The following morning I rode through the Bois de Boulogne; the weather
was dark and threatening. At the Porte Maillot I dropped the reins on
my horse’s back and abandoned myself to revery, revolving in my mind the
words spoken by Desgenais the evening before.
Suddenly I heard my name called. Turning my head I spied one of my
inamorata’s most intimate friends in an open carriage. She bade me stop,
and, holding out her hand with a friendly air, invited me to dine with
her if I had no other engagement.
This woman, Madame Levasseur by name, was small, stout, and decidedly
blonde; I had never liked her, and my attitude toward her had always
been one of studied politeness. But I could not resist a desire to
accept her invitation; I pressed her hand and thanked her; I was sure
that we should talk of my mistress.
She sent a servant to lead my horse and I entered her carriage; she was
alone, and we at once took the road to Paris. Rain began to fall, and
the carriage curtains were drawn; thus shut up together we rode on in
silence. I looked at her with inexpressible sadness; she was not only
the friend of my faithless one but her confidante. She had often formed
one of our party when I called on my mistress in the evening. With what
impatience had I endured her presence! How often I counted the minutes
that must elapse before she would leave! That was probably the cause of
my aversion to her. I knew that she approved of our love; she even went
so far as to defend me in our quarrels. In spite of the services she had
rendered me, I considered her ugly and tiresome. Alas! now I found
her beautiful! I looked at her hands, her clothes; every gesture went
straight to my heart; all the past was associated with her. She noticed
the change in manner and understood that I was oppressed by sad memories
of the past. Thus we sped on our way, I looking at her, she smiling at
me. When we reached Paris she took my hand:
“Well?” she said.
“Well?” I replied, sobbing, “tell her if you wish.” Tears rushed from my
eyes.
After dinner we sat before the fire.
“But tell me,” she said, “is it irrevocable? Can nothing be done?”
“Alas! Madame,” I replied, “there is nothing irrevocable except the
grief that is killing me. My condition can be expressed in a few words:
I can not love her, I can not love another, and I can not cease loving.”
At these words she moved uneasily in her chair, and I could see an
expression of compassion on her face.
For some time she appeared to be reflecting, as if pondering over my
fate and seeking some remedy for my sorrow. Her eyes were closed and she
appeared lost in revery. She extended her hand and I took it in mine.
“And I, too,” she murmured, “that is just my experience.” She stopped,
overcome by emotion.
Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity. I held Madame
Levasseur’s hand as she began to speak of my mistress, saying all she
could think of in her favor. My sadness increased. What could I reply?
Finally she came to speak of herself.
Not long since, she said, a man who loved her abandoned her. She had
made great sacrifices for him; her fortune was compromised, as well as
her honor and her name. Her husband, whom she knew to be vindictive, had
made threats. Her tears flowed as she continued, and I began to forget
my own sorrow in my sympathy for her. She had been married against her
will; she struggled a long time; but she regretted nothing except that
she had not been able to inspire a more sincere affection. I believe she
even accused herself because she had not been able to hold her lover’s
heart, and because she had been guilty of apparent indifference.
When she had unburdened her heart she became silent.
“Madame,” I said, “it was not chance that brought about our meeting in
the Bois de Boulogne. I believe that human sorrows are but wandering
sisters and that some good angel unites the trembling hands that are
stretched out for aid. Do not repent having told me your sorrow. The
secret you have confided to me is only a tear which has fallen from
your eye, but has rested on my heart. Permit me to come again and let us
suffer together.”
Such lively sympathy took possession of me that without reflection I
kissed her; it did not occur to my mind that it could offend her, and
she did not appear even to notice it.
Our conversation continued in this tone of expansive friendship. She
told me her sorrows, I told her mine, and between these two experiences
which touched each other, I felt arise a sweetness, a celestial accord
born of two voices in anguish. All this time I had seen nothing but her
face. Suddenly I noticed that her dress was in disorder. It appeared
singular to me that, seeing my embarrassment, she did not rearrange
it, and I turned my head to give her an opportunity. She did nothing.
Finally, meeting her eyes and seeing that she was perfectly aware of the
state she was in, I felt as if I had been struck by a thunderbolt, for
I now clearly understood that I was the plaything of her monstrous
effrontery, that grief itself was for her but a means of seducing the
senses. I took my hat without a word, bowed profoundly, and left the
room.