Let us pretend, my dear Octave, that we met each other only yesterday.
You met me at a ball, I pleased you and I love you; you tell me that
some leagues distant, in a certain little town, you loved a certain
Madame Pierson; what passed between you and her I do not know. You will
not tell me the story of your love for another! And I will whisper
to you that not long since I loved a terrible fellow who made me very
unhappy; you will reprove me and close my mouth, and we will agree never
to speak of such things.”
When Brigitte spoke thus I experienced a feeling that resembled avarice;
I caught her in my arms and cried:
“Oh, God! I know not whether it is with joy or with fear that I tremble.
I am about to carry off my treasure. Die, my youth; die, all memories of
the past; die, all cares and regrets! Oh, my good, my brave Brigitte!
You have made a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I shall never
love again. Perhaps, before I knew you, another woman might have cured
me; but now you alone, of all the world, have power to destroy me or to
save me, for I bear in my heart the wound of all the evil I have done
you. I have been an ingrate, blind and cruel. God be praised! You love
me still. If you ever return to that home under whose lindens I first
met you, look carefully about that deserted house; you will find a
phantom there, for the man who left it, and went away with you, is not
the man who entered it.”
“Is it true?” said Brigitte, and her face, all radiant with love, was
raised to heaven; “is it true that I am yours? Yes, far from this odious
world in which you have grown old before your time, yes, my child, you
shall really love. I shall have you as you are, and, wherever we go you
will make me forget the possibility of a day when you will no longer
love me. My mission will have been accomplished, and I shall always be
thankful for it.”
Finally we decided to go to Geneva and then choose some resting place
in the Alps. Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought I could
already breathe the air which floats over its surface, and the odor of
the verdure-clad valley; already I beheld Lausanne, Vevey, Oberland,
and in the distance the summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of
Lombardy. Already oblivion, repose, travel, all the delights of happy
solitude invited us; already, when in the evening with joined hands, we
looked at each other in silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment
of strange grandeur which takes possession of the heart on the eve of a
long journey, the mysterious and indescribable vertigo which has in it
something of the terrors of exile and the hopes of pilgrimage. Are
there not in the human mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords that
vibrate? How shall I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in the
simple words: “All is ready, we are about to go”?
Suddenly Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head in silence. When
I asked her whether she was in pain, she said “No!” in a voice that was
scarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold and
resigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that she
was going to be happy, and that I would consecrate my life to her, she
shut herself up in her room and wept; when I kissed her she turned pale,
and averted her eyes as my lips approached hers; when I told her that
nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our
plans, she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to me
and told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw her
arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as if involuntarily.
Finally, I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on which our
places were marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approached her and
placed it in her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed, and fell
unconscious at my feet.
CHAPTER II. THE DEMON OF DOUBT
All my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were as
vain as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill, and remained
obstinately silent. After an entire day passed in supplication and
conjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing the
Opera, I entered it from mere force of habit.
I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theatre, I was so
overwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak,
except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses.
All my powers were centred on a single thought, and the more I turned it
over in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning.
What obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and the
realization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event
or even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or the loss of a
friend, why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done,
when our dreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature of
a secret that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me?
What! to conceal it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart to
suspect her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me with
horror. On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or of
caprice in that woman, as I knew her? I was lost in an abyss of doubt,
and I could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point, on which
to base conjecture.
In front of me in the gallery sat a young man whose face was not unknown
to me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him without
thinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him.
Suddenly I recognized him: it was he who had brought letters to Brigitte
from N------. I arose and started to accost him without thinking what I
was doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without disturbing
a large number of spectators, and I was forced to await the entr’acte.
My first thought was that if any one could enlighten me it was this
young man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson in the last
few days, and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressed
after his visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was taken
ill.
The letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possible
that he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he did
not know all the circumstances, but he could doubtless enlighten me as
to the contents of those letters, and there was no reason why I should
hesitate to question him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to the
foyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away and
entered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stood
looking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last he appeared. I bowed and
approached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared down
a stairway.
My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any other
explanation than deliberate intention on his part to avoid me. He surely
knew my face, and, whether he knew it or not, a man who sees another
approaching him ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the only
persons in the corridor at the time, and there could be no doubt he did
not wish to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatment
from a man whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why should
he insult me? He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid an
awkward interview, during which questions might be asked which he did
not care to answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost as
much as the first. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head,
that young man’s action in avoiding me seemed to have some connection
with Brigitte’s obstinate silence.
Of all torments uncertainty is the most difficult to endure, and during
my life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not wait
patiently. When I returned to my apartments I found Brigitte reading
those same fateful letters from N------. I told her that I could not
remain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it at
any cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden change which
had taken place in her, and that, if she refused to speak, I should look
upon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an order
for me to leave her forever.
She reluctantly handed me the letters she was reading. Her relatives had
written her that her departure had disgraced them, that every one knew
the circumstances, and that they felt it their duty to warn her of
the consequences; that she was living openly as my mistress, and that,
although she was a widow and free to do as she chose, she ought to think
of the name she bore; that neither they nor her old friends would ever
see her again if she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts of
threats and entreaties, they urged her to return.
The tone of the letter angered me, and at first I took it as an insult.
“And that young man who brings you these remonstrances,” I cried,
“doubtless has orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail to
do his own part to the best of his ability. Am I not right?”
Brigitte’s dejection made me reflect and calm my wrath.
“You will do as you wish, and achieve my ruin,” she said. “My fate rests
with you; you have been for a long time my master. Avenge as you please
the last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to the
world that I formerly respected, to the honor that I have lost. I have
not a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply, I will obey
you.”
“I care to know nothing,” I replied, “but your intentions; it is for me
to comply with your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to do it. Tell
me, do you desire to remain, to go away, or shall I go alone?”
“Why that question?” asked Brigitte; “have I said that I had changed my
mind? I am suffering, and can not travel in my present condition, but
when I recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned.”
We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she had
expressed her resolution saddened me more than usual. It was not the
first time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up to
this time whatever letters Brigitte had received she had never taken
them so much to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigitte
had been so affected by protests which in less happy moments had had no
effect on her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoils
from an act of final significance? “I will do as you please,” she had
said. No, it does not please me to demand patience, and rather than look
at that sorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks I will set
out alone.
Fool that I was! Had I the strength to do it? I did not close my eyes
that night, and the next morning I resolved to call on that young man I
had seen at the opera. I do not know whether it was wrath or curiosity
that impelled me to this course, nor did I know just what I desired to
learn of him; but I reflected that he could not avoid me this time, and
that was all I desired.
As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that
I felt under an obligation to call on him after all the visits he
had made us; I had not said a word about my experience at the opera.
Brigitte’s eyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room she
held out her hand and said:
“What do you wish?”
Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words, and I set
out less unhappy.
The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was living
near us. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensation
of uneasiness; I was dazed as though by a sudden flash of light. His
first gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accent
Brigitte had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held
out his hand and said:
“What do you wish?”
Say what you please, there are things in a man’s life which reason can
not explain. I sat as still as if awakened from a dream, and began to
repeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could I
tell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me,
how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N------, and
knew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to question
him, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our first
words were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness in
bringing letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving France
we would ask him to do the same favor for us; and then we were silent,
surprised to find ourselves vis-a-vis.
I looked about me in embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor;
everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books,
musical instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, but
everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.
As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. On
the mantel I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look at
it, and he said it was his mother.
I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had known
him since childhood. Before I came to the country she used to see him
occasionally at N------, but at the time of her last visit there he
was away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned some
particulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honest
employment that enabled him to support his mother and sister.
His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; he
deprived himself of everything for them, and although he possessed
musical talents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the
immediate needs of those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, had
always led him to prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances of
success in larger ventures.
In a word, he belonged to that small class who live quietly, and who
are worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I had
learned of certain traits in his character which will serve to paint
the man he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighborhood,
and, after a year of devotion to her, had secured her parents’ consent
to their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to be
signed, the preparations for the wedding were complete, when his mother
said:
“And your sister? Who will marry her?”
