I have to explain how I was first taken with the malady of the age.
I was at table, at a great supper, after a masquerade. About me were
my friends, richly costumed, on all sides young men and women, all
sparkling with beauty and joy; on the right and on the left exquisite
dishes, flagons, splendor, flowers; above my head was an obstreperous
orchestra, and before me my loved one, whom I idolized.
I was then nineteen; I had passed through no great misfortune, I had
suffered from no disease; my character was at once haughty and frank,
my heart full of the hopes of youth. The fumes of wine fermented in my
head; it was one of those moments of intoxication when all that one
sees and hears speaks to one of the well-beloved. All nature appeared
a beautiful stone with a thousand facets, on which was engraven the
mysterious name. One would willingly embrace all who smile, and feel
that he is brother of all who live. My mistress had granted me a
rendezvous, and I was gently raising my glass to my lips while my eyes
were fixed on her.
As I turned to take a napkin, my fork fell. I stooped to pick it up,
and not finding it at first I raised the table cloth to see where it had
rolled. I then saw under the table my mistress’s foot; it touched that
of a young man seated beside her; from time to time they exchanged a
gentle pressure.
Perfectly calm, I asked for another fork and continued my supper. My
mistress and her neighbor, on their side, were very quiet, talking but
little and never looking at each other. The young man had his elbows on
the table and was chatting with another woman, who was showing him her
necklace and bracelets. My mistress sat motionless, her eyes fixed and
swimming with languor. I watched both of them during the entire supper,
and I saw nothing either in their gestures or in their faces that could
betray them. Finally, at dessert, I dropped my napkin, and stooping down
saw that they were still in the same position.
I had promised to escort my mistress to her home that night. She was a
widow and therefore free, living alone with an old relative who served
as chaperon. As I was crossing the hall she called to me:
“Come, Octave!” she said, “let us go; here I am.”
I laughed, and passed out without replying. After walking a short
distance I sat down on a stone projecting from a wall. I do not know
what my thoughts were; I sat as if stupefied by the unfaithfulness of
one of whom I had never been jealous, whom I had never had cause to
suspect. What I had seen left no room for doubt; I was felled as if by a
stroke from a club. The only thing I remember doing as I sat there, was
looking mechanically up at the sky, and, seeing a star shoot across the
heavens, I saluted that fugitive gleam, in which poets see a worn-out
world, and gravely took off my hat to it.
I returned to my home very quietly, experiencing nothing, as if deprived
of all sensation and reflection. I undressed and retired; hardly had my
head touched the pillow when the spirit of vengeance seized me with such
force that I suddenly sat bolt upright against the wall as if all my
muscles were made of wood. I then jumped from my bed with a cry of pain;
I could walk only on my heels, the nerves in my toes were so irritated.
I passed an hour in this way, completely beside myself, and stiff as a
skeleton. It was the first burst of passion I had ever experienced.
The man I had surprised with my mistress was one of my most intimate
friends. I went to his house the next day, in company with a young
lawyer named Desgenais; we took pistols, another witness, and repaired
to the woods of Vincennes. On the way I avoided speaking to my adversary
or even approaching him; thus I resisted the temptation to insult or
strike him, a useless form of violence at a time when the law recognized
the code. But I could not remove my eyes from him. He was the companion
of my childhood, and we had lived in the closest intimacy for many
years. He understood perfectly my love for my mistress, and had several
times intimated that bonds of this kind were sacred to a friend, and
that he would be incapable of an attempt to supplant me, even if he
loved the same woman. In short, I had perfect confidence in him and I
had perhaps never pressed the hand of any human creature more cordially
than his.
Eagerly and curiously I scrutinized this man whom I had heard speak
of love like an antique hero and whom yet I had caught caressing my
mistress. It was the first time in my life I had seen a monster; I
measured him with a haggard eye to see what manner of man was this. He
whom I had known since he was ten years old, with whom I had lived in
the most perfect friendship, it seemed to me I had never seen him. Allow
me a comparison.
There is a Spanish play, familiar to all the world, in which a stone
statue comes to sup with a profligate, sent thither by divine justice.
The profligate puts a good face on the matter and forces himself to
affect indifference; but the statue asks for his hand, and when he
has extended it he feels himself seized by a mortal chill and falls in
convulsions.
Whenever I have loved and confided in any one, either friend or
mistress, and suddenly discover that I have been deceived, I can only
describe the effect produced on me by comparing it to the clasp of that
marble hand. It is the actual impression of marble, it is as if a man of
stone had embraced me. Alas! this horrible apparition has knocked more
than once at my door; more than once we have supped together.
