THE QUESTION OF SMITH
Brigitte was better. She had told me that she desired to go away as soon
as she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to rest
at least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey.
Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured me
that the letter was the only cause of her melancholy, and begged me to
say nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was
passing in her heart. We went to the theatre every night in order to
avoid embarrassing interviews. There we sometimes pressed each other's
hands at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, or
exchanged, perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we were
mute, absorbed in our thoughts.
Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house had been
the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had left
singular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and his
simplicity reassured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he had
brought, and he did not appear offended, but saddened. He was ignorant
of the contents, and his friendship for Brigitte led him to censure them
severely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, had he known
what they contained. On account of Brigitte's tone of reserve in his
presence, I did not think he was in her confidence.
I therefore welcomed him with pleasure, although there was always a sort
of awkward embarrassment in our meeting. He was asked to act as
intermediary between Brigitte and her relatives after our departure.
When we three were together he noticed a certain coldness and restraint
which he endeavored to banish by cheerful good-humor. If he spoke of our
liaison it was with respect and as a man who looks upon love as a sacred
bond; in fact, he was a kind friend, and inspired me with full
confidence.
But despite all this, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I could
not get rid of strange thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I had
seen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time as
Brigitte's, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discovered
between them, troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago I would
have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect Brigitte?
Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not going away
with me? Even were it possible that Smith could share some secret of
which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of the mystery? What was
there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship?
She had known him as a child; she met him again after long years just
as she was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate
situation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding
to her sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful
glances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and
regrets? Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long
journey, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions?
I felt this that must be the explanation, and that it was my duty to
assure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers,
and of requiting the other for the services he had rendered. And yet a
deadly chill oppressed me, and I could not determine what course to
pursue.
When Smith left us in the evening, we either were silent or talked of
him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him
continually. She, however, told me just what I have told my reader;
Smith's life had never been other than it was now--poor, obscure, and
honest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times,
without knowing why I took such an interest in it.
There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not confess.
If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest happiness, had
he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he pressed her hand
while assisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the least
attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had he not--had he
shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it matter so long as I was
happy? But while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte's sorrow, I saw
that my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to do
with her present state. If I had been what I ought to have been for the
last six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I was
persuaded, could have troubled our love.
Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted; his simple
and modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eye seizes
at the first glance; one could know him in a quarter of an hour, and he
inspired confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinking that if
he were Brigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the ends of
the earth.
I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it.
Brigitte, too, at times urged me to hasten the day.
"Why do you wait?" she asked. "Here I am recovered and everything is
ready."
Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know.
Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from Smith to my loved one. I saw
that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why, and I
could not help thinking that there was but one cause, or one secret to
learn. This was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such as had
formerly tormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. What
strange creatures are we! It pleased me to leave them alone before the
fire, and to go out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet and
looking at the water. When they spoke of their life at N------, and when
Brigitte, almost cheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall some incident
of their childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, and yet took
pleasure in it. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of his mother, of
his plans and his prospects; I gave him an opportunity to show himself in
a favorable light, and forced his modesty to reveal his merit.
"You love your sister very much, do you not?" I asked. "When do you
expect to marry her off?"
He blushed, and replied that his expenses were rather heavy and that it
would probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health would
permit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provide
her dowry; that there was a well-to-do family in the country, whose
eldest son was her sweetheart; that they were almost agreed on it, and
that fortune would one day come, like sleep, without thinking of it; that
he had set aside for his sister a part of the money left by their father;
that their mother was opposed to it, but that he would insist on it; that
a young man can live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of a young
girl is fixed on the day of her marriage. Thus, little by little, he
expressed what was in his heart, and I watched Brigitte listening to him.
Then, when he arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door, and stood
there, pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.
Upon examining our trunks we found that there were still a few things
needed before we could start; Smith was asked to purchase them. He was
remarkably active, and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When I
returned to my apartments, I found him on the floor, strapping a trunk.
Brigitte was at the piano we had rented by the week during our stay. She
was playing one of those old airs into which she put so much expression,
and which were so dear to us. I stopped in the hall; every note reached
my ear distinctly; never had she sung so sadly, so divinely.
Smith was listening with pleasure; he was on his knees holding the buckle
of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about the room at
the other goods he had packed and covered with a linen cloth. Satisfied
with his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot; Brigitte, her
hands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For the second time I
saw tears fall from the young man's eyes; I was ready to shed tears
myself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out my hand to
him.
"Were you there?" asked Brigitte. She trembled and seemed surprised.
"Yes, I was there," I replied. "Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me
hear your sweet voice."
She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well as
Smith's; her voice faltered. With the last notes she arose, and came to
me and kissed me.
On another occasion I had brought an album containing views of
Switzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigitte
found a scene that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There was
one view that seemed to attract her more than the others; it was a
certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues; some
trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance a village
consisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In the
foreground a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, and
a farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his
iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directing her
attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them were
the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits.
Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The
valley resembled a lake of verdure, and the eye followed its contour with
delight.
"Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced some
figures on the picture.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it
resemble yours. The pretty hat would become you, and can I not, if I am
skilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?"
The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the two
faces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. The
faces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that the
likenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door opened
and I was called away by the servant.
When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the
picture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound revery, and was not
aware of my presence; I sat down near the fire, and it was not until I
spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment,
then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him
strike his forehead with his hand.
When I saw these signs of grief, I said to myself "What does it mean?"
Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know; perhaps my
good angel, perhaps my evil fate.