That simple remark made him understand that if he married he would spend
all his money in the household expenses and his sister would have
no dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy
prospects; he then came to Paris.
When I heard that story I wished to see the hero. That simple,
unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the
glories of war.
The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach
the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me,
that he would harm me in Brigitte’s eyes, vanished at once. Gradually my
thoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemed
to me that he was also examining me with curiosity.
We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!
He, accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the
clock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it which
lies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy government
office; sending his mother all his savings, that farthing of human joy
which the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except for
the happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had
been a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, so
inexorable, during the time that with him had been a round of toil, what
had I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?
What I have said in a page can be comprehended in a moment. He spoke to
me of our journey and the countries we were going to visit.
“When do you go?” he asked.
“I do not know; Madame Pierson is indisposed, and has been confined to
her bed for three days.”
“For three days!” he repeated, in surprise.
“Yes; why are you astonished?”
He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. He
was trembling violently.
“Are you ill?” I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand to
his head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently to
speak, he said:
“Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when I
have sufficiently recovered I will return your visit.”
CHAPTER III. THE QUESTION OF SMITH
Brigitte was better. She had told me that she desired to go away as soon
as she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to rest
at least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey.
Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured me
that the letter was the only cause of her melancholy, and begged me
to say nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was
passing in her heart. We went to the theatre every night in order to
avoid embarrassing interviews. There we sometimes pressed each other’s
hands at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, or
exchanged, perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we were
mute, absorbed in our thoughts.
Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house had
been the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had left
singular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and his
simplicity reassured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he had
brought, and he did not appear offended, but saddened. He was ignorant
of the contents, and his friendship for Brigitte led him to censure them
severely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, had he known
what they contained. On account of Brigitte’s tone of reserve in his
presence, I did not think he was in her confidence.
I therefore welcomed him with pleasure, although there was always a
sort of awkward embarrassment in our meeting. He was asked to act as
intermediary between Brigitte and her relatives after our departure.
When we three were together he noticed a certain coldness and restraint
which he endeavored to banish by cheerful good-humor. If he spoke of our
liaison it was with respect and as a man who looks upon love as a
sacred bond; in fact, he was a kind friend, and inspired me with full
confidence.
But despite all this, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I could
not get rid of strange thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I had
seen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time as
Brigitte’s, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discovered
between them, troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago I
would have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect
Brigitte? Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not
going away with me? Even were it possible that Smith could share some
secret of which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of the mystery?
What was there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship?
She had known him as a child; she met him again after long years just
as she was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate
situation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding
to her sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful
glances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and
regrets? Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long
journey, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions?
I felt this that must be the explanation, and that it was my duty to
assure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers,
and of requiting the other for the services he had rendered. And yet
a deadly chill oppressed me, and I could not determine what course to
pursue.
When Smith left us in the evening, we either were silent or talked
of him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him
continually. She, however, told me just what I have told my reader;
Smith’s life had never been other than it was now--poor, obscure, and
honest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times,
without knowing why I took such an interest in it.
There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not
confess. If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest
happiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he
pressed her hand while assisting her into the carriage, would I have
paid the least attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had
he not--had he shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it
matter so long as I was happy? But while unable to divine the cause of
Brigitte’s sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever she might say
of it, had something to do with her present state. If I had been what I
ought to have been for the last six months that we had lived together,
nothing in the world, I was persuaded, could have troubled our love.
Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted; his simple
and modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eye
seizes at the first glance; one could know him in a quarter of an hour,
and he inspired confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinking
that if he were Brigitte’s lover, she would cheerfully go with him to
the ends of the earth.
I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it.
Brigitte, too, at times urged me to hasten the day.
“Why do you wait?” she asked. “Here I am recovered and everything is
ready.”
Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know.
Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from Smith to my loved one. I
saw that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why, and
I could not help thinking that there was but one cause, or one secret to
learn. This was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such as
had formerly tormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. What
strange creatures are we! It pleased me to leave them alone before the
fire, and to go out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet and
looking at the water. When they spoke of their life at N------, and
when Brigitte, almost cheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall some
incident of their childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, and
yet took pleasure in it. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of his
mother, of his plans and his prospects; I gave him an opportunity to
show himself in a favorable light, and forced his modesty to reveal his
merit.
“You love your sister very much, do you not?” I asked. “When do you
expect to marry her off?”
He blushed, and replied that his expenses were rather heavy and that it
would probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health would
permit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provide
her dowry; that there was a well-to-do family in the country, whose
eldest son was her sweetheart; that they were almost agreed on it, and
that fortune would one day come, like sleep, without thinking of it;
that he had set aside for his sister a part of the money left by their
father; that their mother was opposed to it, but that he would insist on
it; that a young man can live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of a
young girl is fixed on the day of her marriage. Thus, little by little,
he expressed what was in his heart, and I watched Brigitte listening to
him. Then, when he arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door, and
stood there, pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on the
stairs.
Upon examining our trunks we found that there were still a few things
needed before we could start; Smith was asked to purchase them. He was
remarkably active, and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When I
returned to my apartments, I found him on the floor, strapping a trunk.
Brigitte was at the piano we had rented by the week during our stay. She
was playing one of those old airs into which she put so much expression,
and which were so dear to us. I stopped in the hall; every note reached
my ear distinctly; never had she sung so sadly, so divinely.
Smith was listening with pleasure; he was on his knees holding the
buckle of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about the
room at the other goods he had packed and covered with a linen cloth.
Satisfied with his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot;
Brigitte, her hands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For the
second time I saw tears fall from the young man’s eyes; I was ready to
shed tears myself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out my
hand to him.
“Were you there?” asked Brigitte. She trembled and seemed surprised.
“Yes, I was there,” I replied. “Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me hear
your sweet voice.”
She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well as
Smith’s; her voice faltered. With the last notes she arose, and came to
me and kissed me.
On another occasion I had brought an album containing views of
Switzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigitte
found a scene that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There
was one view that seemed to attract her more than the others; it was
a certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues;
some trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance a village
consisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In the
foreground a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, and
a farmer’s boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his
iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directing
her attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them
were the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits.
Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The
valley resembled a lake of verdure, and the eye followed its contour
with delight.
“Shall we go there?” I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced some
figures on the picture.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it
resemble yours. The pretty hat would become you, and can I not, if I am
skilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?”
The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the two
faces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. The
faces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that the
likenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door opened
and I was called away by the servant.
When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the
picture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound revery, and was not
aware of my presence; I sat down near the fire, and it was not until
I spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment,
then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him
strike his forehead with his hand.
When I saw these signs of grief, I said to myself “What does it mean?”
Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know; perhaps my
good angel, perhaps my evil fate.
CHAPTER IV. IN THE FURNACE
My heart yearned to set out and yet I delayed; some secret influence
rooted me to the spot.
When Smith came I knew no repose from the time he entered the room. How
is it that sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness?
One day a word, a flush, a glance, made me shudder; another day, another
glance, another word, threw me into uncertainty. Why were they both
so sad? Why was I as motionless as a statue where I had formerly been
violent? Every evening in bed I said to myself: “Let me see; let me
think that over.” Then I would spring up, crying: “Impossible!” The next
day I did the same thing.
In Smith’s presence, Brigitte treated me with more tenderness than when
we were alone. It happened one evening that some hard words escaped us;
when she heard his voice in the hall she came and sat on my knees.
As for him, it seemed to me he was always making an effort to control
himself. His gestures were carefully regulated; he spoke slowly and
prudently, so that his occasional moments of forgetfulness seemed all
the more striking.
Was it curiosity that tormented me? I remember that one day I saw a man
drowning near the Pont Royal. It was midsummer and we were rowing on the
river; some thirty boats were crowded together under the bridge, when
suddenly one of the occupants of a boat near mine threw up his hands and
fell overboard. We immediately began diving for him, but in vain; some
hours later the body was found under a raft.
I shall never forget my experience as I was diving for that man. I
opened my eyes under the water and searched painfully here and there
in the dark corners about the pier; then I returned to the surface for
breath, then resumed my horrible search. I was filled with hope and
terror; the thought that I might feel myself seized by convulsive arms
allured me, and at the same time thrilled me with horror; when I was
exhausted with fatigue, I climbed back into my boat.
