Sunday there was dancing in the village; she was almost always there. On

those occasions her toilet, although quite simple, was more elegant than

usual; there was a flower in her hair, a bright ribbon, or some such

bagatelle; but there was something youthful and fresh about her. The

dance, which she loved for itself as an amusing exercise, seemed to

inspire her with a frolicsome gayety. Once launched on the floor it

seemed to me she allowed herself more liberty than usual, that there was

an unusual familiarity. I did not dance, being still in mourning, but I

managed to keep near her, and seeing her in such good humor, I was often

tempted to confess my love.

But for some strange reason, whenever I thought of it, I was seized with

an irresistible feeling of fear; the idea of an avowal was enough

to render me serious in the midst of gayety. I conceived the idea of

writing to her, but burned the letters before they were half finished.

That evening I dined with her, and looked about me at the many evidences

of a tranquil life; I thought of the quiet life that I was leading, of

my happiness since I had known her, and said to myself: “Why ask for

more? Does not this suffice? Who knows, perhaps God has nothing more for

you? If I should tell her that I love her, what would happen? Perhaps

she would forbid me the pleasure of seeing her. Would I, in speaking the

words, make her happier than she is to-day? Would I be happier myself?”

I was leaning on the piano, and as I indulged in these reflections

sadness took possession of me. Night was coming on and she lighted a

candle; while returning to her seat she noticed a tear in my eye.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

I turned aside my head.

I sought an excuse, but could find none; I was afraid to meet her

glance. I arose and stepped to the window. The air was balmy, the moon

was rising beyond those lindens where I had first met her. I fell into

a profound revery; I even forgot that she was present and, extending my

arms toward heaven, a sob welled up from my heart.

She arose and stood behind me.

“What is it?” she again asked.

I replied that the sight of that valley stretching out beneath us had

recalled my father’s death; I took leave of her and went out.

Why I decided to silence my love I can not say. Nevertheless, instead of

returning home, I began to wander about the woods like a fool. Whenever

I found a bench I sat down only to rise precipitately. Toward midnight

I approached Madame Pierson’s house; she was at the window. Seeing

her there I began to tremble and tried to retrace my steps, but I was

fascinated; I advanced gently and sadly and sat down beneath her window.

I do not know whether she recognized me; I had been there some time when

I heard her sweet, fresh voice singing the refrain of a romance, and

at the same instant a flower fell on my shoulder. It was a rose she

had worn that evening on her bosom; I picked it up and pressed it to my

lips.

“Who is there at this hour? Is it you?”

She called me by name. The gate leading into the garden was open; I

arose without replying and entered it, I stopped before a plot of grass

in the centre of the garden; I was walking like a somnambulist, without

knowing what I was doing.

Suddenly I saw her at the door opening into the garden; she seemed to be

undecided and looked attentively at the rays of the moon. She made a few

steps toward me and I advanced to meet her. I could not speak, I fell on

my knees before her and seized her hand.

“Listen to me,” she said; “I know all; but if it has come to that,

Octave, you must go away. You come here every day and you are always

welcome, are you not? Is not that enough? What more can I do for you? My

friendship you have won; I wish you had been able to keep yours a little

longer.”

When Madame Pierson had spoken these words she waited in silence as

though expecting a reply. As I remained overwhelmed with sadness, she

gently withdrew her hand, stepped back, waited a moment longer and then

reentered the house.

I remained kneeling on the grass. I had been expecting what she said; my

resolution was soon taken, and I decided to go away. I arose, my heart

bleeding but firm. I looked at the house, at her window; I opened the

garden-gate and placed my lips on the lock as I passed out.

When I reached home I told Larive to make what preparations were

necessary, as I would set out in the morning. The poor fellow was

astonished, but I made him a sign to obey and ask no questions.

He brought a large trunk and busied himself with preparations for

departure.

It was five o’clock in the morning and day was beginning to break when I

asked myself where I was going. At that thought, which had not occurred

to me before, I experienced a profound feeling of discouragement. I cast

my eyes over the country, scanning the horizon. A sense of weakness took

possession of me; I was exhausted with fatigue. I sat down in a chair

and my ideas became confused; I bore my hand to my forehead and found it

bathed in sweat. A violent fever made my limbs tremble; I could hardly

reach my bed with Larive’s assistance. My thoughts were so confused

that I had no recollection of what had happened. The day passed; toward

evening I heard the sound of instruments. It was the Sunday dance, and I

asked Larive to go and see if Madame Pierson was there. He did not find

her; I sent him to her house. The blinds were closed, and a servant

informed him that Madame Pierson and her aunt had gone to spend some

days with a relative who lived at N------, a small town some distance

north. He handed me a letter that had been given him. It was couched in

the following terms:

“I have known you three months, and for one month have noticed that

you feel for me what at your age is called love. I thought I

detected on your part a resolution to conceal this from me and

conquer yourself. I already esteemed you, this enhanced my respect.

I do not reproach you for the past, nor for the weakness of your

will.

“What you take for love is nothing more than desire. I am well

aware that many women seek to arouse it; it would be better if they

did not feel the necessity of pleasing those who approach them.

Such a feeling is a dangerous thing, and I have done wrong in

entertaining it with you.

“I am some years older than you, and ask you not to try to see me

again. It would be vain for you to try to forget the weakness of a

moment; what has passed between us can neither be repeated nor

forgotten.

“I do not take leave of you without sorrow; I expect to be absent

some time; if, when I return, I find that you have gone away, I

shall appreciate your action as the final evidence of your

friendship and esteem.

“BRIGITTE PIERSON.”

CHAPTER V. AN INTERVIEW

The fever kept me in bed a week. When I was able to write I assured

Madame Pierson that she should be obeyed, and that I would go away. I

wrote in good faith, without any intention to deceive, but I was very

far from keeping my promise. Before I had gone ten leagues I ordered the

driver to stop, and stepped out of the carriage. I began to walk along

the road. I could not resist the temptation to look back at the village

which was still visible in the distance. Finally, after a period of

frightful irresolution, I felt that it was impossible for me to continue

on my route, and rather than get into the carriage again, I would have

died on the spot. I told the driver to turn around, and, instead of

going to Paris as I had intended, I made straight for N------, whither

Madame Pierson had gone.

I arrived at ten in the night. As soon as I reached the inn I had a boy

direct me to the house of her relatives, and, without reflecting what I

was doing, at once made my way to the spot. A servant opened the door.

I asked if Madame Pierson was there, and directed him to tell her that

some one wished to speak to her on the part of M. Desprez. That was the

name of our village cure.

While the servant was executing my order I remained alone in a sombre

little court; as it was raining, I entered the hall and stood at

the foot of the stairway, which was not lighted. Madame Pierson soon

arrived, preceding the servant; she descended rapidly, and did not

see me in the darkness; I stepped up to her and touched her arm. She

recoiled with terror and cried out:

“What do you wish of me?”

Her voice trembled so painfully and, when the servant appeared with a

light, her face was so pale, that I did not know what to think. Was

it possible that my unexpected appearance could disturb her in such a

manner? That reflection occurred to me, but I decided that it was merely

a feeling of fright natural to a woman who is suddenly touched.

Nevertheless, she repeated her question in a firmer tone.

“You must permit me to see you once more,” I replied. “I will go away, I

will leave the country. You shall be obeyed, I swear it, and that beyond

your real desire, for I will sell my father’s house and go abroad; but

that is only on condition that I am permitted to see you once more;

otherwise I remain; you need fear nothing from me, but I am resolved on

that.”

She frowned and cast her eyes about her in a strange manner; then she

replied, almost graciously:

“Come to-morrow during the day and I will see you.” Then she left me.

The next day at noon I presented myself. I was introduced into a room

with old hangings and antique furniture. I found her alone, seated on a

sofa. I sat down before her.

“Madame,” I began, “I come neither to speak of what I suffer, nor to

deny that I love you. You have written me that what has passed between

us can not be forgotten, and that is true; but you say that on that

account we can not meet on the same footing as heretofore, and you are

mistaken. I love you, but I have not offended you; nothing is changed

in our relations since you do not love me. If I am permitted to see

you, responsibility rests with me, and as far as your responsibility is

concerned, my love for you should be sufficient guarantee.”

She tried to interrupt me.

“Kindly allow me to finish what I have to say. No one knows better than

I that in spite of the respect I feel for you, and in spite of all the

protestations by which I might bind myself, love is the stronger. I

repeat I do not intend to deny what is in my heart; but you do not learn

of that love to-day for the first time, and I ask you what has prevented

me from declaring it up to the present time? The fear of losing you;

I was afraid I would not be permitted to see you, and that is what has

happened. Make a condition that the first word I shall speak, the first

thought or gesture that shall seem to be inconsistent with the most

profound respect, shall be the signal for the closing of your door; as I

have been silent in the past, I will be silent in the future, You think

that I have loved you for a month, when in fact I have loved you from

the first day I met you. When you discovered it, you did not refuse to

see me on that account. If you had at that time enough esteem for me to

believe me incapable of offending you, why have you lost that esteem?

“That is what I have come to ask you. What have I done? I have bent my

knee, but I have not said a word. What have I told you? What you already

knew. I have been weak because I have suffered. It is true, Madame, that

I am twenty years of age and what I have seen of life has only disgusted

me (I could use a stronger word); it is true that there is not at this

hour on earth, either in the society of men or in solitude, a place,

however small and insignificant, that I care to occupy.

“The space enclosed within the four walls of your garden is the only

spot in the world where I live; you are the only human being who has

made me love God. I had renounced everything before I knew you; why

deprive me of the only ray of light that Providence has spared me? If

it is on account of fear, what have I done to inspire it? If it is on

account of dislike, in what respect am I culpable? If it is on account

of pity and because I suffer, you are mistaken in supposing that I can

cure myself; it might have been done, perhaps, two months ago; but I

preferred to see you and to suffer, and I do not repent, whatever may

come of it. The only misfortune that can reach me is to lose you. Put me

to the proof. If I ever feel that there is too much suffering for me in

our bargain I will go away; and you may be sure of it, since you send me

away to-day, and I am ready to go. What risk do you run in giving me a

month or two of the only happiness I shall ever know?”

I waited her reply. She suddenly rose from her seat, and then sat down

again. Then a moment of silence ensued.

“Rest assured,” she said, “it is not so.”

I thought she was searching for words that would not appear too severe,

and that she was anxious to avoid hurting me.

“One word,” I said, rising, “one word, nothing more. I know who you are

and if there is any compassion for me in your heart, I thank you; speak

but one word, this moment decides my life.”

She shook her head; I saw that she was hesitating.

“You think I can be cured?” I cried. “May God grant you that solace if

you send me away--”

I looked out of the window at the horizon, and felt in my soul such

a frightful sensation of loneliness at the idea of going away that my

blood froze in my veins. She saw me standing before her, my eyes fixed

on her, awaiting her reply; all my life was hanging in suspense upon her

lips.

“Very well,” she said, “listen to me. This move of yours in coming to

see me was an act of great imprudence; however, it is not necessary to

assume that you have come here to see me; accept a commission that I

will give you for a friend of my family. If you find that it is a little

far, let it be the occasion of an absence which shall last as long as

you choose, but which must not be too short. Although you said a moment

ago,” she added with a smile, “that a short trip would calm you. You

will stop in the Vosges and you will go as far as Strasburg. Then in a

month, or, better, in two months, you will return and report to me; I

will see you again and give you further instructions.”

CHAPTER VI. THE RUGGED PATH OF LOVE

That evening I received from Madame Pierson a letter addressed to M. R.

