Of all the miseries that civil war can bring upon a country the greatest lies in the appeal which one of the contestants always ends by making to some foreign government.

Unhappily we are compelled to confess that all women make this great mistake, for the lover is only the first of their soldiers.  It may be a member of their family or at least a distant cousin.  This Meditation, then, is intended to answer the inquiry, what assistance can each of the different powers which influence human life give to your wife? or better than that, what artifices will she resort to to arm them against you?

Two beings united by marriage are subject to the laws of religion and society; to those of private life, and, from considerations of health, to those of medicine.  We will therefore divide this important Meditation into six paragraphs: 

1.  OF RELIGIONS AND OF CONFESSION; CONSIDERED IN THEIR CONNECTION
WITH MARRIAGE.
2.  OF THE MOTHER-IN-LAW.
3.  OF BOARDING SCHOOL FRIENDS AND INTIMATE FRIENDS.
4.  OF THE LOVER’S ALLIES.
5.  OF THE MAID.
6.  OF THE DOCTOR.

La Bruyere has very wittily said, “It is too much for a husband to have ranged against him both devotion and gallantry; a woman ought to choose but one of them for her ally.”

The author thinks that La Bruyere is mistaken.

Up to the age of thirty the face of a woman is a book written in a foreign tongue, which one may still translate in spite of all the feminisms of the idiom; but on passing her fortieth year a woman becomes an insoluble riddle; and if any one can see through an old woman, it is another old woman.

Some diplomats have attempted on more than one occasion the diabolical task of gaining over the dowagers who opposed their machinations; but if they have ever succeeded it was only after making enormous concessions to them; for diplomats are practiced people and we do not think that you can employ their recipe in dealing with your mother-in-law.  She will be the first aid-de-camp of her daughter, for if the mother did not take her daughter’s side, it would be one of those monstrous and unnatural exceptions, which unhappily for husbands are extremely rare.

When a man is so happy as to possess a mother-in-law who is well-preserved, he may easily keep her in check for a certain time, although he may not know any young celibate brave enough to assail her.  But generally husbands who have the slightest conjugal genius will find a way of pitting their own mother against that of their wife, and in that case they will naturally neutralize each other’s power.

To be able to keep a mother-in-law in the country while he lives in Paris, and vice versa, is a piece of good fortune which a husband too rarely meets with.

What of making mischief between the mother and the daughter? ­That may be possible; but in order to accomplish such an enterprise he must have the metallic heart of Richelieu, who made a son and a mother deadly enemies to each other.  However, the jealousy of a husband who forbids his wife to pray to male saints and wishes her to address only female saints, would allow her liberty to see her mother.

Many sons-in-law take an extreme course which settles everything, which consists in living on bad terms with their mothers-in-law.  This unfriendliness would be very adroit policy, if it did not inevitably result in drawing tighter the ties that unite mother and daughter.  These are about all the means which you have for resisting maternal influence in your home.  As for the services which your wife can claim from her mother, they are immense; and the assistance which she may derive from the neutrality of her mother is not less powerful.  But on this point everything passes out of the domain of science, for all is veiled in secrecy.  The reinforcements which a mother brings up in support of a daughter are so varied in nature, they depend so much on circumstances, that it would be folly to attempt even a nomenclature for them.  Yet you may write out among the most valuable precepts of this conjugal gospel, the following maxims.

A husband should never let his wife visit her mother unattended.

A husband ought to study all the reasons why all the celibates under forty who form her habitual society are so closely united by ties of friendship to his mother-in-law; for, if a daughter rarely falls in love with the lover of her mother, her mother has always a weak spot for her daughter’s lover.

Louise was eighteen and the baron forty.  She was ordinary in face and her complexion could not be called white, but she had a charming figure, good eyes, a small foot, a pretty hand, good taste and abundant intelligence.  The baron, worn out by the fatigues of war and still more by the excesses of a stormy youth, had one of those faces upon which the Republic, the Directory, the Consulate and the Empire seemed to have set their impress.

He became so deeply in love with his wife, that he asked and obtained from the Emperor a post at Paris, in order that he might be enabled to watch over his treasure.  He was as jealous as Count Almaviva, still more from vanity than from love.  The young orphan had married her husband from necessity, and, flattered by the ascendancy she wielded over a man much older than herself, waited upon his wishes and his needs; but her delicacy was offended from the first days of their marriage by the habits and ideas of a man whose manners were tinged with republican license.  He was a predestined.