Unless a man is brutalized by debauchery, eager curiosity is one of his
marked traits. I have already remarked that I felt it on the occasion of
my first visit to Desgenais. I will explain my meaning.
The truth, that skeleton of appearances, ordains that every man,
whatsoever he be, shall come, in his day and hour, to touch the bones
that lie forever at the bottom of some chance experience. It is called
“knowing the world,” and experience is purchased at that price. Some
recoil in terror before that test; others, feeble and affrighted,
vacillate like shadows. Some, the best perhaps, die at once. The large
number forget, and thus all float on to death.
But there are some men, who, at the fell stroke of chance, neither die
nor forget; when it comes their turn to touch misfortune, otherwise
called truth, they approach it with a firm step and outstretched hand,
and, horrible to say! they mistake love for the livid corpse they have
found at the bottom of the river. They seize it, feel it, clasp it in
their arms; they are drunk with the desire to know; they no longer look
with interest upon things, except to see them pass; they do nothing
except doubt and test; they ransack the world as though they were God’s
spies; they sharpen their thoughts into arrows, and give birth to a
monster.
Roues, more than all others, are exposed to that fury, and the reason
is very simple: ordinary life is the limpid surface, that of the roue
is the rapid current swirling over and over, and at times touching the
bottom. Coming from a ball, for instance, where they have danced with
a modest girl, they seek the company of bad characters, and spend the
night in riotous feasting. The last words they addressed to a beautiful
and virtuous woman are still on their lips; they repeat them and burst
into laughter. Shall I say it? Do they not raise, for some pieces of
silver, the vesture of chastity, that robe so full of mystery, which
respects the being it embellishes and engirds her without touching?
What idea can they have of the world? They are like comedians in the
greenroom. Who, more than they, is skilled in that delving to the bottom
of things, in that groping at once profound and impious? See how they
speak of everything; always in terms the most barren, crude, and abject;
such words appear true to them; the rest is only parade, convention,
prejudice. Let them tell a story, let them recount some experience, they
will always use the same dirty and material expressions. They do not say
“That woman loved me;” they say: “I betrayed that woman;” they do not
say: “I love;” they say, “I desire;” they never say: “If God wills;”
they say: “If I will.” I do not know what they think of themselves and
of such monologues as these.
Hence, of a necessity, either from idleness or curiosity, while they
strive to find evil in everything, they do not comprehend that others
still believe in the good. Therefore they have to be so nonchalant as to
stop their ears, lest the hum of the busy world should suddenly startle
them from sleep. The father allows his son to go where so many others
go, where Cato himself went; he says that youth is but fleeting. But
when he returns, the youth looks upon his sister; and see what has taken
place in him during an hour passed in the society of brutal reality! He
says to himself: “My sister is not like that creature I have just left!”
And from that day he is disturbed and uneasy.
Sinful curiosity is a vile malady born of impure contact. It is the
prowling instinct of phantoms who raise the lids of tombs; it is an
inexplicable torture with which God punishes those who have sinned;
they wish to believe that all sin as they have done, and would be
disappointed perhaps to find that it was not so. But they inquire, they
search, they dispute; they wag their heads from side to side as does an
architect who adjusts a column, and thus strive to find what they desire
to find. Given proof of evil, they laugh at it; doubtful of evil, they
swear that it exists; the good they refuse to recognize. “Who knows?”
Behold the grand formula, the first words that Satan spoke when he saw
heaven closing against him. Alas! for how many evils are those words
responsible? How many disasters and deaths, how many strokes of fateful
scythes in the ripening harvest of humanity! How many hearts, how many
families where there is naught but ruin, since that word was first
heard! “Who knows! Who knows!” Loathsome words! Rather than pronounce
them one should be as sheep who graze about the slaughter-house and know
it not. That is better than to be called a strong spirit, and to read La
Rochefoucauld.
What better illustration could I present than the one I have just given?
My mistress was ready to set out and I had but to say the word. Why did
I delay? What would have been the result if I had started at once on
our trip? Nothing but a moment of apprehension that would have been
forgotten after travelling three days. When with me, she had no thought
but of me; why should I care to solve a mystery that did not threaten my
happiness?
She would have consented, and that would have been the end of it. A kiss
on her lips and all would be well; instead of that, see what I did.
One evening when Smith had dined with us, I retired at an early hour and
left them together. As I closed my door I heard Brigitte order some tea.
In the morning I happened to approach her table, and, sitting beside the
teapot, I saw but one cup. No one had been in that room before me that
morning, so the servant could not have carried away anything that had
been used the night before. I searched everywhere for a second cup but
could find none.
“Did Smith stay late?” I asked of Brigitte.
“He left about midnight.”
“Did you retire alone or did you call some one to assist you?”
“I retired alone; every one in the house was asleep.”
I continued my search and my hands trembled. In what burlesque comedy is
there a jealous lover so stupid as to inquire what has become of a cup?
Why seek to discover whether Smith and Madame Pierson had drunk from the
same cup? What a brilliant idea that!
Nevertheless I found the cup and I burst into laughter, and threw it
on the floor with such violence that it broke into a thousand pieces. I
ground the pieces under my feet.
Brigitte looked at me without saying a word. During the two succeeding
days she treated me with a coldness that had something of contempt in
it, and I saw that she treated Smith with more deference and kindness
than usual. She called him Henri and smiled on him sweetly.
“I feel that the air would do me good,” she said after dinner; “shall we
go to the opera, Octave? I would enjoy walking that far.”
“No, I will stay here; go without me.” She took Smith’s arm and went
out. I remained alone all evening; I had paper before me, and was trying
to collect my thoughts in order to write, but in vain.
As a lonely lover draws from his bosom a letter from his mistress, and
loses himself in delightful revery, thus I shut myself up in solitude
and yielded to the sweet allurement of doubt. Before me were the two
empty seats which Brigitte and Smith had just occupied; I scrutinized
them anxiously as if they could tell me something. I revolved in my mind
all the things I had heard and seen; from time to time I went to the
door and cast my eyes over our trunks which had been piled against the
wall for a month; I opened them and examined the contents so carefully
packed away by those delicate little hands; I listened to the sound of
passing carriages; the slightest noise made me tremble. I spread out on
the table our map of Europe, and there, in the very presence of all my
hopes, in that room where I had conceived and had so nearly realized
them, I abandoned myself to the most frightful presentiments.
But, strange as it may seem, I felt neither anger nor jealousy, but a
terrible sense of sorrow and foreboding. I did not suspect, and yet I
doubted. The mind of man is so strangely formed that, with what he sees
and in spite of what he sees, he can conjure up a hundred objects of
woe. In truth his brain resembles the dungeons of the Inquisition, where
the walls are covered with so many instruments of torture that one is
dazed, and asks whether these horrible contrivances he sees before him
are pincers or playthings. Tell me, I say, what difference is there in
saying to my mistress: “All women deceive,” or, “You deceive me?”
What passed through my mind was perhaps as subtle as the finest
sophistry; it was a sort of dialogue between the mind and the
conscience. “If I should lose Brigitte?” I said to the mind. “She
departs with you,” said the conscience. “If she deceives me?”--“How can
she deceive you? Has she not made out her will asking for prayers for
you?”--“If Smith loves her?”--“Fool! What does it matter so long as you
know that she loves you?”--“If she loves me why is she sad?”--“That
is her secret, respect it.”--“If I take her away with me, will she be
happy?”--“Love her and she will be.”--“Why, when that man looks at her,
does she seem to fear to meet his glance?”--“Because she is a woman
and he is young.”--“Why does that young man turn pale when she looks at
him?”--“Because he is a man and she is beautiful.”--“Why, when I went to
see him did he throw himself into my arms, and why did he weep and beat
his head with his hands?”--“Do not seek to know what you must remain
ignorant of.”--“Why can I not know these things?”--“Because you are
miserable and weak, and all mystery is of God.”