When the arrangements were all made we placed ourselves in line, facing
each other and slowly advancing. My adversary fired the first shot,
wounding me in the right arm. I immediately seized my pistol in the
other hand; but my strength failed, I could not raise it; I fell on one
knee.
Then I saw my enemy running up to me with an expression of great anxiety
on his face, and very pale. Seeing that I was wounded, my seconds
hastened to my side, but he pushed them aside and seized my wounded
arm. His teeth were set, and I could see that he was suffering intense
anguish. His agony was as frightful as man can experience.
“Go!” he cried; “go, stanch your wound at the house of-----”
He choked, and so did I.
I was placed in a cab, where I found a physician. My wound was not
dangerous, the bone being untouched, but I was in such a state of
excitation that it was impossible properly to dress my wound. As they
were about to drive from the field I saw a trembling hand at the door of
my cab; it was that of my adversary. I shook my head in reply; I was
in such a rage that I could not pardon him, although I felt that his
repentance was sincere.
By the time I reached home I had lost much blood and felt relieved, for
feebleness saved me from the anger which was doing me more harm than my
wound. I willingly retired to my bed and called for a glass of water,
which I gulped down with relish.
But I was soon attacked by fever. It was then I began to shed tears. I
could understand that my mistress had ceased to love me, but not that
she could deceive me. I could not comprehend why a woman, who was forced
to it by neither duty nor interest, could lie to one man when she loved
another. Twenty times a day I asked my friend Desgenais how that could
be possible.
“If I were her husband,” I said, “or if I supported her, I could easily
understand how she might be tempted to deceive me; but if she no longer
loves me, why deceive me?”
I did not understand how any one could lie for love; I was but a child,
then, but I confess that I do not understand it yet. Every time I have
loved a woman I have told her of it, and when I ceased to love her I
have confessed it with the same sincerity, having always thought that
in matters of this kind the will was not concerned and that there was no
crime but falsehood.
To all this Desgenais replied:
“She is unworthy; promise me that you will never see her again.”
I solemnly promised. He advised me, moreover, not to write to her, not
even to reproach her, and if she wrote to me not to reply. I promised
all, with some surprise that he should consider it necessary to exact
such a pledge.
Nevertheless, the first thing I did when I was able to leave my room
was to visit my mistress. I found her alone, seated in the corner of
her room, with an expression of sorrow on her face and an appearance
of general disorder in her surroundings. I overwhelmed her with violent
reproaches; I was intoxicated with despair. In a paroxysm of grief I
fell on the bed and gave free course to my tears.
“Ah! faithless one! wretch!” I cried between my sobs, “you knew that it
would kill me. Did the prospect please you? What have I done to you?”
She threw her arms around my neck, saying that she had been tempted,
that my rival had intoxicated her at that fatal supper, but that she
had never been his; that she had abandoned herself in a moment of
forgetfulness; that she had committed a fault but not a crime; but
that if I would not pardon her, she, too, would die. All that sincere
repentance has of tears, all that sorrow has of eloquence, she exhausted
in order to console me; pale and distraught, her dress deranged, her
hair falling over her shoulders, she kneeled in the middle of her
chamber; never have I seen anything so beautiful, and I shuddered with
horror as my senses revolted at the sight.
I went away crushed, scarcely able to direct my tottering steps. I
wished never to see her again; but in a quarter of an hour I returned.
I do not know what desperate resolve I had formed; I experienced a
full desire to know her mine once more, to drain the cup of tears and
bitterness to the dregs, and then to die with her. In short I abhorred
her, yet I idolized her; I felt that her love was ruin, but that to live
without her was impossible. I mounted the stairs like a flash; I spoke
to none of the servants, but, familiar with the house, opened the door
of her chamber.
I found her seated calmly before her toilette-table, covered with
jewels; she held in her hand a piece of red crepe which she passed
gently over her cheeks. I thought I was dreaming; it did not seem
possible that this was the woman I had left, just fifteen minutes
before, overwhelmed with grief, abased to the floor; I was as motionless
as a statue. She, hearing the door open, turned her head and smiled:
“Is it you?” she said.
She was going to a ball and was expecting my rival. As she recognized
me, she compressed her lips and frowned.
I started to leave the room. I looked at her bare neck, lithe and
perfumed, on which rested her knotted hair confined by a jewelled comb;
that neck, the seat of vital force, was blacker than hell; two shining
tresses had fallen there and some light silvern hairs balanced above it.