D., at Strasburg. Three weeks later my mission had been accomplished and

I returned. During my absence I had thought of nothing but her, and I

despaired of ever forgetting her. Nevertheless I determined to restrain

my feelings in her presence; I had suffered too cruelly at the prospect

of losing her to run any further risks. My esteem for her rendered it

impossible for me to suspect her sincerity, and I did not see, in

her plan of getting me to leave the country, anything that resembled

hypocrisy. In a word, I was firmly convinced that at the first word of

love her door would be closed to me. Upon my return I found her thin and

changed. Her habitual smile seemed to languish on her discolored lips.

She told me that she had been suffering. We did not speak of the past.

She did not appear to wish to recall it, and I had no desire to refer to

it. We resumed our old relations of neighbors; yet there was something

of constraint between us, a sort of conventional familiarity. It was

as if we had agreed: “It was thus before, let it still be thus.” She

granted me her confidence, a concession that was not without its charms

for me; but our conversation was colder, for the reason that our eyes

expressed as much as our tongues. In all that we said there was more to

be surmised than was actually spoken. We no longer endeavored to fathom

each other’s minds; there was not the same interest attaching to each

word, to each sentiment; that curious analysis that characterized our

past intercourse; she treated me with kindness, but I distrusted

even that kindness; I walked with her in the garden, but no longer

accompanied her outside of the premises; we no longer wandered through

the woods and valleys; she opened the piano when we were alone; the

sound of her voice no longer awakened in my heart those transports of

joy which are like sobs that are inspired by hope. When I took leave of

her, she gave me her hand, but I was conscious of the fact that it was

lifeless; there was much effort in our familiar ease, many reflections

in our lightest remarks, much sadness at the bottom of it all. We felt

that there was a third party between us: it was my love for her.

My actions never betrayed it, but it appeared in my face. I lost my

cheerfulness, my energy, and the color of health that once shone in my

cheeks. At the end of one month I no longer resembled my old self. And

yet in all our conversations I insisted on my disgust with the world, on

my aversion to returning to it. I tried to make Madame Pierson feel

that she had no reason to reproach herself for allowing me to see her;

I depicted my past life in the most sombre colors, and gave her to

understand that if she should refuse to allow me to see her, she would

condemn me to a loneliness worse than death. I told her that I held

society in abhorrence and the story of my life, as I recited it, proved

my sincerity. So I affected a cheerfulness that I was far from feeling,

in order to show her that in permitting me to see her, she had saved me

from the most frightful misfortune; I thanked her almost every time I

went to see her, that I might return in the evening or the following

morning. “All my dreams of happiness,” said I, “all my hopes, all my

ambitions, are enclosed in the little corner of the earth where you

dwell; outside of the air that you breathe there is no life for me.”

She saw that I was suffering and could not help pitying me. My courage

was pathetic, and her every word and gesture shed a sort of tender

light over my devotion. She saw the struggle that was going on in me; my

obedience flattered her pride, while my pallor awakened her charitable

instinct. At times she appeared to be irritated, almost coquettish; she

would say in a tone that was almost rebellious: “I shall not be here

to-morrow, do not come on such and such a day.” Then, as I was going

away sad, but resigned, she sweetened the cup of bitterness by adding:

“I am not sure of it, come whenever you please;” or her adieu was more

friendly than usual, her glance more tender.

“Rest assured that Providence has led me to you,” I said. “If I had not

met you, I might have relapsed into the irregular life I was leading

before I knew you.

“God has sent you as an angel of light to draw me from the abyss. He

has confided a sacred mission to you; who knows, if I should lose you,

whither the sorrow that consumes me might lead me, because of the sad

experience I have been through, the terrible combat between my youth and

my ennui?”

That thought, sincere enough on my part, had great weight with a woman

of lofty devotion whose soul was as pious as it was ardent. It was

probably the only consideration that induced Madame Pierson to permit me

to see her.

I was preparing to visit her one day when some one knocked at my door,

and I saw Mercanson enter, that priest I had met in the garden on

the occasion of my first visit. He began to make excuses that were as

tiresome as himself for presuming to call on me without having made my

acquaintance; I told him that I knew him very well as the nephew of our

cure, and asked what I could do for him.

He turned uneasily from one side to the other with an air of constraint,

searching for phrases and fingering everything on the table before him

as if at a loss what to say. Finally he informed me that Madame Pierson

was ill and that she had sent word to me by him that she would not be

able to see me that day.

“Is she ill? Why, I left her late yesterday afternoon, and she was very

well at that time!”

He bowed.

“But,” I continued, “if she is ill why send word to me by a third

person? She does not live so far away that a useless call would harm

me.”

The same response from Mercanson. I could not understand what this

peculiar manner signified, much less why she had entrusted her mission

to him.

“Very well,” I said, “I shall see her to-morrow and she will explain

what this means.”

His hesitation continued.

“Madame Pierson has also told me--that I should inform you--in fact, I

am requested to--”

“Well, what is it?” I cried, impatiently.

“Sir, you are becoming violent! I think Madame Pierson is seriously ill;

she will not be able to see you this week.”

Another bow, and he retired.

It was clear that his visit concealed some mystery: either Madame

Pierson did not wish to see me, and I could not explain why; or

Mercanson had interfered on his own responsibility.

I waited until the following day and then presented myself at her door;

the servant who met me said that her mistress was indeed very ill and

could not see me; she refused to accept the money I offered her, and

would not answer my questions.

As I was passing through the village on my return, I saw Mercanson;

he was surrounded by a number of schoolchildren, his uncle’s pupils.

I stopped him in the midst of his harangue and asked if I could have a

word with him.

He followed me aside; but now it was my turn to hesitate, for I was at a

loss how to proceed to draw his secret from him.

“Sir,” I finally said, “will you kindly inform me if what you told me

yesterday was the truth, or was there some motive behind it? Moreover,

as there is not a physician in the neighborhood who can be called in,

in case of necessity, it is important that I should know whether her

condition is serious.”

He protested that Madame Pierson was ill, but that he knew nothing more,

except that she had sent for him and asked him to notify me as he had

done. While talking we had walked down the road some distance and had

now reached a deserted spot. Seeing that neither strategy nor entreaty

would serve my purpose, I suddenly turned and seized him by the arms.

“What does this mean, Monsieur? You intend to resort to violence?” he

cried.

“No, but I intend to make you tell me what you know.”

“Monsieur, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought to

know.”

“You have told me what you think I ought to know, but not what you know.

Madame Pierson is not sick; I am sure of it.”

“How do you know?”

“The servant told me so. Why has she closed her door against me, and why

did she send you to tell me of it?”

Mercanson saw a peasant passing.

“Pierre!” he cried, calling him by name, “wait a moment, I wish to speak

with you.”

The peasant approached; that was all he wanted, thinking I would not

dare use violence in the presence of a third person. I released him, but

so roughly that he staggered back and fell against a tree. He clenched

his fist and turned away without a word.

For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three times a day I called at

Madame Pierson’s and each time was refused admittance. I received one

letter from her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in the

village, and begged me to call less frequently. Not a word about

Mercanson or her illness.

This precaution on her part was so unnatural, and contrasted so strongly

with her former proud indifference in matters of this kind, that at

first I could hardly believe it. Not knowing what else to say, I replied

that there was no desire in my heart but obedience to her wishes. But in

spite of me, the words I used did not conceal the bitterness I felt.

I purposely delayed going to see her even when permitted to do so, and

no longer sent to inquire about her condition, as I wished to have her

know that I did not believe in her illness. I did not know why she

kept me at a distance; but I was so miserably unhappy that, at times,

I thought seriously of putting an end to a life that had become

insupportable. I was accustomed to spend entire days in the woods, and

one day I happened to encounter her there.

I hardly had the courage to ask for an explanation; she did not reply

frankly, and I did not recur to the subject; I could only count the

days I was obliged to pass without seeing her, and live in the hope of

a visit. All the time I was sorely tempted to throw myself at her feet,

and tell her of my despair. I knew that she would not be insensible to

it, and that she would at least express her pity; but her severity and

the abrupt manner of her departure recalled me to my senses; I trembled

lest I should lose her, and I would rather die than expose myself to

that danger.

Thus denied the solace of confessing my sorrow, my health began to

give way. My feet lagged on the way to her house; I felt that I was

exhausting the source of tears, and each visit cost me added sorrow; I

was torn with the thought that I ought not to see her.

On her part there was neither the same tone nor the same ease as of old;

she spoke of going away on a tour; she pretended to confess to me her

longing to get away, leaving me more dead than alive after her cruel

words. If surprised by a natural impulse of sympathy, she immediately

checked herself and relapsed into her accustomed coldness. Upon one

occasion I could not restrain my tears. I saw her turn pale. As I was

going, she said to me at the door:

“To-morrow I am going to Sainte-Luce (a neighboring village), and it is

too far to go on foot. Be here with your horse early in the morning, if

you have nothing to do, and go with me.”

I was on hand promptly, as may readily be imagined. I had slept

over that word with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house,

I experienced a feeling of deep dejection. In restoring me to the

privilege I had formerly enjoyed of accompanying her on her missions

about the country, she had clearly been guilty of a cruel caprice if

she did not love me. She knew how I was suffering; why abuse my courage

unless she had changed her mind?

This reflection had a strange influence on me. When she mounted her

horse my heart beat violently as I took her foot; I do not know whether

it was from desire or anger. “If she is touched,” I said to myself, “why

this reserve? If she is a coquette, why so much liberty?”

Such are men. At my first word she saw that a change had taken place in

me. I did not speak to her, but kept to the other side of the road. When

we reached the valley she appeared at ease, and only turned her head

from time to time to see if I was following her; but when we came to the

forest and our horses’ hoofs resounded against the rocks that lined the

road, I saw that she was trembling. She stopped as though to wait for

me, as I was some distance in the rear; when I had overtaken her she

set out at a gallop. We soon reached the foot of the mountain and were

compelled to slacken our pace. I then made my way to her side; our heads

were bowed; the time had come, I took her hand.

“Brigitte,” I said, “are you weary of my complaints? Since I have been

reinstated in your favor, since I have been allowed to see you every

day and every evening, I have asked myself if I have been importunate.

During the last two months, while strength and hope have been failing

me, have I said a word of that fatal love which is consuming me? Raise

your head and answer me. Do you not see that I suffer and that my nights

are given to weeping? Have you not met in the forest an unfortunate

wretch sitting in solitary dejection with his hands pressed to his

forehead? Have you not seen tears on these bushes? Look at me, look at

these mountains; do you realize that I love you? They know it, they are

my witnesses; these rocks and these trees know my secret. Why lead me

before them? Am I not wretched enough? Do I fail in courage? Have I

obeyed you? To what tests, what tortures am I subjected, and for what

crime? If you do not love me, what are you doing here?”

“Let us return,” she said, “let us retrace our steps.”

I seized her horse’s bridle.

“No,” I replied, “for I have spoken. If we return, I lose you, I realize

it; I know in advance what you will say. You have been pleased to try

my patience, you have set my sorrow at defiance, perhaps that you might

have the right to drive me from your presence; you have become tired of

that sorrowful lover who suffered without complaint and who drank with

resignation the bitter chalice of your disdain! You knew that, alone

with you in the presence of these trees, in the midst of this solitude

where my love had its birth, I could not be silent! You wish to

be offended. Very well, Madame, I lose you! I have wept and I have

suffered, I have too long nourished in my heart a pitiless love that

devours me. You have been cruel!”

As she was about to leap from her saddle, I seized her in my arms and

pressed my lips to hers. She turned pale, her eyes closed, her bridle

slipped from her hand and she fell to the ground.

“God be praised!” I cried, “she loves me!” She had returned my kiss.

I leaped to the ground and hastened to her side. She was extended on the

ground. I raised her, she opened her eyes, and shuddered with terror;

she pushed my arm aside, and burst into tears.

I stood near the roadside; I looked at her as she leaned against a tree,

as beautiful as the day, her long hair falling over her shoulders, her

hands twitching and trembling, her cheeks suffused with crimson, whereon

shone pearly tears.