“But why is it that I suffer? Why is it that my soul recoils in
terror?”--“Think of your father and do good.”--“But why am I unable to
do as he did? Why does evil attract me to itself?”--“Get down on your
knees and confess; if you believe in evil it is because your ways have
been evil.”--“If my ways were evil, was it my fault? Why did the
good betray me?”--“Because you are in the shadow, would you deny
the existence of light? If there are traitors, why are you one of
them?”--“Because I am afraid of becoming the dupe.”--“Why do you spend
your nights in watching? Why are you alone now?”--“Because I think,
I doubt, and I fear.”--“When will you offer your prayer?”--“When I
believe. Why have they lied to me?”--“Why do you lie, coward! at this
very moment? Why not die if you can not suffer?”
Thus spoke and groaned within me two voices, voices that were defiant
and terrible; and then a third voice cried out! “Alas! Alas! my
innocence! Alas! Alas! the days that were!”
CHAPTER V. TRUTH AT LAST
What a frightful weapon is human thought! It is our defense and our
safeguard, the most precious gift that God has made us. It is ours and
it obeys us; we may launch it forth into space, but, once outside of our
feeble brains, it is gone; we can no longer control it.
While I was deferring the time of our departure from day to day I was
gradually losing strength, and, although I did not perceive it, my vital
forces were slowly wasting away. When I sat at table I experienced a
violent distaste for food; at night two pale faces, those of Brigitte
and Smith, pursued me through frightful dreams. When they went to the
theatre in the evening I refused to go with them; then I went alone,
concealed myself in the parquet, and watched them. I pretended that I
had some business to attend to in a neighboring room and sat there an
hour and listened to them. The idea occurred to me to seek a quarrel
with Smith and force him to fight with me; I turned my back on him while
he was talking; then he came to me with a look of surprise on his face,
holding out his hand. When I was alone in the night and every one slept,
I felt a strong desire to go to Brigitte’s desk and take from it her
papers. On one occasion I was obliged to go out of the house in order
to resist the temptation. One day I felt like arming myself with a knife
and threatening to kill them if they did not tell me why they were so
sad; another day I turned all this fury against myself. With what shame
do I write it! And if any one should ask me why I acted thus, I could
not reply.
To see, to doubt, to search, to torture myself and make myself
miserable, to pass entire days with my ear at the keyhole, and the
night in a flood of tears, to repeat over and over that I should die of
sorrow, to feel isolation and feebleness uprooting hope in my heart,
to imagine that I was spying when I was only listening to the feverish
beating of my own pulse; to con over stupid phrases, such as: “Life is
a dream, there is nothing stable here below;” to curse and blaspheme
God through misery and through caprice: that was my joy, the precious
occupation for which I renounced love, the air of heaven, and liberty!
Eternal God, liberty! Yes, there were certain moments when, in spite of
all, I still thought of it. In the midst of my madness, eccentricity,
and stupidity, there were within me certain impulses that at times
brought me to myself. It was a breath of air which struck my face as I
came from my dungeon; it was a page of a book I read when, in my bitter
days, I happened to read something besides those modern sycophants
called pamphleteers, who, out of regard for the public health, ought to
be prevented from indulging in their crude philosophizings. Since I have
referred to these good moments, let me mention one of them, they were so
rare. One evening I was reading the Memoirs of Constant; I came to the
following lines:
“Salsdorf, a Saxon surgeon attached to Prince Christian, had his leg
broken by a shell in the battle of Wagram. He lay almost lifeless on the
dusty field. Fifteen paces distant, Amedee of Kerbourg, aide-de-camp (I
have forgotten to whom), wounded in the breast by a bullet, fell to the
ground vomiting blood. Salsdorf saw that if that young man was not cared
for he would die of suffusion; summoning all his powers, he painfully
dragged himself to the side of the wounded man, attended to him and
saved his life. Salsdorf himself died four days later from the effects
of amputation.”
When I read these words I threw down my book, and melted into tears.
I do not regret those tears, for they were such as I could shed only
when my heart was right; I do not speak merely of Salsdorf, and do not
care for that particular instance. I am sure, however, that I did not
suspect any one that day. Poor dreamer! Ought I to remember that I have
been other than I am? What good will it do me as I stretch out my arms
in anguish to heaven and wait for the bolt that will deliver me forever?
Alas! it was only a gleam that flashed across the night of my life.
Like those dervish fanatics who find ecstasy in vertigo, so thought,
turning on itself, exhausted by the stress of introspection and tired of
vain effort, falls terror-stricken. So it would seem that man must be a
void and that by dint of delving unto himself he reaches the last turn
of a spiral. There, as on the summits of mountains and at the bottom of
mines, air fails, and God forbids man to go farther. Then, struck with
a mortal chill, the heart, as if impaired by oblivion, seeks to escape
into a new birth; it demands life of that which environs it, it eagerly
drinks in the air; but it finds round about only its own chimeras, which
have exhausted its failing powers and which, self-created, surround it
like pitiless spectres.
This could not last long. Tired of uncertainty, I resolved to resort to
a test that would discover the truth.
I ordered post-horses for ten in the evening. We had hired a caleche and
I gave directions that all should be ready at the hour indicated. At the
same time I asked that nothing be said to Madame Pierson. Smith came to
dinner; at the table I affected unusual cheerfulness, and without a
word about my plans, I turned the conversation to our journey. I would
renounce all idea of going away, I said, if I thought Brigitte did not
care to go; I was so well satisfied with Paris that I asked nothing
better than to remain as long as she pleased. I made much of all the
pleasures of the city; I spoke of the balls, the theatres, of the many
opportunities for diversion on every hand. In short, since we were happy
I did not see why we should make a change; and I did not think of going
away at present.
I was expecting her to insist that we carry out our plan of going to
Geneva, and was not disappointed. However, she insisted but feebly; but,
after a few words, I pretended to yield, and then changing the subject I
spoke of other things, as though it was all settled.
“And why will not Smith go with us?” I asked. “It is very true that he
has duties here, but can he not obtain leave of absence? Moreover, will
not the talents he possesses and which he is unwilling to use, assure
him an honorable living anywhere? Let him come along with us; the
carriage is large and we offer him a place in it. A young man should
see the world, and there is nothing so irksome for a man of his age as
confinement in an office and restriction to a narrow circle. Is it not
true?” I asked, turning to Brigitte. “Come, my dear, let your wiles
obtain from him what he might refuse me; urge him to give us six weeks
of his time. We will travel together, and after a tour of Switzerland he
will return to his duties with new life.”
Brigitte joined her entreaties to mine, although she knew it was only
a joke on my part. Smith could not leave Paris without danger of losing
his position, and replied that he regretted being obliged to deny
himself the pleasure of accompanying us. Nevertheless I continued
to press him, and, ordering another bottle of wine, I repeated my
invitation. After dinner I went out to assure myself that my orders were
carried out; then I returned in high spirits, and seating myself at the
piano I proposed some music.
“Let us pass the evening here,” I said; “believe me, it is better than
going to the theatre; I can not take part myself, but I can listen. We
will make Smith play if he tires of our company, and the time will pass
pleasantly.”
Brigitte consented with good grace and began singing for us; Smith
accompanied her on the violoncello. The materials for a bowl of punch
were brought and the flame of burning rum soon cheered us with varied
lights. The piano was abandoned for the table; then we had cards;
everything passed off as I wished and we succeeded in diverting
ourselves to my heart’s content.
I had my eyes fixed on the clock and waited impatiently for the hands to
mark the hour of ten. I was tormented with anxiety, but allowed them to
see nothing. Finally the hour arrived; I heard the postilion’s whip as
the horses entered the court. Brigitte was seated near me; I took her by
the hand and asked her if she was ready to depart. She looked at me with
surprise, doubtless wondering if I was not joking. I told her that at
dinner she had appeared so anxious to go that I had felt justified in
sending for the horses, and that I went out for that purpose when I left
the table.
“Are you serious?” asked Brigitte; “do you wish to set out to-night?”
“Why not?” I replied, “since we have agreed that we ought to leave
Paris?”
“What! now? At this very moment?”
