Justine 淑女的眼泪 Chapter 62

The honest Monsieur de Corville had not heard this tale without profound emotion; as for Madame de Lorsange in whom, as we have said, the monstrous¹ errors of her youth had not by any means extinguished sensibility, as for Madame de Lorsange, she was ready to swoon.

 

"Mademoiselle," said she to Justine, "it is difficult to listen to you without taking the keenest interest in you; but, and I must avow² it! an inexplicable³ sentiment, one far more tender than this I describe, draws me invincibly⁴ toward you and does make of your ills my very own. You have disguised your name, you have concealed⁵ your birth, I beg you to disclose your secret to me; think not that it is a vain curiosity which bids me speak thus to you... Great God! may what I suspect be true?... O Therese! were you Justine?... were it that you would be my sister !"

 

"Justine ! Madame ! 'tis a strange name."

 

"She would have been your age -"

 

"Juliette! is it you I hear?" cried the unhappy prisoner, casting herself into Madame de Lorsange's arms; "... you... my sister!... ah, I shall die far less miserable⁶, for I have been able to embrace you again!..."

 

And the two sisters, clasped in each other's arms, were prevented by their sobs⁷ from hearing one another, and found expression in naught⁸ but tears.

 

Monsieur de Corville was unable to hold back his own; aware of the overpowering significance of this affair and sensing his involvement in it, he moves into an adjoining room, sits down and writes a letter to the Lord Chancellor⁹, with fiery¹⁰ strokes, in ardent¹¹ ciphers¹² he paints in all its horror the fate of poor Justine, whom we shall continue to call Therese; he takes upon himself responsibility for her innocence¹³, he will guarantee it under oath; he asks that, until the time her case has been finally clarified, the allegedly guilty party be confined to no other prison but his chateau¹⁵, and Corville gives his word he will produce her in court the instant the Chief Justice signals his desire to have her appear there; he makes himself known unto Therese's two guards, entrusts¹⁶ his correspondence to them, makes himself answerable for their prisoner; he is obeyed, Therese is confided¹⁷ to him; a carriage is called for.

 

"Come, my too unfortunate creature," Monsieur de Corville says to Madame de Lorsange's interesting sister, "come hither; all is going to be changed; it shall not be said your virtues¹⁹ ever remained unrewarded and that the beautiful soul you had from Nature ever encountered but steel; follow us, 'tis upon me you depend henceforth...."

 

And Monsieur de Corville gave a brief account of what he had just done.

 

"Dearly beloved and respectable man," said Madame de Lorsange, casting herself down before her lover, "this is the most splendid gesture you have performed in your life, it is such as comes from one who has true acquaintance with the human heart and the spirit of the law which is the avenger²⁰ of oppressed innocence. There she stands, Monsieur, behold²¹, there is your captive; go, Therese, go, run, fly at once and kneel down before this equitable²² protector who will not, as have all others, abandon you. O, Monsieur, if those attachments²³ of love which have bound me to you have been cherished, how much more so are they to become now that they are strengthened by the most tender esteem²⁴...."

 

And one after the other the two women embraced the knees of a so generous friend, and upon him they did shed their tears.

 