“Do not come near me!” she cried, “not a step!”

“Oh, my love!” I said, “fear nothing; if I have offended you, you know

how to punish me. I was angry and I gave way to my grief; treat me as

you choose; you may go away now, you may send me away! I know that you

love me, Brigitte, and you are safer here than a king in his palace.”

As I spoke these words, Madame Pierson fixed her humid eyes on mine; I

saw the happiness of my life come to me in the flash of those orbs.

I crossed the road and knelt before her. How little he loves who can

recall the words he uses when he confesses that love!

CHAPTER VII. THE VENUSBERG AGAIN

If I were a jeweler and had in stock a pearl necklace that I wished to

give a friend, it seems to me I should take great pleasure in placing it

about her neck with my own hands; but were I that friend, I would rather

die than snatch the necklace from the jeweler’s hand. I have seen many

men hasten to give themselves to the woman they love, but I have

always done the contrary, not through calculation, but through natural

instinct. The woman who loves a little and resists does not love enough,

and she who loves enough and resists knows that she is not sincerely

loved.

Madame Pierson gave evidence of more confidence in me, confessing that

she loved me when she had never shown it in her actions. The respect I

felt for her inspired me with such joy that her face looked to me like a

budding rose. At times she would abandon herself to an impulse of sudden

gayety, then she would suddenly check herself; treating me like a child,

and then look at me with eyes filled with tears; indulging in a thousand

pleasantries as a pretext for a more familiar word or caress, she would

suddenly leave me, go aside and abandon herself to revery. Was ever a

more beautiful sight? When she returned she would find me waiting for

her in the same spot where I had remained watching her.

“Oh! my friend!” I said, “Heaven itself rejoices to see how you are

loved.”

Yet I could conceal neither the violence of my desires nor the pain I

endured struggling against them. One evening I told her that I had

just learned of the loss of an important case, which would involve a

considerable change in my affairs.

“How is it,” she asked, “that you make this announcement and smile at

the same time?”

“There is a certain maxim of a Persian poet,” I replied: “‘He who is

loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow.’”

Madame Pierson made no reply; all that evening she was even more

cheerful than usual. When we played cards with her aunt and I lost she

was merciless in her scorn, saying that I knew nothing of the game, and

she bet against me with so much success that she won all I had in my

purse. When the old lady retired, she stepped out on the balcony and I

followed her in silence.

The night was beautiful; the moon was setting and the stars shone

brightly in a field of deep azure. Not a breath of wind stirred the

trees; the air was warm and freighted with the perfume of spring.

She was leaning on her elbow, her eyes in the heavens; I leaned over her

and watched her as she dreamed. Then I raised my own eyes; a voluptuous

melancholy seized us both. We breathed together the warm perfume wafted

to us from the garden; we followed, in its lingering course, the pale

light of the moon which glinted through the chestnut-trees. I thought of

a certain day when I had looked up at the broad expanse of heaven with

despair; I trembled at the recollection of that hour; life was so rich

now! I felt a hymn of praise welling up in my heart. Around the form of

my dear mistress I slipped my arm; she gently turned her head; her eyes

were bathed in tears. Her body yielded as does the rose, her open lips

fell on mine, and the universe was forgotten.

Eternal angel of happy nights, who shall interpret thy silence?

Mysterious vintage that flows from lips that meet as from a stainless

chalice! Intoxication of the senses! O, supremest joy! Yes, like

God, thou art immortal! Sublime exaltation of the creature, universal

communion of beings, thrice sacred pleasure, what have they sung who

have celebrated thy praise? They have called thee transitory, O thou who

dost create! And they have said that thy passing beams have illumined

their fugitive life. Words that are as feeble as the dying breath! Words

of a sensual brute who is astonished that he should live for an hour,

and who mistakes the rays of the eternal lamp for the spark which is

struck from the flint!

O love! thou principle of life! Precious flame over which all nature,

like a careful vestal, incessantly watches in the temple of God! Centre

of all, by whom all exists, the spirit of destruction would itself

die, blowing at thy flame! I am not astonished that thy name should be

blasphemed, for they do not know who thou art, they who think they have

seen thy face because they have opened their eyes; and when thou findest

thy true prophets, united on earth with a kiss, thou closest their eyes

lest they look upon the face of perfect joy.

But you, O rapturous delights, languishing smiles, and first caressing,

stammering utterance of love, you who can be seen, who are you? Are you

less in God’s sight than all the rest, beautiful cherubim who soar

in the alcove and who bring to this world man awakened from the dream

divine! Ah! dear children of pleasure, how your mother loves you! It

is you, curious prattlers, who behold the first mysteries, touches,

trembling yet chaste, glances that are already insatiable, who begin

to trace on the heart, as a tentative sketch, the ineffaceable image of

cherished beauty! O royalty! O conquest! It is you who make lovers.

And thou, true diadem, serenity of happiness! The first true concept of

man’s life, and first return of happiness in the many little things of

life which are seen only through the medium of joy, first steps made by

nature in the direction of the well-beloved! Who will paint you? What

human word will ever express thy slightest caress?

He who, in the freshness of youth, has taken leave of an adored

mistress; he who has walked through the streets without hearing the

voices of those who speak to him; he who has sat in a lonely spot,

laughing and weeping without knowing why; he who has placed his hands to

his face in order to breathe the perfume that still clings to them; he

who has suddenly forgotten what he had been doing on earth; he who has

spoken to the trees along the route and to the birds in their flight;

finally, he who, in the midst of men, has acted the madman, and then

has fallen on his knees and thanked God for it; let him die without

complaint: he has known the joy of love.

PART IV

CHAPTER I. THE THORNS OF LOVE

I have now to recount what happened to my love, and the change that took

place in me. What reason can I give for it? None, except as I repeat the

story and as I say: “It is the truth.” For two days, neither more

nor less, I was Madame Pierson’s lover. One fine night I set out and

traversed the road that led to her house. I was feeling so well in body

and soul that I leaped for joy and extended my arms to heaven. I found

her at the top of the stairway leaning on the railing, a lighted candle

beside her. She was waiting for me, and when she saw me ran to meet me.

She showed me how she had changed her coiffure which had displeased me,

and told me how she had passed the day arranging her hair to suit my

taste; how she had taken down a villainous black picture-frame that had

offended my eye; how she had renewed the flowers; she recounted all she

had done since she had known me, how she had seen me suffer and how she

had suffered herself; how she had thought of leaving the country, of

fleeing from her love; how she had employed every precaution against

me; how she had sought advice from her aunt, from Mercanson and from the

cure; how she had vowed to herself that she would die rather than yield,

and how all that had been dissipated by a single word of mine, a glance,

an incident; and with every confession a kiss.

She said that whatever I saw in her room that pleased my taste, whatever

bagatelle on her table attracted my attention, she would give me; that

whatever she did in the future, in the morning, in the evening, at any

hour, I should regulate as I pleased; that the judgments of the world

did not concern her; that if she had appeared to care for them, it was

only to send me away; but that she wished to be happy and close her

ears, that she was thirty years of age and had not long to be loved by

me. “And you will love me a long time? Are those fine words, with which

you have beguiled me, true?” And then loving reproaches because I had

been late in coming to her; that she had put on her slippers in order

that I might see her foot, but that she was no longer beautiful; that

she could wish she were; that she had been at fifteen. She went here

and there, silly with love, rosy with joy; and she did not know what to

imagine, what to say or do, in order to give herself and all that she

had.

I was lying on the sofa; I felt, at every word she spoke, a bad hour of

my past life slipping away from me. I watched the star of love rising

in my sky, and it seemed to me I was like a tree filled with sap that

shakes off its dry leaves in order to attire itself in new foliage.

She sat down at the piano and told me she was going to play an air by

Stradella. More than all else I love sacred music, and that morceau

which she had sung for me a number of times gave me great pleasure.

“Yes,” she said when she had finished, “but you are very much mistaken,

the air is mine, and I have made you believe it was Stradella’s.”

“It is yours?”

“Yes, and I told you it was by Stradella in order to see what you would

say of it. I never play my own music when I happen to compose any; but

I wanted to try it with you, and you see it has succeeded since you were

deceived.”

What a monstrous machine is man! What could be more innocent? A bright

child might have adopted that ruse to surprise his teacher. She laughed

heartily the while, but I felt a strange coldness as if a dark cloud had

settled on me; my countenance changed:

“What is the matter?” she asked. “Are you ill?”

“It is nothing; play that air again.”

While she was playing I walked up and down the room; I passed my

hand over my forehead as if to brush away the fog; I stamped my foot,

shrugged my shoulders at my own madness; finally I sat down on a cushion

which had fallen to the floor; she came to me. The more I struggled with

the spirit of darkness which had seized me, the thicker the night that

gathered around my head.

“Verily,” I said, “you lie so well? What! that air is yours? Is it

possible you can lie so fluently?”

She looked at me with an air of astonishment.

“What is it?” she asked.

Unspeakable anxiety was depicted on her face. Surely she could not

believe me fool enough to reproach her for such a harmless bit of

pleasantry; she did not see anything serious in that sadness which I

felt; but the more trifling the cause, the greater the surprise. At

first she thought I, too, must be joking; but when she saw me growing

paler every moment as if about to faint, she stood with open lips and

bent body, looking like a statue.

“God of Heaven!” she cried, “is it possible?”

You smile, perhaps, reader, at this page; I who write it still shudder

as I think of it. Misfortunes have their symptoms as well as diseases,

and there is nothing so terrible at sea as a little black point on the

horizon.

However, my dear Brigitte drew a little round table into the centre of

the room and brought out some supper. She had prepared it herself, and

I did not drink a drop that was not first borne to her lips. The blue

light of day, piercing through the curtains, illumined her charming

face and tender eyes; she was tired and allowed her head to fall on my

shoulder with a thousand terms of endearment.

I could not struggle against such charming abandon, and my heart

expanded with joy; I believed I had rid myself of the bad dream that had

just tormented me, and I begged her pardon for giving way to a sudden

impulse which I myself did not understand.

“My friend,” I said, from the bottom of my heart, “I am very sorry that

I unjustly reproached you for a piece of innocent badinage; but if you

love me, never lie to me, even in the smallest matter, for a lie is an

abomination to me and I can not endure it.”

I told her I would remain until she was asleep. I saw her close her

beautiful eyes and heard her murmur something in her sleep as I bent

over and kissed her adieu. Then I went away with a tranquil heart,

promising myself that I would henceforth enjoy my happiness and allow

nothing to disturb it.

But the next day Brigitte said to me, as if quite by chance:

“I have a large book in which I have written my thoughts, everything

that has occurred to my mind, and I want you to see what I said of you

the first day I met you.”

We read together what concerned me, to which we added a hundred foolish

comments, after which I began to turn the leaves in a mechanical way.

A phrase written in capital letters caught my eye on one of the pages I

was turning; I distinctly saw some words that were insignificant enough,

and I was about to read the rest when Brigitte stopped me and said:

“Do not read that.”

I threw the book on the table.

“Why, certainly not,” I said, “I did not think what I was doing.”

“Do you still take things seriously?” she asked, smiling, doubtless

seeing my malady coming on again; “take the book, I want you to read

it.”

The book lay on the table within easy reach and I did not take my eyes

from it. I seemed to hear a voice whispering in my ear, and I thought

I saw, grimacing before me, with his glacial smile and dry face,

Desgenais. “What are you doing here, Desgenais?” I asked as if I really

saw him. He looked as he did that evening, when he leaned over my table

and unfolded to me his catechism of vice.

I kept my eyes on the book and I felt vaguely stirring in my memory some

forgotten words of the past. The spirit of doubt hanging over my head

had injected into my veins a drop of poison; the vapor mounted to

my head and I staggered like a drunken man. What secret was Brigitte

concealing from me? I knew very well that I had only to bend over and

open the book; but at what place? How could I recognize the leaf on

which my eye had chanced to fall?