I do not know exactly how long the baron made his honeymoon last, nor when war was declared in his household; but I believe it happened in 1816, at a very brilliant ball given by Monsieur D-----, a commissariat officer, that the commissary general, who had been promoted head of the department, admired the beautiful Madame B-----, the wife of a banker, and looked at her much more amorously than a married man should have allowed himself to do.

At two o’clock in the morning it happened that the banker, tired of waiting any longer, went home leaving his wife at the ball.

And now the baron is seated in his carriage next to a woman who, during the whole evening, had been offered and had refused a thousand attentions, and from whom he had hoped in vain to win a single look.  There she was, in all the lustre of her youth and beauty, displaying the whitest shoulders and the most ravishing lines of beauty.  Her face, which still reflected the pleasures of the evening, seemed to vie with the brilliancy of her satin gown; her eyes to rival the blaze of her diamonds; and her skin to cope with the soft whiteness of the marabouts which tied in her hair, set off the ebon tresses and the ringlets dangling from her headdress.  Her tender voice would stir the chords of the most insensible hearts; in a word, so powerfully did she wake up love in the human breast that Robert d’Abrissel himself would perhaps have yielded to her.

The baron glanced at his wife, who, overcome with fatigue, had sunk to sleep in a corner of the carriage.  He compared, in spite of himself, the toilette of Louise and that of Emilie.  Now on occasions of this kind the presence of a wife is singularly calculated to sharpen the unquenchable desires of a forbidden love.  Moreover, the glances of the baron, directed alternately to his wife and to her friend, were easy to interpret, and Madame B----- interpreted them.

“Poor Louise,” she said, “she is overtired.  Going out does not suit her, her tastes are so simple.  At Ecouen she was always reading ­”

“And you, what used you to do?”

“I, sir?  Oh, I thought about nothing but acting comely.  It was my passion!”

“Hush,” said Emilie, striking the fingers of the baron with her fan, “Louise is not asleep!”

The carriage stopped, and the baron offered his hand to his wife’s fair friend and helped her to get out.

The baron made her a respectful bow.

Some months after that evening on which the baron gained some hopes of succeeding with his wife’s friend, he found himself one morning at the house of Madame B-----, when the maid came to announce the Baroness de V-----.

“Ah!” cried Emilie, “if Louise were to see you with me at such an hour as this, she would be capable of compromising me.  Go into that closet and don’t make the least noise.”

The husband, caught like a mouse in a trap, concealed himself in the closet.

“Good-day, my dear!” said the two women, kissing each other.

“Why are you come so early?” asked Emilie.

“Oh! my dear, cannot you guess?  I came to have an understanding with you!”

“What, a duel?”

“Precisely, my dear.  I am not like you, not I!  I love my husband and am jealous of him.  You! you are beautiful, charming, you have the right to be a coquette, you can very well make fun of B-----, to whom your virtue seems to be of little importance.  But as you have plenty of lovers in society, I beg you that you will leave me my husband.  He is always at your house, and he certainly would not come unless you were the attraction.”

“What a very pretty jacket you have on.”

“Do you think so?  My maid made it.”

“Then I shall get Anastasia to take a lesson from Flore ­”

“So, then, my dear, I count on your friendship to refrain from bringing trouble in my house.”

“But, my child, I do not know how you can conceive that I should fall in love with your husband; he is coarse and fat as a deputy of the centre.  He is short and ugly ­Ah!  I will allow that he is generous, but that is all you can say for him, and this is a quality which is all in all only to opera girls; so that you can understand, my dear, that if I were choosing a lover, as you seem to suppose I am, I wouldn’t choose an old man like your baron.  If I have given him any hopes, if I have received him, it was certainly for the purpose of amusing myself, and of giving you liberty; for I believed you had a weakness for young Rostanges.”

“I?” exclaimed Louise, “God preserve me from it, my dear; he is the most intolerable coxcomb in the world.  No, I assure you, I love my husband!  You may laugh as you choose; it is true.  I know it may seem ridiculous, but consider, he has made my fortune, he is no miser, and he is everything to me, for it has been my unhappy lot to be left an orphan.  Now even if I did not love him, I ought to try to preserve his esteem.  Have I a family who will some day give me shelter?”

“Come, my darling, let us speak no more about it,” said Emilie, interrupting her friend, “for it tires me to death.”

After a few trifling remarks the baroness left.

