Anonymous translation. London: Printed for T. Woodward; and Paul Vaillant, 1740. Reprint, New York: Garland, 1974.

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Index class distinction, nobility, 66 Clément XI, Pope, 8 Cleveland, 15n33 cloister, 21 College of Cardinals, 9 convent, compared to being buried alive, 16, 96; as renouncement of wordly life, 139 Cook, James Wyatt, 14n31 Corneille, Thomas, 11 Crébillon, Prosper Jolyot de (Crébillon fils), 11, 13 cult of suffering, 14, 18

abstract terms, 2, 28 Académie française, 8 Aïssé, Charlotte-Elisabeth, 8n4, 98n8 Ancients vs. Moderns, 8 Anecdotes de la cour et du règne d’Edouard II, roi d’Angleterre (Anecdotes of the Court and Reign of Edward II of England), 22n63, 27 Arnaud, Thomas Baculard d’, n9; Les Amans malheureux, ou le Comte de Comminge, drame en trois actes et en vers, 21n59 ashes, lying in. See Trappe, Abbé de la, Armand Jean Le Bouthillier de Rancé Astruc, Jean, 10 Aulnoy, Marie-Catherine de, 11, 14

d’Alembert, 8, 9 Decottignies, 10, 14 Delandine, Antoine-François, 25n69 Deloffre, Frédérique, 16n38, 17n39 Delon, Michel, 7, 13, 28 Des Grieux. See Prévost, AntoineFrançois, Abbé Descartes, René, 13 Desjonquères, editions, 7 Destouches, Louis Camus, 8, 9 destructive eros, 17 Diderot, Denis, 7, 24 douleur … douceur (pain, sorrow … sweetness, pleasure), 19n50 Dubois, Guillaume, cardinal, 9 Duclos, Charles Pinot, 10

Bagnières, 32n2 baroque novel, 13 Bastille, la, 9 baths. See Bagnières Beaumont, Elie de, 10; Anecdotes de la cours et du règne d’Edouard II, roi d’Angleterre (Anecdotes of the Court and Reign of Edward II of England), 10, 22n63 beauty, 95 Bernard, Catherine, 10n11, 11; Eléonore d’Yvrée, ou les malheurs de l’amour, 10n11 bienséances, 12 blasphemy, 12 Bolingbroke, Henry St. John, 9

Edward III, 10 Entretien entre d’Alembert et Diderot, 7 Ezio, Marianna d’, 27n1 feminine historical novel, 10–11, 13, 21, 24 Ferriol, Charles de, 98n8 Ferriol, Marie-Angélique, 8, 8n4, 98n8 Figures de l’imaginaire dans le Cleveland de Prévost, 22n61 Fleury, André Hercule, cardinal, 9

carousel, 100 chevaliers de la gloire, 100n9 Cistercian monks, 16; rituals (see Trappe, Abbé de la, Armand Jean Le Bouthillier de Rancé) 145

146 Index Fontenelle, 10, 11, 14, 21 Furetière, Antoine, 75n5 Gévaudan, 21, 136, 139; man-eating beast of, 136 gothic landscape. See gothic novel gothic novel, 11, 21, 40, 135 Graffigny, Francoise de, Lettres d’une Péruvienne, 18, 22; Lettres portugaises, et d’autres romans d’amour par lettres, 22n63 Gregg, Edward, 9n6 Grenoble, 8 Gribble, 16n38, 17n39 Grimm, Friedrich, Correspondance littéraire, philosophique et critique, 24 Héloïse and Abélard. See Paraclet Abbey Henri IV, 100n9, 105n10 Histoire d’une religieuse écrite par ellemême, 10 historical novel of gallantry, 11 Jane Austen, 1 Jansenism, 8, 9 Jones, Shirley, 11, 12n20–21 Keen, Suzanne, 16 La Fresnais, Charles, 9 La vie de Marianne. See Marivaux, Pierre Carlet de Chamblain de Lafeyette, Marie-Madeleine de, 10, 11, 12, 14, 18, 21, 22, 23, 28; Nemours, 22 Lambert, Anne Thérèse, Marquise de, 9n6 Lambert, Anne-Thérèse de Marguenat de Courcelles, Marquise de, 9n6 landscape as mood, 5. See also gothic novel Law, John, 9 Le Bovier de, 10; Réflexions sur la poétique, 10 Leborgne, Eric, 7, 22, 17n40, 27, 69n2, 75n5, 98n8, 100n9