My pride, moreover, would not permit me to take the book; was it indeed

pride? “O God!” I said to myself with a frightful sense of sadness, “is

the past a spectre? and can it come out of its tomb? Ah! wretch that I

am, can I never love?”

All my ideas of contempt for women, all the phrases of mocking fatuity

which I had repeated as a schoolboy his lesson, suddenly came to my

mind; and strange to say, while formerly I did not believe in making a

parade of them, now it seemed that they were real, or at least that they

had been.

I had known Madame Pierson four months, but I knew nothing of her past

life and had never questioned her about it. I had yielded to my love for

her with confidence and without reservation. I found a sort of pleasure

in taking her just as she was, for just what she seemed, while suspicion

and jealousy are so foreign to my nature that I was more surprised at

feeling them toward Brigitte than she was in discovering them in me.

Never in my first love nor in the affairs of daily life have I been

distrustful, but on the contrary bold and frank, suspecting nothing. I

had to see my mistress betray me before my eyes before I would believe

that she could deceive me. Desgenais himself, while preaching to me

after his manner, joked me about the ease with which I could be duped.

The story of my life was an incontestable proof that I was credulous

rather than suspicious; and when the words in that book suddenly struck

me, it seemed to me I felt a new being within me, a sort of unknown

self; my reason revolted against the feeling, and I did not dare ask

whither all this was leading me.

But the suffering I had endured, the memory of the perfidy that I had

witnessed, the frightful cure I had imposed on myself, the opinions of

my friends, the corrupt life I had led, the sad truths I had learned,

as well as those that I had unconsciously surmised during my sad

experience, ending in debauchery, contempt of love, abuse of everything,

that is what I had in my heart although I did not suspect it; and at

the moment when life and hope were again being born within me, all these

furies that were being atrophied by time seized me by the throat and

cried that they were yet alive.

I bent over and opened the book, then immediately closed it and threw

it on the table. Brigitte was looking at me; in her beautiful eyes was

neither wounded pride nor anger; nothing but tender solicitude, as if I

were ill.

“Do you think I have secrets?” she asked, embracing me.

“No,” I replied, “I know nothing except that you are beautiful and that

I would die loving you.”

When I returned home to dinner I said to Larive:

“Who is Madame Pierson?”

He looked at me in astonishment.

“You have lived here many years,” I continued; “you ought to know better

than I. What do they say of her here? What do they think of her in the

village? What kind of life did she lead before I knew her? Whom did she

receive as her friends?”

“In faith, sir, I have never seen her do otherwise than she does every

day, that is to say, walk in the valley, play picquet with her aunt,

and visit the poor. The peasants call her Brigitte la Rose; I have never

heard a word against her except that she goes through the woods alone at

all hours of the day and night; but that is when engaged in charitable

work. She is the ministering angel in the valley. As for those she

receives, there are only the cure and Monsieur de Dalens during

vacation.”

“Who is this Monsieur de Dalens?”

“He owns the chateau at the foot of the mountain on the other side; he

only comes here for the chase.”

“Is he young?”

“Yes.”

“Is he related to Madame Pierson?”

“No, he was a friend of her husband.”

“Has her husband been dead long?”

“Five years on All-Saints’ day. He was a worthy man.”

“And has this Monsieur de Dalens paid court?”

“To the widow? In faith--to tell the truth--” he stopped, embarrassed.

“Well, will you answer me?”

“Some say so and some do not--I know nothing and have seen nothing.”

“And you just told me that they do not talk about her in the country?”

“That is all they have said, and I supposed you knew that.”

“In a word, yes or no?”

“Yes, sir, I think so, at least.”

I arose from the table and walked down the road; Mercanson was there. I

expected he would try to avoid me; on the contrary he approached me.

“Sir,” he said, “you exhibited signs of anger which it does not become

a man of my character to resent. I wish to express my regret that I was

charged to communicate a message which appeared so unwelcome.”

I returned his compliment, supposing he would leave me at once; but he

walked along at my side.

“Dalens! Dalens!” I repeated between my teeth, “who will tell me about

Dalens?” For Larive had told me nothing except what a valet might learn.

From whom had he learned it? From some servant or peasant. I must have

some witness who had seen Dalens with Madame Pierson and who knew all

about their relations. I could not get that Dalens out of my head, and

not being able to talk to any one else, I asked Mercanson about him.

If Mercanson was not a bad man, he was either a fool or very shrewd, I

have never known which. It is certain that he had reason to hate me and

that he treated me as meanly as possible. Madame Pierson, who had the

greatest friendship for the cure, had almost come to think equally well

of the nephew. He was proud of it, and consequently jealous. It is not

love alone that inspires jealousy; a favor, a kind word, a smile from a

beautiful mouth, may arouse some people to jealous rage.

Mercanson appeared to be astonished. I was somewhat astonished myself;

but who knows his own mind?

At his first words I saw that the priest understood what I wanted to

know and had decided not to satisfy me.

“How does it happen that you have known Madame Pierson so long and so

intimately (I think so, at least) and have not met Monsieur de Dalens?

But, doubtless, you have some reason unknown to me for inquiring about

him to-day. All I can say is that as far as I know, he is an honest

man, kind and charitable; he was, like you, very intimate with Madame

Pierson; he is fond of hunting and entertains handsomely. He and Madame

Pierson were accustomed to devote much of their time to music. He

punctually attended to his works of charity and, when--in the country,

accompanied that lady on her rounds, just as you do. His family enjoys

an excellent reputation at Paris; I used to find him with Madame Pierson

whenever I called; his manners were excellent. As for the rest, I speak

truly and frankly, as becomes me when it concerns persons of his merit.

I believe that he only comes here for the chase; he was a friend of her

husband; he is said to be rich and very generous; but I know nothing

about it except that--”

With what tortured phrases was this dull tormentor teasing me. I was

ashamed to listen to him, yet not daring to ask a single question or

interrupt his vile insinuations. I was alone on the promenade; the

poisoned arrow of suspicion had entered my heart. I did not know whether

I felt more of anger or of sorrow. The confidence with which I had

abandoned myself to my love for Brigitte had been so sweet and so

natural that I could not bring myself to believe that so much happiness

had been built upon an illusion. That sentiment of credulity which had

attracted me to her seemed a proof that she was worthy. Was it possible

that these four months of happiness were but a dream?

But after all, I thought, that woman has yielded too easily. Was there

not deception in that pretended anxiety to have me leave the country? Is

she not just like all the rest? Yes, that is the way they all do; they

attempt to escape in order to experience the happiness of being pursued:

it is the feminine instinct. Was it not she who confessed her love by

her own act, at the very moment I had decided that she would never be

mine? Did she not accept my arm the first day I met her? If Dalens has

been her lover, he probably is still; there is a certain sort of liaison

that has neither beginning nor end; when chance ordains a meeting, it is

resumed; when parted, it is forgotten.

If that man comes here this summer, she will probably see him without

breaking with me. Who is this aunt, what mysterious life is this that

has charity for its cloak, this liberty that cares nothing for opinion?

May they not be adventurers, these two women with their little house,

their prudence, and their caution, which enable them to impose on people

so easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I have fallen into an affair of

gallantry when I thought I was engaged in a romance. But what can I do?

There is no one here who can help me except the priest, who does not

care to tell me what he knows, and his uncle, who will say still less.

Who will save me? How can I learn the truth?

Thus spoke jealousy; thus, forgetting so many tears and all that I

had suffered, I had come at the end of two days to a point where I was

tormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte had yielded too easily.

Thus, like all who doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason to

dispute with facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love.

While absorbed in these reflections I was slowly approaching Madame

Pierson’s.

I found the gate open, and as I entered the garden I saw a light in the

kitchen. I thought of questioning the servant, I stepped to the window.

A feeling of horror rooted me to the spot. The servant was an old woman,

thin and wrinkled and bent, a common deformity in people who have worked

in the fields. I found her shaking a cooking utensil over a filthy sink.

A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about her were pots,

kettles, and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffed at, from

time to time, as though ashamed; a warm, nauseating odor emanated from

the reeking walls. When the old woman caught sight of me, she smiled in

a confidential way; she had seen me take leave of her mistress.

I shuddered as I thought what I had come to seek in a spot so well

suited to my ignoble purpose. I fled from that old woman as from

jealousy personified, and as if the stench of her cooking had come from

my heart.

Brigitte was at the window watering her well-beloved flowers; a child

of one of her neighbors was lying in a cradle at her side, and she was

gently rocking the cradle with her disengaged hand; the child’s mouth

was full of bonbons, and in gurgling eloquence it was addressing an

incomprehensible apostrophe to its nurse. I sat down near her and kissed

the child on its fat cheeks, as if to imbibe some of its innocence.

Brigitte accorded me a timid greeting; she could see her troubled image

in my eyes. For my part I avoided her glance; the more I admired her

beauty and her air of candor, the more I was convinced that such a woman

was either an angel or a monster of perfidy; I forced myself to recall

each one of Mercanson’s words, and I confronted, so to speak, the man’s

insinuations with her presence and her face. “She is very beautiful,” I

said to myself, “and very dangerous if she knows how, to deceive; but

I will fathom her and I will sound her heart; and she shall know who I

am.”

“My dear,” I said after a long silence, “I have just given a piece of

advice to a friend who consulted me. He is an honest young man, and he

writes me that a woman he loves has another lover. He asks me what he

ought to do.”

“What reply did you make?”

“Two questions: Is she pretty? Do you love her? If you love her,

forget her; if she is pretty and you do not love her, keep her for

your pleasure; there will always be time to quit her, if it is merely a

matter of beauty, and one is worth as much as another.”

Hearing me speak thus, Brigitte put down the child she was holding and

sat down at the other end of the room. There was no light in the room;

the moon, which was shining on the spot where she had been standing,

threw a shadow over the sofa on which she was now seated. The words I

had uttered were so heartless, so cruel, that I was dazed myself, and my

heart was filled with bitterness. The child in its cradle began to cry.

Then all three of us were silent while a cloud passed over the moon.

A servant entered the room with a light and carried the child away. I

arose, Brigitte also; but she suddenly placed her hand on her heart and

fell to the floor.

I hastened to her side; she had not lost consciousness and begged me

not to call any one. She explained that she was subject to violent

palpitation of the heart and had been troubled by fainting spells from

her youth; that there was no danger and no remedy. I kneeled beside

her; she sweetly opened her arms; I raised her head and placed it on my

shoulder.

“Ah! my friend,” she said, “I pity you.”

“Listen to me,” I whispered in her ear, “I am a wretched fool, but I can

keep nothing on my heart. Who is this Monsieur de Dalens who lives on

the mountain and comes to see you?”

She appeared astonished to hear me mention that name.

“Dalens?” she replied. “He was my husband’s friend.”

She looked at me as if to inquire: “Why do you ask?” It seemed to me

that her face wore a grieved expression. I bit my lips. “If she wants to

deceive me,” I thought, “I was foolish to question her.”

Brigitte rose with difficulty; she took her fan and began to walk up and

down the room.

She was breathing hard; I had wounded her. She was absorbed in thought

and we exchanged two or three glances that were almost cold. She stepped

to her desk, opened it, drew out a package of letters tied together with

a ribbon, and threw it at my feet without a word.

But I was looking neither at her nor her letters; I had just thrown a

stone into the abyss and was listening to the echoes. For the first

time offended pride was depicted on Brigitte’s face. There was no longer

either anxiety or pity in her eyes, and, just as I had come to feel

myself other than I had ever been, so I saw in her a woman I did not

know.

“Read that,” she said, finally. I stepped up to her and took her hand.

“Read that, read that!” she repeated in freezing tones.