“What must I do then to convince you of my love?” cried the baron, fixing his gaze on the young woman.

She had never appeared to him so ravishingly beautiful as at that moment, when her soft voice poured forth a torrent of words whose sternness was belied by the grace of her gestures, by the pose of her head and by her coquettish attitude.

“Oh, when I see Louise in possession of a lover,” she replied, “when I know that I am taking nothing away from her, and that she has nothing to regret in losing your affection; when I am quite sure that you love her no longer, and have obtained certain proof of your indifference towards her ­Oh, then I may listen to you! ­These words must seem odious to you,” she continued in an earnest voice; “and so indeed they are, but do not think that they have been pronounced by me.  I am the rigorous mathematician who makes his deductions from a preliminary proposition.  You are married, and do you deliberately set about making love to some one else?  I should be mad to give any encouragement to a man who cannot be mine eternally.”

“Demon!” exclaimed the husband.  “Yes, you are a demon, and not a woman!”

“Come now, you are really amusing!” said the young woman as she seized the bell-rope.

“Oh! no, Emilie,” continued the lover of forty, in a calmer voice.  “Do not ring; stop, forgive me!  I will sacrifice everything for you.”

“But I do not promise you anything!” she answered quickly with a laugh.

“My God!  How you make me suffer!” he exclaimed.

“Well, and have not you in your life caused the unhappiness of more than one person?” she asked.  “Remember all the tears which have been shed through you and for you!  Oh, your passion does not inspire me with the least pity.  If you do not wish to make me laugh, make me share your feelings.”

“Adieu, madame, there is a certain clemency in your sternness.  I appreciate the lesson you have taught me.  Yes, I have many faults to expiate.”

“Well then, go and repent of them,” she said with a mocking smile; “in making Louise happy you will perform the rudest penance in your power.”

The baron died of inflammation of the liver, being attended during his sickness by the most touching ministrations which his wife could lavish upon him; and judging from the grief which he manifested at having deserted her, he seemed never to have suspected her participation in the plan which had been his ruin.

This anecdote, which we have chosen from a thousand others, exemplifies the services which two women can render each other.

From the words ­“Let me have the pleasure of bringing my husband” up to the conception of the drama, whose denouement was inflammation of the liver, every female perfidy was assembled to work out the end.  Certain incidents will, of course, be met with which diversify more or less the typical example which we have given, but the march of the drama is almost always the same.  Moreover a husband ought always to distrust the woman friends of his wife.  The subtle artifices of these lying creatures rarely fail of their effect, for they are seconded by two enemies, who always keep close to a man ­and these are vanity and desire.

The man who hastens to tell another man that he has dropped a thousand franc bill from his pocket-book, or even that the handkerchief is coming out of his pocket, would think it a mean thing to warn him that some one was carrying off his wife.  There is certainly something extremely odd in this moral inconsistency, but after all it admits of explanation.  Since the law cannot exercise any interference with matrimonial rights, the citizens have even less right to constitute themselves a conjugal police; and when one restores a thousand franc bill to him who has lost it, he acts under a certain kind of obligation, founded on the principle which says, “Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you!”

But by what reasoning can justification be found for the help which one celibate never asks in vain, but always receives from another celibate in deceiving a husband, and how shall we qualify the rendering of such help?  A man who is incapable of assisting a gendarme in discovering an assassin, has no scruple in taking a husband to a theatre, to a concert or even to a questionable house, in order to help a comrade, whom he would not hesitate to kill in a duel to-morrow, in keeping an assignation, the result of which is to introduce into a family a spurious child, and to rob two brothers of a portion of their fortune by giving them a co-heir whom they never perhaps would otherwise have had; or to effect the misery of three human beings.  We must confess that integrity is a very rare virtue, and, very often, the man that thinks he has most actually has least.  Families have been divided by feuds, and brothers have been murdered, which events would never have taken place if some friend had refused to perform what passes to the world as a harmless trick.

It is impossible for a man to be without some hobby or other, and all of us are devoted either to hunting, fishing, gambling, music, money, or good eating.  Well, your ruling passion will always be an accomplice in the snare which a lover sets for you, the invisible hand of this passion will direct your friends, or his, whether they consent or not, to play a part in the little drama when they want to take you away from home, or to induce you to leave your wife to the mercy of another.  A lover will spend two whole months, if necessary, in planning the construction of the mouse-trap.

I have seen the most cunning men on earth thus taken in.