“Certainly; have we not been ready for a month? You see there is nothing
to do but load our trunks on the carriage; as we have decided to go,
ought we not go at once? I believe it is better to go now and put off
nothing until tomorrow. You are in the humor to travel to-night and I
hasten to profit by it. Why wait longer and continue to put it off? I
can not endure this life. You wish to go, do you not? Very well, let us
go and be done with it.”
Profound silence ensued. Brigitte stepped to the window and satisfied
herself that the carriage was there. Moreover, the tone in which I spoke
would admit of no doubt, and, however hasty my action may appear to
her, it was due to her own expressed desire. She could not deny her own
words, nor find any pretext for further delay. Her decision was made
promptly; she asked a few questions as though to assure herself that all
the preparations had been made; seeing that nothing had been omitted,
she began to search here and there. She found her hat and shawl, then
continued her search.
“I am ready,” she said; “shall we go? We are really going?”
She took a light, went to my room, to her own, opened lockers and
closets. She asked for the key to her secretary which she said she had
lost. Where could that key be? She had it in her possession not an hour
ago.
“Come, come! I am ready,” she repeated in extreme agitation; “let us go,
Octave, let us set out at once.”
While speaking she continued her search and then came and sat down near
us.
I was seated on the sofa watching Smith, who stood before me. He had not
changed countenance and seemed neither troubled nor surprised; but two
drops of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I heard an ivory counter
crack between his fingers, the pieces falling to the floor. He held out
both hands to us.
“Bon voyage, my friends!” he said.
Again silence; I was still watching him, waiting for him to add a word.
“If there is some secret here,” thought I, “when shall I learn it, if
not now? It must be on the lips of both of them. Let it but come out
into the light and I will seize it.”
“My dear Octave,” said Brigitte, “where are we to stop? You will write
to us, Henri, will you not? You will not forget my relatives and will do
what you can for me?” He replied in a voice that trembled slightly that
he would do all in his power to serve her.
“I can answer for nothing,” he said, “and, judging from the letters you
have received, there is not much hope. But it will not be my fault if I
do not send you good news. Count on me, I am devoted to you.”
After a few more kind words he made ready to take his departure. I arose
and left the room before him; I wished to leave them together a moment
for the last time and, as soon as I had closed the door behind me, in a
perfect rage of jealousy, I pressed my ear to the keyhole.
“When shall I see you again?” he asked.
“Never,” replied Brigitte; “adieu, Henri.” She held out her hand. He
bent over it, pressed it to his lips and I had barely time to slip into
a corner as he passed out without seeing me.
Alone with Brigitte, my heart sank within me. She was waiting for me,
her shawl on her arm, and emotion plainly marked on her face. She had
found the key she had been looking for and her desk was open. I returned
and sat down near the fire. “Listen to me,” I said, without daring to
look at her; “I have been so culpable in my treatment of you that I
ought to wait and suffer without a word of complaint. The change which
has taken place in you has thrown me into such despair that I have not
been able to refrain from asking you the cause; but to-day I ask nothing
more. Does it cost you an effort to depart? Tell me, and if so I am
resigned.”
“Let us go, let us go!” she replied.
“As you please, but be frank; whatever blow I may receive, I ought not
to ask whence it comes; I should submit without a murmur. But if I lose
you, do not speak to me of hope, for God knows I will not survive the
loss.”
She turned on me like a flash.
“Speak to me of your love,” she said, “not of your grief.”
“Very well, I love you more than life. Beside my love, my grief is but
a dream. Come with me to the end of the world, I will die or I will live
with you.”
With these words I advanced toward her; she turned pale and recoiled.
She made a vain effort to force a smile on her contracted lips, and
sitting down before her desk she said:
“One moment; I have some papers here I want to burn.”
She showed me the letters from N------, tore them up and threw them
into the fire; she then took out other papers which she reread and then
spread out on the table. They were bills of purchases she had made and
some of them were still unpaid. While examining them she began to talk
rapidly, while her cheeks burned as if with fever. Then she begged my
pardon for her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival.
She gave evidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever. She
clapped her hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey; in
short, she was all love, or at least apparently all love. I can not tell
how I suffered at the sight of that factitious joy; there was in that
grief which crazed her something more sad than tears and more bitter
than reproaches. I would have preferred to have her cold and indifferent
rather than thus excited; it seemed to me a parody of our happiest
moments. There were the same words, the same woman, the same caresses;
and that which, fifteen days before would have intoxicated me with love
and happiness, repeated thus, filled me with horror.
“Brigitte,” I suddenly inquired, “what secret are you concealing from
me? If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are enacting before
me?”
“I!” said she, almost offended. “What makes you think I am acting?”
“What makes me think so? Tell me, my dear, that you have death in your
soul and that you are suffering martyrdom. Behold my arms are ready to
receive you; lean your head on me and weep. Then I will take you away,
perhaps; but in truth, not thus.”
“Let us go, let us go!” she again repeated.
“No, on my soul! No, not at present; no, not while there is between us
a lie or a mask. I like unhappiness better than such cheerfulness as
yours.”
She was silent, astonished to see that I had not been deceived by her
words and manner and that I saw through them both.
“Why should we delude ourselves?” I continued.
“Have I fallen so low in your esteem that you can dissimulate before me?
That unfortunate journey, you think you are condemned to it, do you?
Am I a tyrant, an absolute master? Am I an executioner who drags you to
punishment? How much do you fear my wrath when you come before me with
such mimicry? What terror impels you to lie thus?”
“You are wrong,” she replied; “I beg of you, not a word more.”
“Why so little sincerity? If I am not your confidant, may I not at
least be your friend? If I am denied all knowledge of the source of your
tears, may I not at least see them flow? Have you not enough confidence
in me to believe that I will respect your sorrow? What have I done that
I should be ignorant of it? Might not the remedy lie right there?”
“No,” she replied, “you are wrong; you will achieve your own unhappiness
as well as mine if you press me farther. Is it not enough that we are
going away?”
“And do you expect me to drag you away against your will? Is it not
evident that you have consented reluctantly, and that you already begin
to repent? Great God! What is it you are concealing from me? What is the
use of playing with words when your thoughts are as clear as that glass
before which you stand? Should I not be the meanest of men to accept at
your hands what is yielded with so much regret? And yet how can I refuse
it? What can I do if you refuse to speak?”
“No, I do not oppose you, you are mistaken; I love you, Octave; cease
tormenting me thus.”
She threw so much tenderness into these words that I fell down on my
knees before her. Who could resist her glance and her voice?
“My God!” I cried, “you love me, Brigitte? My dear mistress, you love
me?”
“Yes, I love you; yes. I belong to you; do with me what you will. I
will follow you, let us go away together; come, Octave, the carriage is
waiting.”
She pressed my hand in hers, and kissed my forehead.
“Yes, it must be,” she murmured, “it must be.”
“It must be,” I repeated to myself. I arose.
On the table there remained only one piece of paper that Brigitte was
examining. She picked it up, then allowed it to drop to the floor.
“Is that all?” I asked.
“Yes, that is all.”
When I ordered the horses I had no idea that we would really go, I
wished merely to make a trial, but circumstances bid fair to force me to
carry my plans farther than I at first intended. I opened the door.
“It must be!” I said to myself. “It must be!” I repeated aloud.
“What do you mean by that, Brigitte? What is there in those words that I
do not understand? Explain yourself, or I will not go. Why must you love
me?”
She fell on the sofa and wrung her hands in grief.
“Ah! Unhappy man!” she cried, “you will never know how to love!”
“Yes, I think you are right, but, before God, I know how to suffer. You
must love me, must you not? Very well, then you must answer me. Were I
to lose you forever, were these walls to crumble over my head, I will
not leave this spot until I have solved the mystery that has been
torturing me for more than a month. Speak, or I will leave you. I may be
a fool who destroys his own happiness; I may be demanding something that
is not for me to possess; it may be that an explanation will separate
us and raise before me an insurmountable barrier, which will render our
tour, on which I have set my heart, impossible; whatever it may cost you
and me, you shall speak or I will renounce everything.”
“No, I will not speak.”
“You will speak! Do you fondly imagine I am the dupe of your lies? When
I see you change between morning and evening until you differ more from
your natural self than does night from day, do you think I am deceived?
