France -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English; Marriage -- Fiction
Natalie! my affection is boundless. I love you as a mother loves
her child, as a lover loves his mistress, with absolute
unselfishness. To me the toil, to you the pleasures; to me all
sufferings, to you all happiness. Amuse yourself; continue your
habits of luxury; go to theatres and operas, enjoy society and
balls; I leave you free for all things. Dear angel, when you
return to this nest where for five years we have tasted the fruits
which love has ripened think of your friend; think for a moment of
me, and rest upon my heart.
That is all I ask of you. For myself, dear eternal thought of
mine! whether under burning skies, toiling for both of us, I face
obstacles to vanquish, or whether, weary with the struggle, I rest
my mind on hopes of a return, I shall think of you alone; of you
who are my life,--my blessed life! Yes, I shall live in you. I
shall tell myself daily that you have no troubles, no cares; that
you are happy. As in our natural lives of day and night, of
sleeping and waking, I shall have sunny days in Paris, and nights
of toil in India,--a painful dream, a joyful reality; and I shall
live so utterly in that reality that my actual life will pass as a
dream. I shall have memories! I shall recall, line by line,
strophe by strophe, our glorious five years’ poem. I shall
remember the days of your pleasure in some new dress or some
adornment which made you to my eyes a fresh delight. Yes, dear
angel, I go like a man vowed to some great emprize, the guerdon of
which, if success attend him, is the recovery of his beautiful
mistress. Oh! my precious love, my Natalie, keep me as a religion
in your heart. Be the child that I have just seen asleep! If you
betray my confidence, my blind confidence, you need not fear my
anger--be sure of that; I should die silently. But a wife does not
deceive the man who leaves her free--for woman is never base. She
tricks a tyrant; but an easy treachery, which would kill its
victim, she will not commit--No, no! I will not think of it.
Forgive this cry, this single cry, so natural to the heart of man!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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