Marriage is a veritable duel, in which persistent watchfulness is required in order to triumph over an adversary; for, if you are unlucky enough to turn your head, the sword of the celibate will pierce you through and through.

The prettiest waiting-maid I have ever seen is that of Madame V ­y, a lady who to-day plays at Paris a brilliant part among the most fashionable women, and passes for a wife who keeps on excellent terms with her husband.  Mademoiselle Celestine is a person whose points of beauty are so numerous that, in order to describe her, it would be necessary to translate the thirty verses which we are told form an inscription in the seraglio of the Grand Turk and contain each of them an excellent description of one of the thirty beauties of women.

“You show a great deal of vanity in keeping near you such an accomplished creature,” said a lady to the mistress of the house.

“Ah! my dear, some day perhaps you will find yourself jealous of me in possessing Celestine.”

“She must be endowed with very rare qualities, I suppose?  She perhaps dresses you well?”

“Oh, no, very badly!”

“She sews well?”

“She never touches her needle.”

“She is faithful?”

“She is one of those whose fidelity costs more than the most cunning dishonesty.”

“You astonish me, my dear; she is then your foster-sister?”

“Not at all; she is positively good for nothing, but she is more useful to me than any other member of my household.  If she remains with me ten years, I have promised her twenty thousand francs.  It will be money well earned, and I shall not forget to give it!” said the young woman, nodding her head with a meaning gesture.

At last the questioner of Madame V ­y understood.

When a woman has no friend of her own sex intimate enough to assist her in proving false to marital love, her maid is a last resource which seldom fails in bringing about the desired result.

Oh! after ten years of marriage to find under his roof, and to see all the time, a young girl of from sixteen to eighteen, fresh, dressed with taste, the treasures of whose beauty seem to breathe defiance, whose frank bearing is irresistibly attractive, whose downcast eyes seem to fear you, whose timid glance tempts you, and for whom the conjugal bed has no secrets, for she is at once a virgin and an experienced woman!  How can a man remain cold, like St. Anthony, before such powerful sorcery, and have the courage to remain faithful to the good principles represented by a scornful wife, whose face is always stern, whose manners are always snappish, and who frequently refuses to be caressed?  What husband is stoical enough to resist such fires, such frosts?  There, where you see a new harvest of pleasure, the young innocent sees an income, and your wife her liberty.  It is a little family compact, which is signed in the interest of good will.

In this case, your wife acts with regard to marriage as young fashionables do with regard to their country.  If they are drawn for the army, they buy a man to carry the musket, to die in their place and to spare them the hardships of military life.

In compromises of this sort there is not a single woman who does not know how to put her husband in the wrong.  I have noticed that, by a supreme stroke of diplomacy, the majority of wives do not admit their maids into the secret of the part which they give them to play.  They trust to nature, and assume an affected superiority over the lover and his mistress.

These secret perfidies of women explain to a great degree the odd features of married life which are to be observed in the world; and I have heard women discuss, with profound sagacity, the dangers which are inherent in this terrible method of attack, and it is necessary to know thoroughly both the husband and the creature to whom he is to be abandoned, in order to make successful use of her.  Many a woman, in this connection, has been the victim of her own calculations.

Moreover, the more impetuous and passionate a husband shows himself, the less will a woman dare to employ this expedient; but a husband caught in this snare will never have anything to say to his stern better-half, when the maid, giving evidence of the fault she has committed, is sent into the country with an infant and a dowry.

The doctor is one of the most potent auxiliaries of an honest woman, when she wishes to acquire a friendly divorce from her husband.  The services that the doctor renders, most of the time without knowing it, to a woman, are of such importance that there does not exist a single house in France where the doctor is chosen by any one but the wife.

All doctors know what great influence women have on their reputation; thus we meet with few doctors who do not study to please the ladies.  When a man of talent has become celebrated it is true that he does not lend himself to the crafty conspiracies which women hatch; but without knowing it he becomes involved in them.

I suppose that a husband taught by the adventures of his own youth makes up his mind to pick out a doctor for his wife, from the first days of his marriage.  So long as his feminine adversary fails to conceive the assistance that she may derive from this ally, she will submit in silence; but later on, if all her allurements fail to win over the man chosen by her husband, she will take a more favorable opportunity to give her husband her confidence, in the following remarkable manner.

“I don’t like the way in which the doctor feels my pulse!”

And of course the doctor is dropped.