I took the letters. At that moment I felt so persuaded of her innocence

that I was seized with remorse.

“You remind me,” she said, “that I owe you the story of my life; sit

down and you shall learn it. You will open these drawers, and you will

read all that I have written and all that has been written to me.”

She sat down and motioned me to a chair. I saw that she found it

difficult to speak. She was pale as death, her voice constrained, her

throat swollen.

“Brigitte! Brigitte!” I cried, “in the name of heaven, do not speak! God

is my witness I was not born such as you see me; during my life I have

been neither suspicious nor distrustful. I have been undone, my heart

has been seared by the treachery of others. A frightful experience has

led me to the very brink of the precipice, and for a year I have seen

nothing but evil here below. God is my witness that, up to this day,

I did not believe myself capable of playing the ignoble role I have

assumed, the meanest role of all, that of a jealous lover. God is my

witness that I love you and that you are the only one in the world who

can cure me of the past.

“I have had to do, up to this time, with women who deceived me, or who

were unworthy of love. I have led the life of a libertine; I bear on

my heart certain marks that will never be effaced. Is it my fault if

calumny, and base suggestion, to-day planted in a heart whose fibres

were still trembling with pain and ready to assimilate all that

resembles sorrow, have driven me to despair? I have just heard the name

of a man I have never met, of whose existence I was ignorant; I have

been given to understand that there has been between you and him a

certain intimacy, which proves nothing. I do not intend to question you;

I have suffered from it, I have confessed to you, and I have done you an

irreparable wrong. But rather than consent to what you propose, I will

throw it all in the fire. Ah! my friend, do not degrade me; do not

attempt to justify yourself, do not punish me for suffering. How could

I, in the bottom of my heart, suspect you of deceiving me? No, you are

beautiful and you are true; a single glance of yours, Brigitte, tells me

more than words could utter and I am content. If you knew what horrors,

what monstrous deceit, the man who stands before you has seen! If you

knew how he has been treated, how they have mocked at all that is good,

how they have taken pains to teach him all that leads to doubt, to

jealousy, to despair!

“Alas! alas! my dear mistress, if you knew whom you love! Do not

reproach me, but rather pity me; I must forget that other beings than

you exist. Who can know through what frightful trials, through what

pitiless suffering I have passed! I did not expect this, I did not

anticipate this moment. Since you have become mine, I realize what I

have done; I have felt, in kissing you, that my lips were not, like

yours, unsullied. In the name of heaven, help me live! God made me a

better man than the one you see before you.”

Brigitte held out her hands and caressed me tenderly. She begged me

to tell her all that had led to this sad scene. I spoke of what I had

learned from Larive, but did not dare confess that I had interviewed

Mercanson. She insisted that I listen to her explanation. M. de Dalens

had loved her; but he was a man of frivolous disposition, dissipated

and inconstant; she had given him to understand that, not wishing to

remarry, she could only request that he drop the role of suitor, and

he had yielded to her wishes with good grace; but his visits had become

more rare since that time, until now they had ceased altogether. She

drew from the bundle a certain letter which she showed me, the date

of which was recent; I could not help blushing as I found in it the

confirmation of all she had said; she assured me that she pardoned me,

and exacted a promise that in the future I would promptly tell her of

any cause I might have to suspect her. Our treaty was sealed with a

kiss, and when I left her we had both forgotten that M. de Dalens ever

existed.

CHAPTER II. UNCERTAINTY

A kind of stagnant inertia, tempered with bitter joy, is characteristic

of debauchery. It is the sequence of a life of caprice, where nothing is

regulated according to the needs of the body, but everything according

to the fantasy of the mind, and one must be always ready to obey the

behests of the other. Youth and will can resist excess; but nature

silently avenges herself, and the day when she decides to repair her

forces, the will struggles to retard her work and abuses her anew.

Finding about him then all the objects that were able to tempt him the

evening before, the man who is incapable of enjoying them looks down at

them with a smile of disgust. At the same time the objects which excite

his desire are never attained with sang-froid; all that the debauches

loves, he seizes; his life is a fever; his organs, in order to search

the depths of joy, are forced to avail themselves of the stimulant of

fermented liquors and sleepless nights; in the days of ennui and of

idleness he feels more keenly than other men the disparity between his

impotence and his temptations, and, in order to resist the latter, pride

must come to his aid and make him believe that he disdains them. It

is thus he spits on all the feasts and pleasures of his life, and so,

between an ardent thirst and a profound satiety, a feeling of tranquil

vanity leads him to his death.

Although I was no longer a debauches, it came to pass that my body

suddenly remembered that it had been. It is easy to understand why I

had not felt the effects of it sooner. While mourning my father’s death

every other thought was crowded from my mind. Then a passionate love

succeeded; while I was alone, ennui had nothing to struggle for. Sad or

gay, fair or foul, what matters it to him who is alone?

As zinc, rarely found unmixed, drawn from the vein where it lies

sleeping, attracts to itself a ray of light when placed near green

leather, thus Brigitte’s kisses gradually awakened in my heart what had

been buried there. At her side I perceived what I really was.

There were days when I felt such a strange sensation in the mornings

that it is impossible for me to define it. I awakened without a motive,

feeling like a man who has spent the night in eating and drinking to

the point of exhaustion. All external sensations caused me insupportable

fatigue, all well-known objects of daily life repelled and annoyed

me; if I spoke it was in ridicule of what others thought or of what

I thought myself. Then, extended on the bed, as if incapable of any

motion, I dismissed any thought of undertaking whatever had been agreed

upon the evening before; I recalled all the tender and loving things I

had said to my mistress during my better moments, and was not satisfied

until I had spoiled and poisoned those memories of happy days. “Can you

not forget all that?” Brigitte would sadly inquire, “if there are two

different men in you, can you not, when the bad rouses himself, forget

the good?”

The patience with which Brigitte opposed these vagaries only served to

excite my sinister gayety. Strange that the man who suffers wishes to

make her whom he loves suffer! To lose control of one’s self, is that

not the worst of evils? Is there anything more cruel for a woman than to

hear a man turn to derision all that is sacred and mysterious? Yet she

did not flee from me; she remained at my side, while in my savage humor

I insulted love and allowed insane ravings to escape from lips that were

still moist with her kisses.

On such days, contrary to my usual inclination, I liked to talk of Paris

and speak of my life of debauchery as the most commendable thing in the

world. “You are nothing but a saint,” I would laughingly observe; “you

do not understand what I say. There is nothing like those careless ones

who make love without believing in it.” Was that not the same as saying

that I did not believe in it?

“Very well,” Brigitte replied, “teach me how to please you always. I

am perhaps as pretty as those mistresses whom you mourn; if I have not

their skill to divert you, I beg that you will instruct me. Act as if

you did not love me, and let me love you without saying anything about

it. If I am devoted to religion, I am also devoted to love. What can I

do to make you believe it?”

Then she would stand before the mirror arraying herself as if for a

soiree, affecting a coquetry that she was far from feeling, trying

to adopt my tone, laughing and skipping about the room. “Am I to your

taste?” she would ask. “Which one of your mistresses do I resemble? Am

I beautiful, enough to make you forget that any one can believe in love?

Have I a sufficiently careless air to suit you?” Then, in the midst of

that factitious joy, she would turn her back and I could see her shudder

until the flowers she had placed in her hair trembled. I threw myself at

her feet.

“Stop!” I cried, “you resemble only too closely that which you try to

imitate, that which my mouth has been so vile as to conjure up before

you. Lay aside those flowers and that dress. Let us wash away such

mimicry with a sincere tear; do not remind me that I am but a prodigal

son; I remember the past too well.”

But even this repentance was cruel, as it proved to her that the

phantoms in my heart were full of reality. In yielding to an impulse

of horror I merely gave her to understand that her resignation and her

desire to please me only served to call up an impure image.

And it was true; I reached her side transported with joy, swearing that

I would regret my past life; on my knees I protested my respect for

her; then a gesture, a word, a trick of turning as she approached me,

recalled to my mind the fact that such and such a woman had made that

gesture, had used that word, had that same trick of turning.

Poor devoted soul! What didst thou suffer in seeing me turn pale before

thee, in seeing my arms fall as though lifeless at my side! When the

kiss died on my lips, and the full glance of love, that pure ray of

God’s light, fled from my eyes like an arrow turned by the wind! Ah!

Brigitte! what diamonds trickled from thine eyes! What treasures of

charity didst thou exhaust with patient hand! How pitiful thy love!

For a long time good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly;

I showed myself alternately cruel and scornful, tender and devoted,

insensible and haughty, repentant and submissive. The face of Desgenais,

which had at first appeared to me as though to warn me whither I

was drifting, was now constantly before me. On my days of doubt and

coldness, I conversed, so to speak, with him; often when I had offended

Brigitte by some cruel mockery I said to myself “If he were in my place

he would do as I do!”

And then at other times, when putting on my hat to visit Brigitte, I

would look in my glass and say: “What is there so terrible about it,

anyway? I have, after all, a pretty mistress; she has given herself to

a libertine, let her take me for what I am.” I reached her side with

a smile on my lips, I sank into a chair with an air of deliberate

insolence; then I saw Brigitte approach, her large eyes filled with

tenderness and anxiety; I seized her little hands in mine and lost

myself in an infinite dream.

How name a thing that is nameless? Was I good or bad? Was I distrustful

or a fool? It is useless to reflect on it; it happened thus.

One of our neighbors was a young woman whose name was Madame Daniel. She

possessed some beauty, and still more coquetry; she was poor, but tried

to pass for rich; she would come to see us after dinner and always

played a heavy game against us, although her losses embarrassed her; she

sang, but had no voice. In the solitude of that unknown village, where

an unkind fate had buried her, she was consumed with an uncontrollable

passion for pleasure. She talked of nothing but Paris, which she visited

two or three times a year. She pretended to keep up with the fashions,

and my dear Brigitte assisted her as best she could, while smiling with

pity. Her husband was employed by the government; once a year he would

take her to the house of the chief of his department, where, attired

in her best, the little woman danced to her heart’s content. She would

return with shining eyes and tired body; she would come to us to tell of

her prowess, and her success in assaulting the masculine heart. The rest

of the time she read novels, never taking the trouble to look after her

household affairs, which were not always in the best condition.

Whenever I saw her, I laughed at her, finding nothing so ridiculous

as the high life she thought she was leading. I would interrupt

her description of a ball to inquire about her husband and her

father-in-law, both of whom she detested, the one because he was her

husband, and the other because he was only a peasant; in short, we were

always disputing on some subject.

In my evil moments I thought of paying court to her just for the sake of

annoying Brigitte.

“You see,” I said, “how perfectly Madame Daniel understands life! In her

present sprightly humor could one desire a more charming mistress?”

I then paid her the most extravagant compliments; her senseless

chatting I described as unrestraint tempered by finesse, her pretentious

exaggerations as a natural desire to please; was it her fault that she

was poor? At least she thought of nothing but pleasure and confessed it

freely; she did not preach sermons herself, nor did she listen to them

from others; I went so far as to tell Brigitte that she ought to adopt

her as a model, and that she was just the kind of woman to please me.

Poor Madame Daniel discovered signs of melancholy in Brigitte’s eyes.

She was a strange creature, as good and sincere--when you could

get finery out of her head--as she was stupid when absorbed in such

frivolous affairs. On occasion she could be both good and stupid.

One fine day, when they were walking together, she threw herself into

Brigitte’s arms, and told her that she had noticed I was beginning to

pay court to her, and that I had made certain proposals to her, the

meaning of which was not doubtful; but she knew that I was another’s

lover, and as for her, whatever might happen, she would die rather than

destroy the happiness of a friend. Brigitte thanked her, and Madame

Daniel, having set her conscience at ease, considered it no sin to

render me desolate by languishing glances.

