The scene was composed of a bit of everything. An October evening, a
dull sky, a fierce cold wind, and a woman. Yet the dreamy experience,
where everything went at will, bears but little resemblance to reality.
The woman was sweet and tender; the interview passionate, yet innocent;
and the words exchanged _naive_ as the questions of a child.
The recollection of it leaves no poison of deception; only indelible
remorse.
It was a chill, windy afternoon. In the morning a great thirst for
fresh air had taken possession of me, and I joyfully left Brussels,
counting on stopping at a little station I knew.
I think my journey terminated about four o'clock. Cutting across the
fields, I entered a narrow path, paying but little attention to the way,
and strolling aimlessly. I seemed to be in an incredibly careless and
absent mood that day. I am not even certain that I got out at the right
station, so drunk was I with the frenzy to communicate with nature.
Picture to yourself a rolling plain under a cheerless sky; with empty
roads, cut in the brown earth, here and there made green with tender
shoots; a few solitary and distant houses, and occasional stumps of
leafless trees, red and melancholy-looking.
A flight of crows sailed slowly overhead, talking among themselves with
little continuous croakings, flying always towards the setting sun. The
day was grey, with deeper shades towards the horizon, stamping
everything with a uniform tint. Children's voices sounded in the field.
Suddenly three appeared, a boy and two girls, returning from school.
They grew silent when they saw me, eyed me cautiously and crossed the
path with quickened step. Soon I reached an isolated cross-road. A
step further, and I encountered a strolling mountebank, with his wheeled
home beside him. At my request he furnished me with a slight repast.
Then, without saying a dozen words, I set off again, leaving the
astonished man gaping at the money in his hand.
You say that I was mad.
Perhaps. At any rate, I was quite calm, but something evidently
dominated and guided me. For of the three roads that spread out before
me, why should I have chosen that one?
I assure you I have no spiritualistic tendencies, but there are times
when I believe in a distinct influence.
The night had fallen, or rather, a sort of twilight, singularly lasting.
A fine, cold rain, driven by a brisk wind, beat noisily upon my
umbrella. I wandered slowly on. Holding it against the wind, I walked
without effort. I think I must have slept, as I have only a vague
recollection of that dreary promenade.
When I became aware of things around me, I was in front of a good fire.
There was a dim consciousness of realising that the storm had redoubled
its fury, that I had seen a light and knocked at a cottage door. As I
recovered from the stupor, it seemed as if I had entered with some
trivial formula of politeness; that I had seated myself in front of the
genial flame as if I were in my own home.
A young woman, pale, but very beautiful, was sitting beside me. I
glanced slowly around the room. We were alone. Little by little I
remembered. It was she who had opened the door to me. Behold! even the
card I gave her still in her hand. Were it not for her light breathing
and the movement of her eyelids, I should say she was of wax.
She was older than myself, two or three years perhaps; tall and slight,
with a gentle and melancholy grace. Her mouth, clear and tender, was
near enough to the delicate nose to give her a slight appearance of a
scolded child; the eyes were not large, but soft and pleading, and the
oval of her face stretched the length of her blanched cheeks. Though
sad, the face pleased me.
"How charming!" I exclaimed involuntarily, under my breath.
She must have heard the words, for she turned towards me and smiled.
"You are just as complimentary as of old--always the same Theophile."
In that voice I found an air of recognition. Instantly I remembered a
half-forgotten period, like a pleasant dream; a name was upon my lips,
but I could not utter it; I stammered a question.
"Well, well," she said. "They tell me I have altered, yet--why, don't
you know Mariette?"
Mariette!
Mariette! only this thought, and I fell on my knees beside her; our
hands touched, and I kissed her dainty white fingers. Why was I certain
in all my life never to know a like moment?
Ah! never shall I experience the same mad joy; the delight of holding in
mine the thin hands of my childhood's friend. It was that childhood I
embraced; that other time, so free and pure, with its pretty welcoming
air.
"Do you remember when last we met?" I asked earnestly.
She heaved a slight sigh, so like those of other days that tears rose to
my eyes.
"Yes," she murmured. "But--there, don't speak of it. Such memories
must be painful to both of us."
"If to you, none the less to me, Mariette," I replied, looking in her
sad, sweet face.
Her lips quivered, and a tear stole down her cheek.
During a whole hour it was nothing but expressions of surprise and vain
regrets. To the depths of our being we felt the force of these
recollections, causing us to live over an almost forgotten period.
I found in looking at her, in listening to her, my great soul and little
body of that sweet other time.
Once more I felt the immensity of the fields and of the sky; the fine
smell of the leaves enthralled my senses, and the least sound was
melody. Once more I lived the old free life over again. It was before
I went to stay at Brussels, when I resided under the paternal roof on
the edge of the dense Soignes forest, that Mariette and I were playmates
and afterwards lovers.
How well I recollect one halcyon day, the memory of which now comes
before me in all its vividness. It was autumn. We were walking alone
in the wood. The leaves floated down noiselessly upon the chill
November air, leaving the naked branches like black lace against a grey,
snow-laden sky. That day she admitted that she loved me, that she would
be my wife.
And all around us there was infinite space, coloured by the joyful
imaginings of happy youth.
We were speaking of it, when suddenly she withdrew her hand from mine,
and a red flush mounted to her forehead.
"But you soon forgot me when you went away," she said reproachfully. "I
waited months, but you never wrote; then I heard how an actress had
infatuated you. Yet--you are rich now, and the world looks leniently
upon what it calls a wealthy man's folly."