THE DEMON OF DOUBT
All my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were as vain
as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill, and remained
obstinately silent. After an entire day passed in supplication and
conjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing the
Opera, I entered it from mere force of habit.
I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theatre, I was so
overwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak,
except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses.
All my powers were centred on a single thought, and the more I turned it
over in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning.
What obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and the
realization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event
or even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or the loss of a
friend, why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done,
when our dreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature of
a secret that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me?
What! to conceal it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart to
suspect her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me with
horror. On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or of
caprice in that woman, as I knew her? I was lost in an abyss of doubt,
and I could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point, on which
to base conjecture.
In front of me in the gallery sat a young man whose face was not unknown
to me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him without
thinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him.
Suddenly I recognized him: it was he who had brought letters to Brigitte
from N------. I arose and started to accost him without thinking what I
was doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without disturbing
a large number of spectators, and I was forced to await the entr'acte.
My first thought was that if any one could enlighten me it was this young
man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson in the last few
days, and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressed after
his visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was taken ill.
The letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possible
that he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he did
not know all the circumstances, but he could doubtless enlighten me as to
the contents of those letters, and there was no reason why I should
hesitate to question him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to the
foyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away and
entered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stood
looking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last he appeared. I bowed
and approached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared
down a stairway.
My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any other
explanation than deliberate intention on his part to avoid me. He surely
knew my face, and, whether he knew it or not, a man who sees another
approaching him ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the only
persons in the corridor at the time, and there could be no doubt he did
not wish to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatment
from a man whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why should he
insult me? He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid an
awkward interview, during which questions might be asked which he did not
care to answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost as much
as the first. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head, that
young man's action in avoiding me seemed to have some connection with
Brigitte's obstinate silence.
Of all torments uncertainty is the most difficult to endure, and during
my life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not wait
patiently. When I returned to my apartments I found Brigitte reading
those same fateful letters from N------. I told her that I could not
remain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it at
any cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden change which had
taken place in her, and that, if she refused to speak, I should look upon
her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an order for
me to leave her forever.
She reluctantly handed me the letters she was reading. Her relatives had
written her that her departure had disgraced them, that every one knew
the circumstances, and that they felt it their duty to warn her of the
consequences; that she was living openly as my mistress, and that,
although she was a widow and free to do as she chose, she ought to think
of the name she bore; that neither they nor her old friends would ever
see her again if she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts of
threats and entreaties, they urged her to return.
The tone of the letter angered me, and at first I took it as an insult.
"And that young man who brings you these remonstrances," I cried,
"doubtless has orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail to do
his own part to the best of his ability. Am I not right?"
Brigitte's dejection made me reflect and calm my wrath.
"You will do as you wish, and achieve my ruin," she said. "My fate rests
with you; you have been for a long time my master. Avenge as you please
the last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to the
world that I formerly respected, to the honor that I have lost. I have
not a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply, I will obey you."
"I care to know nothing," I replied, "but your intentions; it is for me
to comply with your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to do it. Tell
me, do you desire to remain, to go away, or shall I go alone?"
"Why that question?" asked Brigitte; "have I said that I had changed my
mind? I am suffering, and can not travel in my present condition, but
when I recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned."
We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she had
expressed her resolution saddened me more than usual. It was not the
first time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up to
this time whatever letters Brigitte had received she had never taken them
so much to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigitte had
been so affected by protests which in less happy moments had had no
effect on her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoils
from an act of final significance? "I will do as you please," she had
said. No, it does not please me to demand patience, and rather than look
at that sorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks I will set
out alone.
Fool that I was! Had I the strength to do it? I did not close my eyes
that night, and the next morning I resolved to call on that young man I
had seen at the opera. I do not know whether it was wrath or curiosity
that impelled me to this course, nor did I know just what I desired to
learn of him; but I reflected that he could not avoid me this time, and
that was all I desired.
As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that I
felt under an obligation to call on him after all the visits he had made
us; I had not said a word about my experience at the opera. Brigitte's
eyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room she held out her
hand and said:
"What do you wish?"
Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words, and I set
out less unhappy.
The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was living
near us. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensation
of uneasiness; I was dazed as though by a sudden flash of light. His
first gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accent
Brigitte had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held
out his hand and said:
"What do you wish?"
Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which reason can
not explain. I sat as still as if awakened from a dream, and began to
repeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could I
tell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me,
how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N------,
and knew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to
question him, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our
first words were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his
kindness in bringing letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon
leaving France we would ask him to do the same favor for us; and then we
were silent, surprised to find ourselves vis-a-vis.
I looked about me in embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor;
everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musical
instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, but
everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.
As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. On
the mantel I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look at
it, and he said it was his mother.
I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had known him
since childhood. Before I came to the country she used to see him
occasionally at N------, but at the time of her last visit there he was
away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned some
particulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honest
employment that enabled him to support his mother and sister.
His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; he deprived
himself of everything for them, and although he possessed musical talents
that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the immediate needs of
those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, had always led him to
prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances of success in larger
ventures.
In a word, he belonged to that small class who live quietly, and who are
worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I had
learned of certain traits in his character which will serve to paint the
man he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighborhood, and,
after a year of devotion to her, had secured her parents' consent to
their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to be
signed, the preparations for the wedding were complete, when his mother
said:
"And your sister? Who will marry her?"
That simple remark made him understand that if he married he would spend
all his money in the household expenses and his sister would have no
dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy
prospects; he then came to Paris.
When I heard that story I wished to see the hero. That simple,
unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the
glories of war.
The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach
the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me,
that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually my
thoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemed
to me that he was also examining me with curiosity.
We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!
He, accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the
clock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it which
lies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy government
office; sending his mother all his savings, that farthing of human joy
which the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except for
the happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had been
a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift,
so inexorable, during the time that with him had been a round of toil,
what had I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?
What I have said in a page can be comprehended in a moment. He spoke to
me of our journey and the countries we were going to visit.
"When do you go?" he asked.
"I do not know; Madame Pierson is indisposed, and has been confined to
her bed for three days."
"For three days!" he repeated, in surprise.
"Yes; why are you astonished?"
He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. He
was trembling violently.
"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand to
his head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently to
speak, he said:
"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when I
have sufficiently recovered I will return your visit."