When you give me as a cause some letters that are not worth the trouble
of reading, do you imagine that I am to be put off with the first
pretext that comes to hand because you do not choose to seek another? Is
your face made of plaster, that it is difficult to see what is passing
in your heart? What is your opinion of me? I do not deceive myself as
much as you suppose, and take care lest in default of words your silence
discloses what you so obstinately conceal.”
“What do you imagine I am concealing?”
“What do I imagine? You ask me that! Is it to brave me you ask such a
question! Do you think to make me desperate and thus get rid of me? Yes,
I admit it, offended pride is capable of driving me to extremes. If
I should explain myself freely, you would have at your service all
feminine hypocrisy; you hope that I will accuse you, so that you can
reply that such a woman as you does not stoop to justify herself. How
skilfully the most guilty and treacherous of your sex contrive to use
proud disdain as a shield! Your great weapon is silence; I did not learn
that yesterday. You wish to be insulted and you hold your tongue until
it comes to that. Come, struggle against my heart--where yours beats
you will find it; but do not struggle against my head, it is harder than
iron, and it has served me as long as yours!”
“Poor boy!” murmured Brigitte; “you do not want to go?”
“No, I shall not go except with my beloved, and you are not that now. I
have struggled, I have suffered, I have eaten my own heart long enough.
It is time for day to break, I have loved long enough in the night. Yes
or no, will you answer me?”
“No.”
“As you please; I will wait.”
I sat down on the other side of the room, determined not to rise until
I had learned what I wished to know. She appeared to be reflecting, and
walked back and forth before me.
I followed her with an eager eye, while her silence gradually increased
my anger. I was unwilling to have her perceive it and was undecided what
to do. I opened the window.
“You may drive off,” I called to those below, “and I will see that you
are paid. I shall not start to-night.”
“Poor boy!” repeated Brigitte. I quietly closed the window and sat down
as if I had not heard her; but I was so furious with rage that I
could hardly restrain myself. That cold silence, that negative force,
exasperated me to the last point. Had I been really deceived and
convinced of the guilt of a woman I loved I could not have suffered
more. As I had condemned myself to remain in Paris, I reflected that I
must compel Brigitte to speak at any price. In vain I tried to think of
some means of forcing her to enlighten me; for such power I would have
given all I possessed. What could I do or say? She sat there calm and
unruffled, looking at me with sadness. I heard the sound of the horses’
hoofs on the paving as the carriage drew out of the court. I had merely
to turn my hand to call them back, but it seemed to me that there was
something irrevocable about their departure. I slipped the bolt on the
door; something whispered in my ear: “You are face to face with the
woman who must give you life or death.”
While thus buried in thought I tried to invent some expedient that
would lead to the truth. I recalled one of Diderot’s romances in which
a woman, jealous of her lover, resorted to a novel plan, for the purpose
of clearing away her doubts. She told him that she no longer loved him
and that she wished to leave him. The Marquis des Arcis (the name of the
lover) falls into the trap, and confesses that he himself has tired of
the liaison. That piece of strategy, which I had read at too early an
age, had struck me as being very skilful, and the recollection of it at
this moment made me smile. “Who knows?” said I to myself. “If I should
try this with Brigitte, she might be deceived and tell me her secret.”
My anger had become furious when the idea of resorting to such trickery
occurred to me. Was it so difficult to make a woman speak in spite of
herself? This woman was my mistress; I must be very weak if I could not
gain my point. I turned over on the sofa with an air of indifference.
“Very well, my dear,” said I, gayly, “this is not a time for
confidences, then?”
She looked at me in astonishment.
“And yet,” I continued, “we must some day come to the truth. Now I
believe it would be well to begin at once; that will make you confiding,
and there is nothing like an understanding between friends.”
Doubtless my face betrayed me as I spoke these words; Brigitte did not
appear to understand and kept on walking up and down.
“Do you know,” I resumed, “that we have been together now six months?
The life we are leading together is not one to be laughed at. You are
young, I also; if this kind of life should become distasteful to you,
are you the woman to tell me of it? In truth, if it were so, I would
confess it to you frankly. And why not? Is it a crime to love? If not,
it is not a crime to love less or to cease to love at all. Would it be
astonishing if at our age we should feel the need of change?”
She stopped me.
“At our age!” said she. “Are you addressing me? What comedy are you now
playing, yourself?”
Blood mounted to my face. I seized her hand. “Sit down here,” I said,
“and listen to me.”
“What is the use? It is not you who speak.”
I felt ashamed of my own strategy and abandoned it.
“Listen to me,” I repeated, “and come, I beg of you, sit down near me.
If you wish to remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have to
say.”
“I am listening, what have you to say to me?”
“If some one should say to me: ‘You are a coward!’ I, who am twenty-two
years of age and have fought on the field of honor, would throw
the taunt back in the teeth of my accuser. Have I not within me the
consciousness of what I am? It would be necessary for me to meet my
accuser on the field, and play my life against his; why? In order to
prove that I am not a coward; otherwise the world would believe it. That
single word demands that reply every time it is spoken, and it matters
not by whom.”
“It is true; what is your meaning?”
“Women do not fight; but as society is constituted there is no being,
of whatever sex, who ought to submit to the indignity involved in an
aspersion on all his or her past life, be that life regulated as by a
pendulum. Reflect; who escapes that law? There are some, I admit;
but what happens? If it is a man, dishonor; if it is a woman, what?
Forgiveness? Every one who loves ought to give some evidence of life,
some proof of existence. There is, then, for woman as well as for man,
a time when an attack must be resented. If she is brave, she rises,
announces that she is present and sits down again. A stroke of the sword
is not for her. She must not only avenge herself, but she must forge her
own arms. Someone suspects her; who? An outsider? She may hold him in
contempt--her lover whom she loves? If so, it is her life that is in
question, and she may not despise him.”
“Her only recourse is silence.”
“You are wrong; the lover who suspects her casts an aspersion on her
entire life. I know it. Her plea is in her tears, her past life, her
devotion and her patience. What will happen if she remains silent? Her
lover will lose her by her own act and time will justify her. Is not
that your thought?”
“Perhaps; silence before all.”
“Perhaps, you say? Assuredly I will lose you if you do not speak; my
resolution is made: I am going away alone.”
“But, Octave--”
“But,” I cried, “time will justify you! Let us put an end to it; yes or
no?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
“You hope so! Will you answer me definitely? This is doubtless the last
time you will have the opportunity. You tell me that you love me, and I
believe it. I suspect you; is it your intention to allow me to go away
and rely on time to justify you?”
“Of what do you suspect me?”
“I do not choose to say, for I see that it would be useless. But, after
all, misery for misery, at your leisure; I am as well pleased. You
deceive me, you love another; that is your secret and mine.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Smith.”
She placed her hand on her lips and turned aside. I could say no more;
we were both pensive, our eyes fixed on the floor.
“Listen to me,” she began with an effort, “I have suffered much. I call
heaven to bear me witness that I would give my life for you. So long as
the faintest gleam of hope remains, I am ready to suffer anything; but,
although I may rouse your anger in saying to you that I am a woman, I
am nevertheless a woman, my friend. We can not go beyond the limits
of human endurance. Beyond a certain point I will not answer for the
consequences. All I can do at this moment is to get down on my knees
before you and beseech you not to go away.”
She knelt down as she spoke. I arose.
“Fool that I am!” I muttered, bitterly; “fool, to try to get the
truth from a woman! He who undertakes such a task will earn naught
but derision and will deserve it! Truth! Only he who consorts with
chambermaids knows it, only he who steals to their pillow and listens
to the unconscious utterance of a dream, hears it. He alone knows it who
makes a woman of himself, and initiates himself into the secrets of her
cult of inconstancy! But man, who asks for it openly, he who opens a
loyal hand to receive that frightful alms, he will never obtain it! They
are on guard with him; for reply he receives a shrug of the shoulders,
and, if he rouses himself in his impatience, they rise in righteous
indignation like an outraged vestal, while there falls from their lips
the great feminine oracle that suspicion destroys love, and they refuse
to pardon an accusation which they are unable to meet. Ah! just God! How
weary I am! When will all this cease?”