Lennox, Charlotte, 7, 27n1; The Female Quixote, 27n1 Lesage, Alain-René, 11, 12n18; Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane, 11n14 Lettres d’une Péruvienne. See Graffigny, Françoise de Lévy, Maurice, 21n59, 40n5 Louis XIII, 100n9 Louis XV, 8 Lozère, department. See Gévaudan Mairan, Jean Jacques Dortous de, 10 Manon Lescaut. See Prévost, AntoineFrançois, Abbé Marivaux, Pierre Carlet de Chamblain de, 10, 13, 14, 21, 23, 24; La vie de Marianne, 24 Marmontel, Jean-François, 24 marriage, unequal, 100; royal approval of, 107 Masson, Pierre-Maurice, Madame de Tencin (1682–1749), 8, 10n8, 11n14, 13, 14, 25n69 Miller, Nancy, The Heroine’s Text: Readings in the French and English Novel (1722–1782), 23, 24n66 miniature portraits, 33n4 Mirabaud, Jean-Baptiste de, 10 misfortunes of virtue, 12 Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de la Brède et de, 10, 14, 96n7 Montfleury convent, 8 Mouhy, Charles de Fieux, 11, 12n18 Musée Carnavalet, Histoire de Paris, 100n9 nouvelle historique, 7 Observations sur les romans, 25n69 Other Voice in Early Modern Europe series, 7 Paraclet Abbey, 98 Petrarch, Francesco, Canzoniere, 14

Index 147 Philippe d’Orléans, 8 Philippsburg, French control of, 137n15 Picard, Raymond, 16n38, 17n39 Piron, Alexis, 10 Place Royale, 100 Pre-romantique, 21 président à mortier, 96n7 preterition, 2 Prévost, Antoine-François, Abbé, 10, 13, 14, 15, 16n38, 21, 23, 24; Cleveland, 15; The History of Manon Lescaut and the Chevalier Des Grieux (Histoire du Chevalier Des Grieux et de Manon Lescaut), 4, 16n38, 24; Memoirs of a Man of Quality (Mémoires d’un homme de qualité), 16n38; Le monde moral, 13n24 Princesse de Cleves, La. See Lafayette, Marie-Madeleine de Prior, Matthew, 9

Sareil, Jean, Les Tencin, Histoire d’une famille au dix-huitième siècle, d’après de nombreux documents inédits, 8, 8n4, 8, 25n69 seat at court, queen’s circle, 75n5 sentimental novel, 12 Sgard, Jean, 14n30 siege of Amiens, 105n10 Siege of Calais, The (Le Siège de Calais), 7, 10, 11n13, 20, 23, 27, 27n1 Spectateur français au dix-neuvième siècle, Le, 11, 12 Stewart, Philip, 14 Stuart, James, 9

Quinault, Jeanne-Françoise du Frêne, 10 Quincampoix, rue, 9

Unigenitus Dei Filius, papal bull, 8

Racine, Jean, 13 Racine, Louis, 8 Radcliffe, Ann, 21n59, 40n5 Rambouillet, Catherine de Vivonne, Marquise de, 14 Réaumur, René-Antoine Ferchault de, 10 Réflexions sur la poétique. See Fontenelle religious wars, 31n1 Rémy, Jean-Pierre, 7, 11n13 repos, 18, 22n63 Richardson, Samuel, 13, 23 roman d’aventure, 15 Rousseau, 21 royal forces, 139 Rue St. Honoré, Tencin’s salon, 25

Tencin, Pierre de, 8, 9 theater, 70 Trappe, Abbé de la, Armand Jean Le Bouthillier de Rancé, 59n6 Trappists. See Trappe, Abbé de la, Armand Jean Le Bouthillier de Rancé

verisimilitude, 3 Villedieu, Marie-Catherine de, 11 Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet, 9, 10, 11, 14, 98n8; Candide, 11n14 Wisdom, John, Other Minds, 23n64