In the evening, when she had gone, Brigitte, in a severe tone, told

me what had happened; she begged me to spare her such affronts in the

future.

“Not that I attach any importance to such pleasantries,” she said, “but

if you have any love for me, it seems to me it is useless to inform a

third party that there are times when you have not.”

“Is it possible,” I replied with a smile, “that it is important? You see

very well that I was only joking, and that I did it only to pass away

the time.”

“Ah! my friend, my friend,” said Brigitte, “it is a pity that you must

seek pastimes.”

A few days later I proposed that we go to the prefecture to see Madame

Daniel dance; she unwillingly consented. While she was arranging her

toilette, I sat near the window and reproached her for losing her former

cheerfulness.

“What is the matter with you?” I asked. (I knew as well as she.) “Why

that morose air that never leaves you? In truth, you make our life quite

sad. I have known you when you were more joyous, more free and more

open; I am not flattered by the thought that I am responsible for the

change. But you have a cloistral disposition; you were born to live in a

convent.”

It was Sunday; as we were driving down the road Brigitte ordered the

carriage to stop in order to say good-evening to some friends, fresh and

vigorous country girls, who were going to dance at Tilleuls. When they

had gone on, Brigitte followed them with, longing eyes; her little

rustic dance was very dear to her; she dried her eyes with her

handkerchief.

We found Madame Daniel at the prefecture in high feather. I danced with

her so often that it excited comment; I paid her a thousand compliments

and she replied as best she could.

Brigitte was near us, and her eyes never left us. I can hardly describe

what I felt; it was both pleasure and pain. I clearly saw that she was

jealous; but instead of being moved by it I did all I could to increase

her suffering.

On the return I expected to hear her reproaches; she made none, but

remained silent for three days. When I came to see her she would

greet me kindly; then we would sit down facing each other, both of

us preoccupied, hardly exchanging a word. The third day she spoke,

overwhelmed me with bitter reproaches, told me that my conduct

was unreasonable, that she could not account for it except on the

supposition that I had ceased to love her; but she could not endure this

life and would resort to anything rather than submit to my caprices and

coldness. Her eyes were full of tears, and I was about to ask her pardon

when some words escaped her that were so bitter that my pride revolted.

I replied in the same tone, and our quarrel became violent.

I told her that it was absurd to suppose that I could not inspire enough

confidence in my mistress to escape the necessity of explaining my every

action; that Madame Daniel was only a pretext; that she very well knew

I did not think of that woman seriously; that her pretended jealousy was

nothing but the expression of her desire for despotic power, and that,

moreover, if she had tired of this life, it was easy enough to put an

end to it.

“Very well,” she replied; “it is true that I do not recognize you as

the same man I first knew; you doubtless performed a little comedy to

persuade me that you loved me; you are tired of your role and can think

of nothing but abuse. You suspect me of deceiving you upon the first

word, and I am under no obligation to submit to your insults. You are no

longer the man I loved.”

“I know what your sufferings are,” I replied. “I can not make a step

without exciting your alarm. Soon I shall not be permitted to address a

word to any one but you. You pretend that you have been abused in order

that you may be justified in offering insult; you accuse me of tyranny

in order that I may become your slave. Since I trouble your repose, I

leave you in peace; you will never see me again.”

We parted in anger, and I passed an entire day without seeing her. The

next night, toward midnight, I was seized by a feeling of melancholy

that I could not resist. I shed a torrent of tears; I overwhelmed myself

with reproaches that I richly deserved. I told myself that I was nothing

but a fool, and a cowardly fool at that, to make the noblest, the best

of creatures, suffer in this way. I ran to her to throw myself at her

feet.

Entering the garden, I saw that her room was lighted and a flash of

suspicion crossed my mind. “She does not expect me at this hour,” I

said to myself; “who knows what she may be doing. I left her in tears

yesterday; I may find her ready to sing to-day and caring no more for me

than if I never existed. I must enter gently, in order to surprise her.”

I advanced on tiptoe, and the door being open, I could see Brigitte

without being seen.

She was seated at her table and was writing in that same book that had

aroused my suspicions. She held in her left hand a little box of white

wood which she looked at from time to time and trembled. There was

something sinister in the quiet that reigned in the room. Her secretary

was open and several bundles of papers were carefully ranged in order.

I made some noise at the door. She rose, went to the secretary, closed

it, then came to me with a smile:

“Octave,” she said, “we are two children. If you had not come here, I

should have gone to you. Pardon me, I was wrong. Madame Daniel comes

to dinner to-morrow; make me repent, if you choose, of what you call my

despotism. If you but love me I am happy; let us forget what is past and

let us not spoil our happiness.”

CHAPTER III. EXPLANATIONS

But quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation; it

was attended, on Brigitte’s part, by a mystery which frightened me at

first and then planted in my soul the seeds of constant dread.

There developed in me, in spite of my struggles, the two elements of

misfortune which the past had bequeathed me: at times furious jealousy

attended by reproaches and insults; at other times a cruel gayety, an

affected cheerfulness, that mockingly outraged whatever I held most

dear. Thus the inexorable spectres of the past pursued me without

respite; thus Brigitte, seeing herself treated alternately as a

faithless mistress and a shameless woman, fell into a condition of

melancholy that clouded our entire life; and worst of all, that sadness

even, the cause of which I knew, was not the most burdensome of our

sorrows. I was young and I loved pleasure; that daily association with

a woman older than I, who suffered and languished, that face, more and

more serious, which was always before me, all this repelled my youth and

aroused within me bitter regrets for the liberty I had lost.

One night we were passing through the forest in the beautiful light of

the moon, and both experienced a profound melancholy. Brigitte looked

at me in pity. We sat down on a rock near a wild gorge and passed two

entire hours there; her half-veiled eyes plunged into my soul, crossing

a glance from mine; then wandered to nature, to the heavens and the

valley.

“Ah! my dear child,” she said, “how I pity you! You do not love me.”

To reach that rock we had to travel two leagues; two more in returning

makes four. Brigitte was afraid of neither fatigue nor darkness. We

set out at eleven at night, expecting to reach home some time in the

morning. When we went on long tramps she always dressed in a blue blouse

and the apparel of a man, saying that skirts were not made for bushes.

She walked before me in the sand with a firm step and such a charming

mingling of feminine delicacy and childlike innocence, that I stopped

every few moments to look at her. It seemed that, once started, she had

to accomplish a difficult but sacred task; she walked in front like a

soldier, her arms swinging, her voice ringing through the woods in song;

suddenly she would turn, come to me and kiss me. This was on the

outward journey; on the return she leaned on my arm; then more songs,

confidences, tender avowals in low tones, although we were alone, two

leagues from anywhere. I do not recall a single word spoken on the

return that was not of love or friendship.

Another night we struck out through the woods, leaving the road which

led to the rock. Brigitte was tramping along so stoutly and her little

velvet cap on her light hair made her look so much like a resolute

youth, that I forgot she was a woman when there were no obstacles in

our path. More than once she was obliged to call me to her aid when I,

without thinking of her, had pushed on ahead. I can not describe the

effect produced on me in the clear night air, in the midst of the

forest, by that voice of hers, half-joyous and half-plaintive, coming,

as it were, from that little schoolboy body wedged in between roots and

trunks of trees, unable to advance. I took her in my arms.

“Come, Madame,” I cried, laughing, “you are a pretty little mountaineer,

but you are blistering your white hands, and in spite of your hobnailed

shoes, your stick and your martial air, I see that you must be carried.”

We arrived at the rock breathless; about my body was strapped a leather

belt to which was attached a wicker bottle. When we were seated on the

rock, my dear Brigitte asked for the bottle; I had lost it, as well as

a tinder-box which served another purpose: that was to read the

inscriptions on the guide-posts when we went astray, which occurred

frequently. At such times I would climb the posts, and read the

half-effaced inscription by the light of the tinder-box; all this in

play, like the children that we were. At a crossroad we would have

to examine not one guide-post but five or six until the right one was

found. But this time we had lost our baggage on the way.

“Very well,” said Brigitte, “we will pass the night here, as I am rather

tired. This rock will make a hard bed, but we can cover it with dry

leaves. Let us sit down and make the best of it.”

The night was superb; the moon was rising behind us; I looked at it over

my left shoulder. Brigitte was watching the lines of the wooded hills as

they began to outline themselves against the background of sky. As

the light flooded the copse and threw its halo over sleeping nature,

Brigitte’s song became more gentle and more melancholy. Then she bent

over, and, throwing her arms around my neck, said:

“Do not think that I do not understand your heart or that I would

reproach you for what you make me suffer. It is not your fault, my

friend, if you have not the power to forget your past life; you have

loved me in good faith and I shall never regret, although I should die

for it, the day I gave myself to you. You thought you were entering upon

a new life, and that with me you would forget the women who had deceived

you. Alas! Octave, I used to smile at that precocious experience which

you said you had been through, and of which I heard you boast like a

child who knows nothing of life. I thought I had but to will it, and all

that there was that was good in your heart would come to your lips with

my first kiss. You, too, believed it, but we were both mistaken.

“Oh, my child! You have in your heart a plague that can not be cured;

that woman who deceived you, how you must have loved her! Yes, more

than you love me, alas! much more, since with all my poor love I can not

efface her image; she must have deceived you most cruelly, since it is

in vain that I am faithful!

“And the others, those wretches who then poisoned your youth! The

pleasures they sold must have been terrible since you ask me to imitate

them! You remember them with me! Alas! my dear child, that is too cruel.

I like you better when you are unjust and furious, when you reproach me

for imaginary crimes and avenge on me the wrong done you by others,

than when you are under the influence of that frightful gayety, when you

assume that air of hideous mockery, when that mask of scorn affronts my

eyes.

“Tell me, Octave, why that? Why those moments when you speak of love

with contempt and rail at the most sacred mysteries of love? What

frightful power over your irritable nerves has that life you have led,

that such insults should mount to your lips in spite of you? Yes, in

spite of you; for your heart is noble, you blush at your own blasphemy;

you love me too much, not to suffer when you see me suffer. Ah! I know

you now. The first time I saw you thus, I was seized with a feeling of

terror of which I can give you no idea. I thought you were only a roue,

that you had deliberately deceived me by feigning a love you did not

feel, and that I saw you such as you really were. O my friend! I thought

it was time to die; what a night I passed! You do not know my life; you

do not know that I who speak to you have had an experience as terrible

as yours. Alas! life is sweet only to those who do not know life.

“You are not, my dear Octave, the only man I have loved. There is hidden

in my heart a fatal story that I wish you to know. My father destined

me, when I was quite young, for the only son of an old friend. They were

neighbors and each owned a little domain of almost equal value. The two

families saw each other every day, and lived, so to speak, together. My

father died; my mother had been dead some time. I lived with the aunt

whom you know. A journey she was compelled to take forced her to confide

me to the care of my future father-in-law. He called me his daughter,

and it was so well known about the country that I was to marry his son

that we were allowed the greatest liberty together.

“That young man, whose name you need not know, appeared to love me. What

had been friendship from infancy became love in time. He began to tell

me of the happiness that awaited us; he spoke of his impatience, I was

only one year younger than he; but he had made the acquaintance of a man

of dissipated habits who lived in the vicinity, a sort of adventurer,

and had listened to his evil suggestions. While I was yielding to his

caresses with the confidence of a child, he resolved to deceive his

father, and to abandon me after he had ruined me.

“His father called us into his room one evening and, in the presence of

the family, set the day of our wedding. The very evening before that day

he had met me in the garden and had spoken to me of love with more force

than usual; he said that since the time was set, we were just the same

as married, and for that matter had been in the eyes of God, ever since

our birth. I have no other excuse to offer than my youth, my ignorance,

and my confidence in him. I gave myself to him before becoming his wife,

and eight days afterward he left his father’s house. He fled with a

woman his new friend had introduced to him; he wrote that he had gone to

Germany and that we should never see him again.