“Whenever you please,” said she, coldly; “I am as tired of it as you.”
“At this very moment; I leave you forever, and may time justify you!
Time! Time! Oh! what a cold lover! Remember this adieu. Time! and thy
beauty, and thy love, and thy happiness, where will they be? Is it thus,
without regret, you allow me to go? Ah! the day when the jealous lover
will know that he has been unjust, the day when he shall see proofs,
he will understand what a heart he has wounded, is it not so? He will
bewail his shame, he will know neither joy nor sleep; he will live only
in the memory of the time when he might have been happy. But, on that
day, his proud mistress will turn pale as she sees herself avenged; she
will say to herself: ‘If I had only done it sooner!’ And believe me, if
she loves him, pride will not console her.”
I tried to be calm, but I was no longer master of myself, and I began to
pace the floor as she had done. There are certain glances that resemble
the clashing of drawn swords; such glances Brigitte and I exchanged at
that moment. I looked at her as the prisoner looks on her at the door of
his dungeon. In order to break her sealed lips and force her to speak I
would give my life and hers.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “What do you wish me to tell you?”
“What you have on your heart. Are you cruel enough to make me repeat
it?”
“And you, you,” she cried, “are you not a hundred times more cruel? Ah!
fool, as you say, who would know the truth! Fool that I should be if I
expected you to believe it! You would know my secret, and my secret is
that I love you. Fool that I am! you will seek another. That pallor of
which you are the cause, you accuse it, you question it. Like a fool, I
have tried to suffer in silence, to consecrate to you my resignation;
I have tried to conceal my tears; you have played the spy, and you have
counted them as witnesses against me. Fool that I am! I have thought of
crossing seas, of exiling myself from France with you, of dying far from
all who have loved me, leaning for sole support on a heart that doubts
me. Fool that I am! I thought that truth had a glance, an accent, that
could not be mistaken, that would be respected! Ah! when I think of it,
tears choke me. Why, if it must ever be thus, induce me to take a step
that will forever destroy my peace? My head is confused, I do not know
where I am!”
She leaned on me weeping. “Fool! Fool!” she repeated, in a heartrending
voice.
“And what is it you ask?” she continued, “what can I do to meet those
suspicions that are ever born anew, that alter with your moods? I
must justify myself, you say! For what? For loving, for dying,
for despairing? And if I assume a forced cheerfulness, even that
cheerfulness offends you. I sacrifice everything to follow you and
you have not gone a league before you look back. Always, everywhere,
whatever I may do, insults and anger!”
“Ah! dear child, if you knew what a mortal chill comes over me, what
suffering I endure in seeing my simplest words this taken up and hurled
back at me with suspicion and sarcasm! By that course you deprive
yourself of the only happiness there is in the world--perfect love. You
kill all delicate and lofty sentiment in the hearts of those who love
you; soon you will believe in nothing except the material and the gross;
of love there will remain for you only that which is visible and can
be touched with the finger. You are young, Octave, and you have still a
long life before you; you will have other mistresses. Yes, as you say,
pride is a little thing and it is not to it I look for consolation; but
God wills that your tears shall one day pay me for those which I now
shed for you!”
She arose.
“Must it be said? Must you know that for six months I have not sought
repose without repeating to myself that it was all in vain, that you
would never be cured; that I have never risen in the morning without
saying that another effort must be made; that after every word you have
spoken I have felt that I ought to leave you, and that you have not
given me a caress that I would rather die than endure; that, day by day,
minute by minute, hesitating between hope and fear, I have vainly tried
to conquer either my love or my grief; that, when I opened my heart to
you, you pierced it with a mocking glance, and that, when I closed it,
it seemed to me I felt within it a treasure that none but you could
dispense? Shall I speak of all the frailty and all the mysteries which
seem puerile to those who do not respect them? Shall I tell you that
when you left me in anger I shut myself up to read your first letters;
that there is a favorite waltz that I never played in vain when I felt
too keenly the suffering caused by your presence? Ah! wretch that I am!
How dearly all these unnumbered tears, all these follies, so sweet to
the feeble, are purchased! Weep now; not even this punishment, this
sorrow, will avail you.”
I tried to interrupt her.
“Allow me to continue,” she said; “the time has come when I must speak.
Let us see, why do you doubt me? For six months, in thought, in body,
and in soul, I have belonged to no one but you. Of what do you dare
suspect me? Do you wish to set out for Switzerland? I am ready, as you
see. Do you think you have a rival? Send him a letter that I will sign
and you will direct. What are we doing? Where are we going? Let us
decide. Are we not always together? Very well then, why would you leave
me? I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment. It
is necessary to have confidence in those we love. Love is either good or
bad: if good, we must believe in it; if evil, we must cure ourselves of
it. All this, you see, is a game we are playing; but our hearts and our
lives are the stakes, and it is horrible! Do you wish to die? That would
perhaps be better. Who am I that you should doubt me?”
She stopped before the glass.
“Who am I?” she repeated, “who am I? Think of it. Look at this face of
mine.”
“Doubt thee!” she cried, addressing her own image; “poor, pale face,
thou art suspected! poor, thin cheeks, poor, tired eyes, thou and thy
tears are in disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering; let
those kisses that have wasted thee close thy lids! Descend into the cold
earth, poor trembling body that can no longer support its own weight.
When thou art there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believes
in death. O sorrowful spectre! On the banks of what stream wilt thou
wander and groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a long
journey and thou hast one foot in the grave!
“Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried to love. Ah! what wealth
of love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what dreams thou hast had,
what poisons thou hast drunk! What evil hast thou committed that there
should be placed in thy breast a fever that consumes! What fury animates
that blind creature who pushes thee into the grave with his foot, while
his lips speak to thee of love? What will become of you if you live? Is
it not time to end it all? Is it not enough? What proof canst thou give
that will satisfy when thou, poor, living proof, art not believed? To
what torture canst thou submit that thou hast not already endured? By
what torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appease insatiable love? Thou
wilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing to excite laughter; thou
wilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the finger of scorn. Thou
wilt lose all shame and even that appearance of virtue which has been
so dear to you; and the man for whom you have disgraced yourself will be
the first to punish you. He will reproach you for living for him alone,
for braving the world for him, and while your friends are whispering
about you, he will listen to assure himself that no word of pity is
spoken; he will accuse you of deceiving him if another hand even then
presses yours, and if, in the desert of life, you find some one who can
spare you a word of pity in passing.
“O God! dost thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed on
my head? Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand that
hung it on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, to dust!
Oh, my native valley! Oh, my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace! Oh, my
lindens, my little white goat, my dear peasants who loved me so much!
You remember when I was happy, proud, and respected? Who threw in my
path that stranger who took me away from all this? Who gave him the
right to enter my life? Ah! wretch! why didst thou turn the first day
he followed you? Why didst thou receive him as a brother? Why didst thou
open thy door, and why didst thou hold out thy hand? Octave, Octave, why
have you loved me if all is to end thus?”
She was about to faint as I led her to a chair where she sank down
and her head fell on my shoulder. The terrible effort she had made in
speaking to me so bitterly had broken her down. Instead of an outraged
woman I found now only a suffering child. Her eyes closed and she was
motionless.
When she regained consciousness she complained of extreme languor, and
begged to be left alone that she might rest. She could hardly walk; I
carried her gently to her room and placed her on the bed. There was no
mark of suffering on her face: she was resting from her sorrow as
from great fatigue, and seemed not even to remember it. Her feeble and
delicate body yielded without a struggle; the strain had been too great.
She held my hand in hers; I kissed her; our lips met in loving union,
and after the cruel scene through which she had passed, she slept
smilingly on my heart as on the first day.
CHAPTER VI. SELF-SACRIFICE THE SOLUTION
Brigitte slept. Silent, motionless, I sat near her. As a husbandman,
when the storm has passed, counts the sheaves that remain in his
devastated field, thus I began to estimate the evil I had done.