Her shoulders and neck, whiter than milk, displayed a heavy growth
of down. There was in that knotted mass of hair something maddeningly
lovely, which seemed to mock me when I thought of the sorrowful abandon
in which I had seen her a moment before. I suddenly stepped up to her
and struck that neck with the back of my hand. My mistress gave vent to
a cry of terror, and fell on her hands, while I hastened from the room.
When I reached my room I was again attacked by fever and was obliged
to take to my bed. My wound had reopened and I suffered great pain.
Desgenais came to see me and I told him what had happened. He listened
in silence, then paced up and down the room as if undecided as to his
next course. Finally he stopped before my bed and burst out laughing.
“Is she your first love?” he asked.
“No!” I replied, “she is my last.”
Toward midnight, while sleeping restlessly, I seemed to hear in my
dreams a profound sigh. I opened my eyes and saw my mistress standing
near my bed with arms crossed, looking like a spectre. I could not
restrain a cry of fright, believing it to be an apparition conjured up
by my diseased brain. I leaped from my bed and fled to the farther end
of the room; but she followed me.
“It is I!” said she; putting her arms around me, she drew me to her.
“What do you want of me?” I cried. “Leave, me! I fear I shall kill you!”
“Very well, kill me!” she said. “I have deceived you, I have lied to
you, I am an infamous wretch and I am miserable; but I love you, and I
can not live without you.”
I looked at her; how beautiful she was! Her body was quivering; her
eyes were languid with love and moist with voluptuousness; her bosom was
bare, her lips were burning. I raised her in my arms.
“Very well,” I said, “but before God who sees us, by the soul of my
father, I swear that I will kill you and that I will die with you.”
I took a knife from the table and placed it under the pillow.
“Come, Octave,” she said, smiling and kissing me, “do not be foolish.
Come, my dear, all these horrors have unsettled your mind; you are
feverish. Give me that knife.”
I saw that she wished to take it.
“Listen to me,” I then said; “I do not know what comedy you are playing,
but as for me I am in earnest. I have loved you as only man can love,
and to my sorrow I love you still. You have just told me that you love
me, and I hope it is true; but, by all that is sacred, if I am your
lover to-night, no one shall take my place tomorrow. Before God, before
God,” I repeated, “I would not take you back as my mistress, for I hate
you as much as I love you. Before God, if you wish to stay here to-night
I will kill you in the morning.”
When I had spoken these words I fell into a delirium. She threw her
cloak over her shoulders and fled from the room.
When I told Desgenais about it he said:
“Why did you do that? You must be very much disgusted, for she is a
beautiful woman.”
“Are you joking?” I asked. “Do you think such a woman could be my
mistress? Do you think I would ever consent to share her with another?
Do you know that she confesses that another attracts her, and do you
expect me, loving her as I do, to share my love? If that is the way you
love, I pity you.”
Desgenais replied that he was not so particular.
“My dear Octave,” he added, “you are very young. You want many things,
beautiful things, which do not exist. You believe in a singular sort
of love; perhaps you are capable of it; I believe you are, but I do not
envy you. You will have other mistresses, my friend, and you will live
to regret what happened last night. If that woman came to you it is
certain that she loved you; perhaps she does not love you at this
moment--indeed, she may be in the arms of another; but she loved you
last night in that room; and what should you care for the rest? You
will regret it, believe me, for she will not come again. A woman
pardons everything except such a slight. Her love for you must have been
something terrible when she came to you knowing and confessing herself
guilty, risking rebuff and contempt at your hands. Believe me, you will
regret it, for I am satisfied that you will soon be cured.”
There was such an air of simple conviction about my friend’s words,
such a despairing certainty based on experience, that I shuddered as
I listened. While he was speaking I felt a strong desire to go to my
mistress, or to write to her to come to me. I was so weak that I could
not leave my bed, and that saved me from the shame of finding her
waiting for my rival or perhaps in his company. But I could write to
her; in spite of myself I doubted whether she would come if I should
write.
When Desgenais left me I became so desperate that I resolved to put an
end to my trouble. After a terrible struggle, horror got the better of
love. I wrote my mistress that I would never see her again, and begged
her not to try to see me unless she wished to be exposed to the shame of
being refused admittance. I called a servant and ordered him to deliver
the letter at once. He had hardly closed the door when I called him
back. He did not hear me; I did not dare call again; covering my face
with my hands, I yielded to an overwhelming sense of despair.