“That is, in a word, the story of my life; my husband knew it as you now

know it. I am proud, my child, and I have sworn that no man shall ever

make me again suffer what I suffered then. I saw you and forgot my oath,

but not my sorrow. You must treat me gently; if you are sick, I am also;

we must care for each other. You see, Octave, I, too, know what it is to

call up memories of the past. It inspires me at times with cruel terror;

I should have more courage than you, for perhaps I have suffered more.

It is my place to begin; my heart is not sure of itself, I am still very

feeble; my life in this village was so tranquil before you came! I had

promised myself that it should never change! All this makes me exacting.

“Ah! well, it does not matter, I am yours. You have told me, in your

better moments, that Providence appointed me to watch over you as a

mother. Yes, when you make me suffer I do not look upon you as a lover,

but as a sick child, fretful and rebellious, that I must care for and

cure in order that I may always keep him and love him. May God give me

that power!” she added looking up to heaven. “May God who sees me, who

hears us, may the God of mothers and of lovers permit me to accomplish

that task! When I feel as if I should sink under it, when my pride

rebels, when my heart is breaking, when all my life--”

She could not finish; her tears choked her. Oh, God! I saw her there on

her knees, her hands clasped on the rock; she swayed in the breeze as

did the bushes about us. Frail and sublime creature! she prayed for her

love. I raised her in my arms.

“Oh! my only friend,” I cried, “oh! my mistress, my mother, and my

sister! Pray also for me that I may be able to love you as you deserve.

Pray that I may have the courage to live; that my heart may be cleansed

in your tears; that it may become a holy offering before God and that we

may share it together.”

All was silent about us; above our heads spread the heavens resplendent

with stars.

“Do you remember,” I said, “do you remember the first day?”

From that night we never returned to that spot. That rock was an altar

which has retained its purity; it is one of the visions of my life, and

it still passes before my eyes wreathed in spotless white.

CHAPTER IV. BRIGITTE’S LOSS

As I was crossing the public square one evening I saw two men standing

together; one of them said:

“It appears to me that he has ill-treated her.”

“It is her fault,” replied the other; “why choose such a man? He has

known only public women; she is paying the price of her folly.”

I advanced in the darkness to see who was speaking thus, and to hear

more if possible; but they passed on as soon as they spied me.

I found Brigitte much disturbed; her aunt was seriously ill; she had

time for only a few words with me. I did not see her for an entire week;

I knew that she had summoned a physician from Paris; finally she sent

for me.

“My aunt is dead,” she said; “I lose the only one left me on earth, I am

now alone in the world, and I am going to leave the country.”

“Am I, then, nothing to you?”

“Yes, my friend; you know that I love you, and I often believe that you

love me. But how can I count on you? I am your mistress, alas! but you

are not my lover. It is for you that Shakespeare has written these sad

words: ‘Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very

opal.’ And I, Octave,” she added, pointing to her mourning costume,

“I am reduced to a single color, and I shall not change it for a long

time.”

“Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or I will

follow you. Ah! Brigitte,” I continued, throwing myself on my knees

before her, “you thought you were alone when your aunt died! That is the

most cruel punishment you could inflict on me; never have I so keenly

felt the misery of my love for you. You must retract those terrible

words; I deserve them, but they will kill me. Oh, God! can it be true

that I count for nothing in your life, or that I am an influence in your

life only because of the evil I have done you!”

“I do not know,” she said, “who is busying himself in our affairs;

certain insinuations, mixed with idle gossip, have been set afloat in

the village and in the neighboring country. Some say that I have been

ruined; others accuse me of imprudence and folly; others represent you

as a cruel and dangerous man. Some one has spied into our most secret

thoughts; things that I thought no one else knew, events in your life

and sad scenes to which they have led, are known to others; my poor

aunt spoke to me about it not long ago, and she knew it some time before

speaking to me. Who knows but that that has hastened her death?

“When I meet my old friends in the street, they either treat me coldly,

or turn aside. Even my dear peasant girls, those good girls who love

me so much, shrug their shoulders when they see my place empty at the

Sunday afternoon balls. How has that come about? I do not know, nor do

you, I suppose; but I must go away, I can not endure it. And my aunt’s

death, so sudden, so unexpected, above all, this solitude! this empty

room! Courage fails me; my friend, my friend, do not abandon me!”

She wept; in an adjoining room I saw her household goods in disorder, a

trunk on the floor, everything indicating preparations for departure. It

was evident that, at the time of her aunt’s death, Brigitte had tried

to go away without seeing me, but could not. She was so overwhelmed with

emotion that she could hardly speak; her condition was pitiful, and it

was I who had brought her to it. Not only was she unhappy, but she was

insulted in public, and the man who ought to be her support and her

consolation in such an hour was the cause of all her troubles.

I felt the wrong I had done her so keenly that I was overcome with

shame. After so many promises, so much useless exaltation, so many plans

and hopes, what had I, in fact, accomplished in three months? I thought

I had a treasure in my heart, and out of it came nothing but malice, the

shadow of a dream, and the misfortune of a woman I adored. For the first

time I found myself really face to face with myself. Brigitte reproached

me for nothing; she had tried to go away and could not; she was ready to

suffer still. I suddenly asked myself whether I ought not to leave her,

whether it was not my duty to flee from her and rid her of the scourge

of my presence.

I arose, and, passing into the next room, sat down on Brigitte’s trunk.

There I leaned my head on my hand and sat motionless. I looked about me

at the confused piles of goods. Alas! I knew them all; my heart was

not so hardened that it could not be moved by the memories which they

awakened. I began to calculate all the harm I had done; I saw my dear

Brigitte walking under the lindens with her goat beside her.

“O man!” I mused, “and by what right?--how dared you come to this house,

and lay hands on this woman? Who has ordained that she should suffer for

you? You array yourself in fine linen, and set out, sleek and happy,

for the home where your mistress languishes; you throw yourself upon the

cushions where she has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, and

you gently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You think

it no evil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in your

deliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes from

a suit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy in making sport of

suffering; you find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments in

committing murder by means of little pin pricks.

“What will you say to the living God, when your work is finished? What

will become of the woman who loves you? Where will you fall while she

leans on you for support? With what face will you one day bury your pale

and wretched creature, just as she buried the last man who protected

her? Yes, yes, you will doubtless have to bury her, for your love kills

and consumes; you have devoted her to the Furies and it is she who

appeases them. If you follow that woman you will be the cause of her

death. Take care! her guardian angel hesitates; he has just knocked at

the door of this house, in order to frighten away a fatal and shameful

passion! He inspired Brigitte with the idea of flight; at this moment he

may be whispering in her ear his final warning. O assassin! O murderer!

Beware! it is a matter of life and death.”

Thus I communed with myself; then on the sofa I caught sight of a little

gingham dress, folded and ready to be packed in the trunk. It had been a

witness of our happy days. I took it up and examined it.

“Must I leave you?” I said to it; “Must I lose you? O little dress,

would you go away without me?”

No, I can not abandon Brigitte; in these circumstances it would be

cowardly. She has just lost her aunt, and is all alone; she is exposed

to the power of I know not what enemy. Can it be Mercanson? He may have

spoken of my conversation with him, and, seeing that I was jealous of

Dalens, may have guessed the rest. Assuredly he is the snake who has

been hissing about my well-beloved flower. I must punish him, and I

must repair the wrong I have done Brigitte. Fool that I am! I think of

leaving her, when I ought to consecrate my life to her, to the expiation

of my sins, to rendering her happy after the tears I have drawn from her

eyes-when I am her only support in the world, her only friend, her

only protector! when I ought to follow her to the end of the world, to

shelter her with my body, to console her for having loved me, for having

given herself to me!

“Brigitte!” I cried, returning to her room, “wait an hour for me, and I

will return.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Wait for me,” I replied, “do not set out without me. Remember the words

of Ruth: ‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will

lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou

diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.”’

I left her precipitately, and rushed out to find Mercanson. I was told

that he had gone out, and I entered his house to wait for him.

I sat in the corner of the room on a priest’s chair before a dirty black

table. I was becoming impatient when I recalled my duel on account of my

first mistress.

“I received a wound from a bullet and am still a fool,” I said to

myself. “What have I come to do here? This priest will not fight; if I

seek a quarrel with him, he will say that his priestly robes forbid, and

he will continue his vile gossip when I have gone. Moreover, for what

can I hold him responsible? What is it that has disturbed Brigitte? They

say that her reputation has been sullied, that I ill-treat her, and that

she ought not to submit to it. What stupidity! That concerns no one;

there is nothing to do but allow them to talk; in such a case, to notice

an insult is to give it importance.

“Is it possible to prevent provincials from talking about their

neighbors? Can any one prevent a gossip from maligning a woman who

loves? What measures can be taken to stop a public rumor? If they say

that I ill-treat her, it is for me--to prove the contrary by my conduct

with her, and not by violence. It would be as ridiculous to seek a

quarrel with Mercanson as to leave the country on account of gossip. No,

we must not leave the country; that would be a bad move; that would be

to say to all the world that there is truth in its idle rumors, and to

give excuse to the gossips. We must neither go away nor take any notice

of such things.”

I returned to Brigitte. A half hour had passed, and I had changed my

mind three times. I dissuaded her from her plans; I told her what I had

just done and why I had not carried out my first impulse. She listened

resignedly, yet she wished to go away; the house where her aunt had died

had become odious to her. Much effort and persuasion on my part were

required to get her to consent to remain; finally I accomplished it. We

repeated that we would despise the world, that we would yield nothing,

that we would not change our manner of life. I swore that my love should

console her for all her sorrows, and she pretended to hope for the best.

I told her that this circumstance had so enlightened me in the matter

of the wrongs I had done her, that my conduct would prove my repentance,

that I would drive from me as a phantom all the evil that remained in my

heart; that hence forth she should not be offended either by my pride or

by my caprices; and thus, sad and patient, her arms around my neck, she

yielded obedience to the pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash

of reason.

One day I saw a little chamber she called her oratory; there was no

furniture except a prie-dieu and a little altar with a cross and some

vases of flowers. As for the rest, the walls and curtains were as white

as snow. She shut herself up in that room at times, but rarely since I

had known her.

I stepped to the door and saw Brigitte seated on the floor in the middle

of the room, surrounded by the flowers she was throwing here and there.

She held in her hand a little wreath that appeared to be made of dried

grass, and she was breaking it in pieces.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She trembled and stood up.

“It is nothing but a child’s plaything,” she said; “it is a rose wreath

that has faded here in the oratory; I have come here to change my

flowers, as I have not attended to them for some time.”

Her voice trembled, and she appeared to be about to faint. I recalled

that name of Brigitte la Rose that I had heard given her. I asked her

whether it was not her crown of roses that she had just broken thus.

“No,” she replied, turning pale.

“Yes,” I cried, “yes, on my life! Give me the pieces.”

I gathered them up and placed them on the altar, then I was silent, my

eyes fixed on the offering.

“Was I not right,” she asked, “if it was my crown, to take it from the

wall where it has hung so long?

“Of what use are these remains? Brigitte la Rose is no more, nor the

flowers that baptized her.” She went out. I heard her sobs, and the door

closed on me; I fell on my knees and wept bitterly. When I returned to

her room, I found her waiting for me; dinner was ready. I took my place

in silence, and not a word was said of what was in our hearts.

CHAPTER V. A TORTURED SOUL

It was Mercanson who had repeated in the village and in the chateau my

conversation with him about Dalens and the suspicions that, in spite of

myself, I had allowed him clearly to see. Every one knows how bad news

travels in the provinces, flying from mouth to mouth and growing as it

flies; that is what had happened in this case.

Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face with each other in a

new position. However feebly she may have tried to flee, she had

nevertheless made the attempt. It was on account of my prayers that

she remained; there was an obligation implied. I was under oath not

to grieve her either by my jealousy or my levity; every thoughtless or

mocking word that escaped me was a sin, every sorrowful glance from her

was a reproach acknowledged and merited.

Her simple good-nature gave a charm even to solitude; she could see

me now at all hours without resorting to any precaution. Perhaps she

consented to this arrangement in order to prove to me that she valued

her love more highly than her reputation; she seemed to regret having

shown that she cared for the representations of malice. At any rate,

instead of making any attempt to disarm criticism or thwart curiosity,

we lived the freest kind of life, more regardless of public opinion than

ever.

For some time I kept my word, and not a cloud troubled our life. These

were happy days, but it is not of these that I would speak.

It was said everywhere about the country that Brigitte was living

publicly with a libertine from Paris; that her lover ill-treated her,

that they spent their time quarrelling, and that she would come to a bad

end. As they had praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, so they

blamed her now. There was nothing in her past life, even, that was

not picked to pieces and misrepresented. Her lonely tramps over the

mountains, when engaged in works of charity, suddenly became the subject

of quibbles and of raillery. They spoke of her as of a woman who had

lost all human respect and who deserved the frightful misfortunes she

was drawing down on her head.

I had told Brigitte that it was best to let them talk and pay no

attention to them; but the truth is, it became insupportable to me. I

sometimes tried to catch a word that could be construed as an insult

and to demand an explanation. I listened to whispered conversations in

a salon where I was visiting, but could hear nothing; in order to do us

better justice they waited until I had gone. I returned to Brigitte and

told her that all these stories were mere nonsense; that it was foolish

to notice them; that they could talk about us as much as they pleased

and we would care nothing about it.

Was I not terribly mistaken? If Brigitte was imprudent, was it not my

place to be cautious and ward off danger? On the contrary, I took, so to

speak, the part of the world against her.

I began by indifference; I was soon to grow malignant.

“It is true,” I said, “that they speak evil of your nocturnal

excursions. Are you sure that they are wrong? Has nothing happened

in those romantic grottoes and by-paths in the forest? Have you never

accepted the arm of an unknown as you accepted mine? Was it merely

charity that served as your divinity in that beautiful temple of verdure

that you visited so bravely?”

Brigitte’s glance when I adopted this tone I shall never forget; I

shuddered at it myself. “But, bah!” I thought, “she would do the same

thing that my other mistress did--she would point me out as a ridiculous

fool, and I should pay for it all in the eyes of the public.”

Between the man who doubts and the man who denies there is only a step.

All philosophy is akin to atheism. Having told Brigitte that I suspected

her past conduct, I began to regard it with real suspicion.

I came to imagine that Brigitte was deceiving me, she who never left me

at any hour of the day; I sometimes planned long absences in order to

test her, as I supposed; but in truth it was only to give myself some

excuse for suspicion and mockery. And then I took pleasure in observing

that I had outgrown my foolish jealousy, which was the same as saying

that I no longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her.

At first I kept such thoughts to myself, but soon found pleasure in

revealing them to Brigitte. We had gone out for a walk:

“That dress is pretty,” I said, “such and such a girl, belonging to one

of my friends, has one like it.”

We were now seated at table.

“Come, my dear, my former mistress used to sing for me at dessert; you

promised, you know, to imitate her.”

She sat down at the piano.

“Ah! pardon me, but will you play that waltz that was so popular last

winter? That will remind me of happy times.”

Reader, this lasted six months: for six long months Brigitte,

scandalized, exposed to the insults of the world, had to endure from me

all the wrongs that a wrathful and cruel libertine can inflict on woman.

After these distressing scenes, in which my own spirit exhausted itself

in suffering and in painful contemplation of the past; after recovering

from that frenzy, a strange access of love, an extreme exaltation, led

me to treat my mistress like an idol, or a divinity. A quarter of an

hour after insulting her I was on my knees before her; when I was not

accusing her of some crime, I was begging her pardon; when I was not

mocking, I was weeping. Then, seized by a delirium of joy, I almost lost

my reason in the violence of my transports; I did not know what to do,

what to say, what to think, in order to repair the evil I had done. I

took Brigitte in my arms, and made her repeat a hundred times that she

loved me and that she pardoned me. I threatened to expiate my evil deeds

by blowing out my brains if I ever ill-treated her again. These periods

of exaltation sometimes lasted several hours, during which time I

exhausted myself in foolish expressions of love and esteem. Then morning

came; day appeared; I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and I awakened

with a smile on my lips, mocking at everything, believing in nothing.

During these terrible hours, Brigitte appeared to forget that there

was a man in me other than the one she saw. When I asked her pardon she

shrugged her shoulders as if to answer: “Do you not know that I pardon

you?” She would not complain as long as a spark of love remained in

my heart; she assured me that all was good and sweet coming from me,

insults as well as tears.

And yet as time passed my evil grew worse, my moments of malignity and

irony became more sombre and intractable. A real physical fever attended

my outbursts of passion; I awakened trembling in every limb and covered

with cold sweat. Brigitte, too, although she did not complain of it,

began to fail in health. When I started to abuse her she would leave me

without a word and lock herself in her room. Thank God, I never raised

my hand against her; in my most violent moments I would rather have died

than touched her.

One evening the rain was driving against the windows; we were alone, the

curtains were closed.

“I am in happy humor this evening,” I said to Brigitte, “and yet the

horrible weather saddens me. Let us seek some diversion in spite of the

storm.”

I arose and lighted all the candles I could find. The room was small and

the illumination brilliant. At the same time a bright fire threw out a

stifling heat:

“Come,” I said, “what shall we do while waiting for supper?”

I happened to remember that it was carnival time in Paris I seemed to

see the carriages filled with masks crossing the boulevards. I heard the

shouts of the crowds before the theatres; I saw the lascivious dances,

the gay costumes, the wine and the folly; all my youth bounded in my

heart.

“Let us disguise ourselves,” I said to Brigitte. “It will be for our

own amusement, but what does that matter? If you have no costumes we can

make them, and pass away the time agreeably.”

We searched in the closet for dresses, cloaks, and artificial flowers;

Brigitte, as usual, was patient and cheerful. We both arranged a sort of

travesty; she wished to dress my hair herself; we painted and powdered

ourselves freely; all that we lacked was found in an old chest that had

belonged, I believe, to the aunt. In an hour we could not recognize each

other. The evening passed in singing, in a thousand follies; toward one

o’clock in the morning it was time for supper.

We had ransacked all the closets; there was one near me that remained

open. While sitting down at the table, I perceived on a shelf the book

of which I have already spoken, the one in which Brigitte was accustomed

to write.

“Is it not a collection of your thoughts?” I asked, stretching out my

hand and taking the book down. “If I may, allow me to look at it.”

I opened the book, although Brigitte made a gesture as if to prevent me;

on the first page I read these words:

“This is my last will and testament.”

Everything was written in a firm hand; I found first a faithful recital

of all that Brigitte had suffered on my account since she had been my

mistress. She announced her firm determination to endure everything,

so long as I loved her, and to die when I left her. Her daily life was

recorded there; what she had lost, what she had hoped, the isolation she

experienced even in my presence, the barrier that was growing up between

us; the cruelties I subjected her to in return for her love and her

resignation. All this was written down without a complaint; on the

contrary she undertook to justify me. Then followed personal details,

the disposition of her effects. She would end her life by poison, she

wrote. She would die by her own hand and expressly forbade that her

death should be charged to me. “Pray for him!” were her last words.

I found in the closet on the same shelf a little box that I remembered I

had seen before, filled with a fine bluish powder resembling salt.

“What is this?” I asked of Brigitte, raising the box to my lips. She

gave vent to a scream of terror and threw herself upon me.

“Brigitte,” I said, “bid me farewell. I shall carry this box away with

me; you will forget me, and you will live if you wish to save me from

becoming a murderer. I shall set out this very night; you will agree

with me that God demands it. Give me a last kiss.”

I bent over her and kissed her forehead.

“Not yet!” she cried, in anguish. But I repulsed her and left the room.

Three hours later I was ready to set out, and the horses were at the

door. It was still raining when I entered the carriage. At the moment

the carriage was starting, I felt two arms about my body and a sob which

spent itself on my lips.

It was Brigitte. I did all I could to persuade her to remain; I ordered

the driver to stop; I even told her that I would return to her when time

should have effaced the memory of the wrongs I had done her. I forced

myself to prove to her that yesterday was the same as to-day, to-day

as yesterday; I repeated that I could only render her unhappy, that to

attach herself to me was but to make an assassin of me. I resorted to

prayers, to vows, to threats even; her only reply was: “You are going

away; take me, let us take leave of the country, let us take leave

of the past. We can not live here; let us go elsewhere, wherever you

please; let us go and die together in some remote corner of the world.

We must be happy, I by you, you by me.”

I kissed her with such passion that I feared my heart would burst.

“Drive on!” I cried to the coachman. We threw ourselves into each

other’s arms, and the horses set out at a gallop.

BOOK 3.

PART V

CHAPTER I. SWEET ANTICIPATIONS

Having decided on a long tour, we went first to Paris; the necessary

preparations required time, and we took a furnished apartment for one

month. The decision to leave France had changed everything: joy, hope,

confidence, all returned; no more sorrow, no more grief over approaching

separation. We had now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows of

eternal love; I wished, once for all, to make my dear mistress forget

all the suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist such

proof of tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only did

Brigitte pardon me, but she was willing to make a still greater

sacrifice and leave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of the

devotion she exhibited, I wished to requite her by my love; at last my

good angel had triumphed, and admiration and love resumed their sway in

my heart. Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should go

and bury ourselves from the world. We had not yet decided, and we found

pleasure in that very uncertainty; while glancing over the map we said

“Where shall we go? What shall we do? Where shall we begin life anew?”

How shall I tell how deeply I repented my cruelty when I looked upon

her smiling face, a face that laughed at the future, although still pale

from the sorrows of the past! Blissful projects of future joy, you are

perhaps the only true happiness known to man! For eight days we spent

our time making purchases and preparing for our departure; then a young

man presented himself at our apartments: he brought letters to Brigitte.

After their interview I found her sad and distraught; but I could not

guess the cause unless the letters were from N------, that village

where I had confessed my love and where Brigitte’s only relatives lived.

Nevertheless, our preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatient

to get away; at the same time I was so happy that I could hardly rest.

When I arose in the morning and the sun was shining through our windows,

I experienced such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated

with happiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love for

Brigitte that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her skirt. Her lightest

words made me tremble as if her voice were strange to me; I alternated

between tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except with

horror and disgust. Our room was full of personal effects scattered

about in disorder--albums, pictures, books, and the dear map we loved so

much. We went to and fro about the little apartment; at brief intervals

I would stop and kneel before Brigitte who would call me an idler,

saying that she had to do all the work, and that I was good for nothing;

and all sorts of projects flitted through our minds. Sicily was far

away, but the winters are so delightful there! Genoa is very pretty

with its painted houses, its green gardens, and the Apennines in the

background! But what noise! What crowds! Among every three men on the

street, one is a monk and another a soldier. Florence is sad, it is the

Middle Ages living in the midst of modern life. How can any one endure

those grilled windows and that horrible brown color with which all the

houses are tinted?

What could we do at Rome? We were not travelling in order to forget

ourselves, much less for the sake of instruction. To the Rhine? But the

season was over, and although we did not care for the world of fashion,

still it is sad to visit its haunts when it has fled. But Spain? Too

many restrictions there; one travels like an army on the march, and may

expect everything except repose. Switzerland? Too many people go there,

and most of them are deceived as to the nature of its attractions;

but in that land are unfolded the three most beautiful colors on

God’s earth: the azure of the sky, the verdure of the plains, and the

whiteness of the snows on the summits of glaciers.