A few hours later they arrived at the chateau; once there, Monsieur de Corville and Madame de Lorsange both strove with might and main to raise Therese from the ultimate deeps of unhappiness to the pure sunshine of contentment and well-being²⁵. They took greatest joy in giving her to eat of the most succulent foods, they laid her to sleep in the finest of beds, they did urge her to command and they made her will to be done, and into their hospitable²⁶ proceedings²⁷ they introduced all the gentility and understanding it were possible to expect from two sensitive souls. She was given medicines for several days, she was bathed, dressed, arrayed in elegant attire²⁸, embellished³⁰, the two lovers worshiped her, each labored³¹ at nothing but to make her forget her sorrows as quickly as might be. An excellent surgeon was fetched; he undertook to make the ignominious³² mark disappear, and soon the cruel result of Rodin's villainy was effectively gone; and everything responded to the cares her benefactors³³ lavished³⁴ upon Therese: the shadowed memories of misery³⁵ were already effaced³⁶ from that amiable³⁷ girl's brow; already the Graces had re-established their empire thereupon. For the livid tints³⁸ on her cheeks of alabaster³⁹ were substituted the rosy⁴⁰ hue⁴¹ appropriate to her years; what had been withered⁴² by such a multitude of griefs was called back to fresh new life. Laughter, for so many years banished⁴³ from her lips, reappeared again under the wings of Pleasure. The very best news came from the Court; Monsieur de Corville had put all of France in action, he had reanimated the zeal⁴⁴ of Monsieur S* * *, who collaborated⁴⁵ with him to publicize Therese's ill-treatment and to restore her to a tranquillity⁴⁶ to which she was so heavily entitled. At length letters came from the King, they nullified all the legal proceedings unjustly initiated⁴⁷ against her, they gave her back the name of an honest citizen, imposed silence upon all the realm's tribunals before which efforts had been made to defame her, and accorded her a thousand crowns a year, interest realized upon the gold seized in the counterfeiters' Dauphine work-shop. They wished to make Cardoville and Saint-Florent answer for their misdeeds but, in accordance with the fatality⁴⁸ of the star intending upon all of Therese's persecutors, one of them, Cardoville, had just, before his crimes were made known, been named to the administration of the Province of * * *, and the other to general supervision⁴⁹ of Colonial Trade; each had already reached his destination, the edicts affected⁵⁰ no one but the powerful families who soon found means to quiet the storm and, pacifically installed in Fortune's sanctuary⁵¹, those monsters' depredations⁵² were quickly forgotten.

 

(As for the monks⁵³ of Saint Mary-in-the-Wood, suppression of the religious orders will expose the atrocious crimes of that horrible crew.)

 

With what regards Therese, as soon as she learned of so many agreeable developments she came well-nigh to expiring from joy; for several days on end the sweetest tears flowed from her eyes and she rejoiced upon her guardians⁵⁴' breasts, and then, all of a sudden, her humor altered, and 'twas impossible to ferret out the cause. She became somber⁵⁵, uneasy, troubled, was given to dreaming, sometimes she burst into weeping before her friends, and was not herself able to explain what was the subject of her woe⁵⁶. "I was not born for such felicity," said she to Madame de Lorsange, "... oh, dear sister, 'tis impossible it last much longer." She was assured all her troubles were over, none remained, said they, no more inquietude for her; 'twas all in vain, nothing would quiet her; one might have said that this melancholy⁵⁷ creature, uniquely destined⁵⁸ for sorrow, and feeling the hand of misery forever raised above her head, already foresaw the final blow whereby she was going to be smitten⁵⁹ down.

 

Monsieur de Corville was still residing on his country estate; 'twas toward summer's end, they had planned an outing when the approach of a dreadful storm obliged them to postpone⁶⁰ their promenade⁶¹; the excessive heat had constrained⁶² them to leave all the windows open. Lightning glitters, shakes, hail slashes⁶³ down, winds blow wrathfully, heaven's fire convulses the clouds, in the most hideous⁶⁴ manner makes them to seethe⁶⁵; it seems as if Nature were wearied out of patience with what she has wrought⁶⁶, as if she were ready to confound all the elements that she might wrench⁶⁷ new forms from them. Terrified, Madame de Lorsange begs her sister to make all haste and close the shutters⁶⁸; anxious to calm her, Therese dashes to the windows which are already being broken; she would do battle with the wind, she gives a minute's fight, is driven back and at that instant a blazing thunderbolt reaches her where she stands in the middle of the room... transfixes her.

