A LOVE CRIME. Paul Bourget

I can catch the coquetry, the glances, the premonition of the

      woman in the presence of the man; and it will end as it did with her

      mother, in a marriage of convenience, first acts of thoughtlessness, a

      first lover, then a series of lovers down to some young Baron de Querne,

      whom there will be an attempt to persuade that none was ever loved but

      he; and, more foolish or more intelligent than myself, he will perhaps

      believe it.

      "Yes, more intelligent; for in love the great thing is to have as much

      emotion as possible; and the real deception is to paralyse one's heart

      by clear-sightedness. Whether was it Valmont in the 'Liaisons'--dear

      Valmont--or the President's wife that was deceived? She who felt or he

      who calculated? Whether was it Elvire or Don Juan, who does not

      understand that Elvire, seeing that she has been able to intoxicate

      herself with love, is alone to be envied, while he himself is not? I

      know all this, but the inward demon is the stronger, and as soon as I

      begin to pay my addresses to a woman I am at pains to procure all such

      information concerning her as can render me incapable of loving her.

      "At my age, ought I not to write in this book: 'O divine fate! that has

      caused me so speedily to light upon the unique, the ideal woman, the

      sister-soul,' &c. (It would call for some of Gounod's music). Not

      exactly, Monsieur de Querne, but rather a lady of experience, who has

      had five or six lovers, who has retained sufficient taste to give the

      title of 'sentiment' to what belongs to fair and fitting and the most

      brutal sensation; a lady of tact, who has given herself a good deal of

      trouble to persuade you that you have seduced her. And the deuce take me

      if I am angry with her for such charming hypocrisy! Besides, what is the

      good of being angry with anyone for anything? Every human being is a

      pretentious little watch, which, seeing its hands go round, fancies that

      it is itself the cause of the motion. Foolishness and vanity! There is a

      delicate mechanism inside, and this mechanism has it that Madame ----

      shall be a sentimental prostitute, her daughter a future quean, and I a

      mirthless debauchee, who parch my soul by setting forth all this instead

      of enjoying what is granted to me."

      "PARIS, _22nd May_ 1877.

      "An evening of folly yesterday and debauchery, but debauchery that was

      gay and healthy which is undoubtedly the truth. Nothing but this remains

      to me that does not leave disgust behind.

      "I went to see Duret, the painter, with that sad dog René W----, who

      first stopped in the Rue de la Tour-Auvergne to ask for Marie, a tall

      brunette.

      "I have a Marie here," said the doorkeeper, "but she is a tall blonde,

      red even," and in fact at a window in the first floor I saw a head of

      warm, golden hair, a dress of clear, bright blue, and a made complexion

      as extravagantly pink as a doll's. In my dark hours I have had

      sufficient knowledge of the degrading and consolatory fascination of

      these painted charms, of these slain bodies, of these ringed eyes, of

      all this lying!

      "At Duret's found Léonie, the model who stood to him for his _Delilah_

      in the last Salon: a somewhat wearied face, with a refined and arched

      nose, eyes of gleaming blackness, a strongly marked chin, with a

      slightly masculine appearance in the profile--the masculine appearance

      of theatrical women who act in burlesque--and a long countenance. But

      that is but the skeleton of the face. The slight moustache was tinged

      with black, the patch on the cheek underlined with black, the eyes made

      still larger with black, the complexion covered with powder, and the

      powder blending with the pale pink of the blood gave the woman an

      extravagant and sophisticated look which was completed by the

      brilliantly nacreous teeth that twinkled with the splendour of moist

      imitation pearls.

      "The toilet completed the woman. She had some black, gauzy material

      round her neck, a hat trimmed with gauze and flowers, a dress of

      variegated and friezed material, with a huge, red rose blooming on her

      left breast.

      "'She's a luxurious woman,' said René ironically, and, indeed, with the

      material of her dress, her gauze and her flower, she looked like a

      creature that lived on nothing but superfluity. I paid my addresses to

      her, pleased her, and did not leave her house until this morning.

      "O enchantment of the senses when the surcharge of thought comes not to

      mar physical intoxication! O enchantment of prostitutes, seen thus as

      dispensers of pleasure free from disquiet of heart! No asking whether or

      how one loves or is loved, no measuring of sensation with an ideal type

      of feeling that is perceived, and striven after, and that never can be

      felt! I write these lines, and see! already my enjoyment has evaporated.

      I write these lines and yet would that on a solitary terrace fronting a

      landscape of trees and waters a woman might appear having the eyes of

      which I long have dreamed--eyes which I know without having ever met

      them--and might swear to me that this life has been nothing but an evil

      dream! And she should tell me _all_, and by that all be made the dearer

      to me;--and then I should love!"

      "PARIS, _June_ 1879.

      "Luncheons and dinners; dinners and luncheons. Assignations and evening

      parties. Ah! how empty my life is! I do nothing that I like; nothing;

      for I like nothing.

      "In presence of the living creature, nothing at heart but pity for him

      who suffers, if he does suffer--who will suffer since he endures the

      evil of existence.

      "If death, inevitable death, were neither physically painful in the

      passage thither from life, nor terrible in its sequel to our imagining,

      ah! how I would seek that which has prompted thoughts to mar my life!

      "We live on--and why? We think--and why? Why between