Thus it happens that either a woman chooses her doctor, wins over the man who has been imposed upon her, or procures his dismissal.  But this contest is very rare; the majority of young men who marry are acquainted with none but beardless doctors whom they have no anxiety to procure for their wives, and almost always the Esculapius of the household is chosen by the feminine power.  Thus it happens that some fine morning the doctor, when he leaves the chamber of madame, who has been in bed for a fortnight, is induced by her to say to you: 

“I do not say that the condition of madame presents any serious symptoms; but this constant drowsiness, this general listlessness, and her natural tendency to a spinal affection demand great care.  Her lymph is inspissated.  She wants a change of air.  She ought to be sent either to the waters of Bareges or to the waters of Plombières.”

“All right, doctor.”

You allow your wife to go to Plombières; but she goes there because Captain Charles is quartered in the Vosges.  She returns in capital health and the waters of Plombières have done wonders for her.  She has written to you every day, she has lavished upon you from a distance every possible caress.  The danger of a spinal affection has utterly disappeared.

There is extant a little pamphlet, whose publication was prompted doubtless by hate.  It was published in Holland, and it contains some very curious details of the manner in which Madame de Maintenon entered into an understanding with Fagon, for the purposes of controlling Louis XIV.  Well, some morning your doctor will threaten you, as Fagon threatened his master, with a fit of apoplexy, if you do not diet yourself.  This witty work of satire, doubtless the production of some courtier, entitled “Madame de Saint Tron,” has been interpreted by the modern author who has become proverbial as “the young doctor.”  But his delightful sketch is very much superior to the work whose title I cite for the benefit of the book-lovers, and we have great pleasure in acknowledging that the work of our clever contemporary has prevented us, out of regard for the glory of the seventeenth century, from publishing the fragment of the old pamphlet.

Very frequently a doctor becomes duped by the judicious manoeuvres of a young and delicate wife, and comes to you with the announcement: 

“Sir, I would not wish to alarm madame with regard to her condition; but I will advise you, if you value her health, to keep her in perfect tranquillity.  The irritation at this moment seems to threaten the chest, and we must gain control of it; there is need of rest for her, perfect rest; the least agitation might change the seat of the malady.  At this crisis, the prospect of bearing a child would be fatal to her.”

“But, doctor ­”

“Ah, yes!  I know that!”

He laughs and leaves the house.

Like the rod of Moses, the doctor’s mandate makes and unmakes generations.  The doctor will restore you to your marriage bed with the same arguments that he used in debarring you.  He treats your wife for complaints which she has not, in order to cure her of those which she has, and all the while you have no idea of it; for the scientific jargon of doctors can only be compared to the layers in which they envelop their pills.

An honest woman in her chamber with the doctor is like a minister sure of a majority; she has it in her power to make a horse, or a carriage, according to her good pleasure and her taste; she will send you away or receive you, as she likes.  Sometimes she will pretend to be ill in order to have a chamber separate from yours; sometimes she will surround herself with all the paraphernalia of an invalid; she will have an old woman for a nurse, regiments of vials and of bottles, and, environed by these ramparts, will defy you by her invalid airs.  She will talk to you in such a depressing way of the electuaries and of the soothing draughts which she has taken, of the agues which she has had, of her plasters and cataplasms, that she will fill you with disgust at these sickly details, if all the time these sham sufferings are not intended to serve as engines by means of which, eventually, a successful attack may be made on that singular abstraction known as your honor.

In this way your wife will be able to fortify herself at every point of contact which you possess with the world, with society and with life.  Thus everything will take arms against you, and you will be alone among all these enemies.  But suppose that it is your unprecedented privilege to possess a wife who is without religious connections, without parents or intimate friends; that you have penetration enough to see through all the tricks by which your wife’s lover tries to entrap you; that you still have sufficient love for your fair enemy to resist all the Martons of the earth; that, in fact, you have for your doctor a man who is so celebrated that he has no time to listen to the maunderings of your wife; or that if your Esculapius is madame’s vassal, you demand a consultation, and an incorruptible doctor intervenes every time the favorite doctor prescribes a remedy that disquiets you; even in that case, your prospects will scarcely be more brilliant.  In fact, even if you do not succumb to this invasion of allies, you must not forget that, so far, your adversary has not, so to speak, struck the decisive blow.  If you hold out still longer, your wife, having flung round you thread upon thread, as a spider spins his web, an invisible net, will resort to the arms which nature has given her, which civilization has perfected, and which will be treated of in the next Meditation.