 

Madame de Lorsange emits a terrible cry and falls in a faint; Monsieur de Corville calls for help, attentions are given each woman, Madame de Lorsange is revived, but the unhappy Therese has been struck in such wise hope itself can no longer subsist⁶⁹ for her; the lightning entered her right breast, found the heart, and after having consumed her chest and face, burst out through her belly⁷⁰. The miserable thing was hideous to look upon; Monsieur de Corville orders that she be borne away....

 

"No," says Madame de Lorsange, getting to her feet with the utmost calm; "no, leave her here before my eyes, Monsieur, I have got to contemplate⁷¹ her in order to be confirmed in the resolves I have just taken. Listen to me, Corville, and above all do not oppose the decision I am adopting; for the present, nothing in the world could swerve⁷² my designs.

 

"The unheard of sufferings this luckless creature has experienced although she has always respected her duties, have something about them which is too extraordinary for me not to open my eyes upon my own self; think not I am blinded by that false-gleaming felicity which, in the course of Therese's adventures, we have seen enjoyed by the villains⁷³ who battened upon her. These caprices of Heaven's hand are enigmas⁷⁴ it is not for us to sound, but which ought never seduce⁷⁵ us. O thou my friend! The prosperity of Crime is but an ordeal⁷⁶ to which Providence⁷⁷ would expose Virtue¹⁸, it is like unto the lightning, whose traitorous⁷⁸ brilliancies but for an instant embellish²⁹ the atmosphere, in order to hurl⁷⁹ into death's very deeps the luckless one they have dazzled. And there, before our eyes, is the example of it; that charming girl's incredible calamities⁸⁰, her terrifying reversals and uninterrupted disasters are a warning issued me by the Eternal, Who would that I heed⁸¹ the voice of mine guilt¹⁴ and cast myself into His arms. Ah, what must be the punishment I have got to fear from Him, I, whose libertinage⁸², irreligion, and abandon of every principle have stamped every instant of my life I What must I not expect if 'tis thus He has treated her who in all her days had not a single sin whereof to repent⁸³ I Let us separate, Corville, the time has come, no chain binds⁸⁴ us one to the other, forget me, and approve that I go and by an eternal penance⁸⁵ abjure⁸⁶, at the Supreme⁸⁷ Being's feet, the infamies⁸⁸ wherewith I am soiled absolutely. That appalling⁸⁹ stroke was necessary to my conversion⁹⁰ in this life, it was needed for the happiness I dare hope for in another. Farewell, Monsieur; the last mark of your friendship I ask is that you institute no perquisitions to discover what shall have become of me. Oh, Corville! I await you in a better world, your virtues should lead you unto it; may the atonements I make, to expiate⁹¹ my crimes, in this place where I go to spend the unhappy years that remain to me, permit me to encounter you again someday."

 

Madame de Lorsange leaves the house immediately; she takes some money with her, leaps into a carriage, to Monsieur de Corville abandons the rest of her ownings after having recommended that they be turned into a pious⁹² legacy⁹³, and flies to Paris, where she takes a Carmelite's veil; not many years go by before she becomes the example of her order and the edification, as much by her great piety⁹⁴ as by the wisdom of her mind and the regularity⁹⁵ of her manners.

 

Monsieur de Corville, worthy⁹⁶ of his country's highest posts, attained⁹⁷ to them, and, whatever were his honors, he employed them for no end but to bring happiness to the people, glory to his master, whom, "although a minister," he served well, and fortune to his friends.

 

O you who have wept tears upon hearing of Virtue's miseries⁹⁸; you who have been moved to sympathy for the woe-ridden Justine; the while forgiving the perhaps too heavy brushstrokes we have found ourselves compelled to employ, may you at least extract from this story the same moral which determined⁹⁹ Madame de Lorsange! May you be convinced, with her, that true happiness is to be found nowhere but in Virtue's womb, and that if, in keeping with designs it is not for us to fathom¹⁰⁰, God permits that it be persecuted¹⁰¹ on Earth, it is so that Virtue may be compensated¹⁰² by Heaven's most dazzling rewards.

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