The more I thought of it, the more irreparable I felt it to be. Certain
sorrows, by their very excess, warn us of their limits, and the more
shame and remorse I experienced, the more I felt that after such a
scene, nothing remained for us to do but to say adieu. Whatever courage
Brigitte had shown, she had drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of her sad
love; unless I wished to see her die, I must give her repose. She had
often addressed cruel reproaches to me, and had, perhaps, on certain
other occasions shown more anger than in this scene; but what she had
said this time was not dictated by offended pride; it was the truth,
which, hidden closely in her heart, had broken it in escaping.
Our present relations, and the fact that I had refused to go away with
her, destroyed all hope; she desired to pardon me, but she had not the
power. This slumber even, this deathlike sleep of one who could suffer
no more, was conclusive evidence; this sudden silence, the tenderness
she had shown in the final moments, that pale face, and that kiss,
confirmed me in the belief that all was over, and that I had broken
forever whatever bond had united us. As surely as she slept now, as soon
as I gave her cause for further suffering she would sleep in eternal
rest. The clock struck and I felt that the last hour had carried away my
life with hers.
Unwilling to call any one, I lighted Brigitte’s lamp; I watched its
feeble flame and my thoughts seemed to flicker in the darkness like its
uncertain rays.
Whatever I had said or done, the idea of losing Brigitte had never
occurred to me up to this time. A hundred times I wished to leave her,
but who has loved and is ready to say just what is in his heart? That
was in times of despair or of anger. So long as I knew that she loved
me, I was sure of loving her; stern necessity had just arisen between us
for the first time. I experienced a dull languor and could distinguish
nothing clearly. What my mind understood, my soul recoiled from
accepting. “Come,” I said to myself, “I have desired it and I have done
it; there is not the slightest hope that we can live together; I am
unwilling to kill this woman, so I have no alternative but to leave her.
It is all over; I shall go away tomorrow.”
And all the while I was thinking neither of my responsibility, nor of
the past, nor future; I thought neither of Smith nor his connection with
the affair; I could not say who had led me there, or what I had done
during the last hour. I looked at the walls of the room and thought that
all I had to do was to wait until to-morrow and decide what carriage I
would take.
I remained for a long time in this strange calm, just as the man who
receives a thrust from a poignard feels at first only the cold steel and
can often travel some distance ere he becomes weak, and his eyes start
from their sockets and he realizes what has happened. But drop by drop
the blood flows, the ground under his feet becomes red, death comes; the
man, at its approach, shudders with horror and falls as though struck
by a thunderbolt. Thus, apparently calm, I awaited the coming of
misfortune; I repeated in a low voice what Brigitte had said, and I
placed near her all that I supposed she would need for the night; then
I looked at her, then went to the window and pressed my forehead against
the pane peering out at a sombre and lowering sky; then I returned to
the bedside. That I was going away tomorrow was the only thought in my
mind, and little by little the word “depart” became intelligible to me.
“Ah! God!” I suddenly cried, “my poor mistress, I am about to lose you,
and I have not known how to love you!”
I trembled at these words as if it had been another who had pronounced
them; they resounded through all my being as resounds the string of the
harp that has been plucked to the point of breaking. In an instant
two years of suffering again racked my breast, and after them as their
consequence and as their last expression, the present seized me. How
shall I describe such woe? By a single word, perhaps, for those who have
loved. I had taken Brigitte’s hand, and, in a dream, doubtless, she had
pronounced my name.
I arose and went to my room; a torrent of tears flowed from my eyes. I
held out my arms as if to seize the past which was escaping me. “Is it
possible,” I repeated, “that I am going to lose you? I can love no one
but you. What! you are going away? And forever? What! you, my life, my
adored mistress, you flee me, I shall never see you more? Never! never!”
I said aloud; and, addressing myself to the slumbering Brigitte as if
she could hear me, I added: “Never, never; do not think of it; I will
never consent to it. And why so much pride? Are there no means of
atoning for the offense I have committed? I beg of you, let us seek some
expiation. Have you not pardoned me a thousand times? But you love me,
you will not be able to go, for courage will fail you. What shall we
do?”
A horrible madness seized me; I began to run here and there in search
of some instrument of death. At last I fell on my knees and beat my
head against the bed. Brigitte stirred, and I remained quiet, fearing I
should waken her.
“Let her sleep until to-morrow,” I said to myself; “I have all night to
watch her.”
I resumed my place; I was so frightened at the idea of waking Brigitte,
that I scarcely dared breathe. Gradually I became more calm and less
bitter tears began to course gently down my cheeks. Tenderness succeeded
fury. I leaned over Brigitte and looked at her as if, for the last time,
my better angel were urging me to grave on my soul the lines of that
dear face!
How pale she was! Her large eyes, surrounded by a bluish circle, were
moist with tears; her form, once so lithe, was bent as if beneath a
burden; her cheek, wasted and leaden, rested on a hand that was spare
and feeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thorns
which is the diadem of resignation. I thought of the cottage. How young
she was six months ago! How cheerful, how free, how careless! What had I
done with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old
romance that I had long since forgotten:
Altra volta gieri biele,
Blanch’ e rossa com’ un flore,
Ma ora no. Non son piu biele
Consumatis dal’ amore.
My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began to
walk the floor. “Yes,” I continued, “look at her; think of those who
are consumed by a grief that is not shared with another. The evils you
endure others have suffered, and nothing is singular or peculiar to you.
Think of those who have no mother, no relatives, no friends; of those
who seek and do not find, of those who love in vain, of those who die
and are forgotten.”
“Before thee, there on that bed, lies a being that nature, perchance,
formed for thee. From the highest circles of intelligence to the deepest
and most impenetrable mysteries of matter and of form, that soul and
that body are thy affinities; for six months thy mouth has not spoken,
thy heart has not beat, without a responsive word and heart-beat from
her; and that woman, whom God has sent thee as He sends the rose to the
field, is about to glide from thy heart. While rejoicing in each other’s
presence, while the angels of eternal love were singing before you, you
were farther apart than two exiles at the two ends of the earth. Look at
her, but be silent. Thou hast still one night to see her, if thy sobs do
not awaken her.”
Little by little, my thoughts mounted and became more sombre, until I
recoiled in terror.
“To do evil! Such was the role imposed upon me by Providence. I, to do
evil! I, to whom my conscience, even in the midst of my wildest follies,
said that I was good! I, whom a pitiless destiny was dragging swiftly
toward the abyss and whom a secret horror unceasingly warned of the
awful fate to come! I, who, if I had shed blood with these hands, could
yet repeat that my heart was not guilty; that I was deceived, that it
was not I who did it, but my destiny, my evil genius, some unknown being
who dwelt within me, but who was not born there!
“I do evil! For six months I had been engaged in that task, not a day
had passed that I had not worked at that impious occupation, and I had
at that moment the proof before my eyes. The man who had loved Brigitte,
who had offended her, then insulted her, then abandoned her only to
take her back again, trembling with fear, beset with suspicion, finally
thrown on that bed of sorrow, where she now lay extended, was I!”
I beat my breast, and, although looking at her, I could not believe it.
I touched her as if to assure myself that it was not a dream. My face,
as I saw it in the glass, regarded me with astonishment. Who was that
creature who appeared before me bearing my features? Who was that
pitiless man who blasphemed with my mouth and tortured with my hands?
Was it he whom my mother called Octave? Was it he who, at fifteen,
leaning over the crystal waters of a fountain, had a heart not less pure
than they? I closed my eyes and thought of my childhood days. As a ray
of light pierces a cloud, a gleam from the past pierced my heart.
“No,” I mused, “I did not do that. These things are but an absurd
dream.”
I recalled the time when I was ignorant of life, when I was taking my
first steps in experience. I remembered an old beggar who used to sit
on a stone bench before the farm gate, to whom I was sometimes sent with
the remains of our morning meal. Holding out his feeble, wrinkled hands
he would bless me as he smiled upon me. I felt the morning wind blowing
on my brow and a freshness as of the rose descending from heaven into
my soul. Then I opened my eyes and, by the light of the lamp, saw the
reality before me.
“And you do not believe yourself guilty?” I demanded, with horror. “O
novice of yesterday, how corrupt art thou today! Because you weep, you
fondly imagine yourself innocent? What you consider the evidence of your
conscience is only remorse; and what murderer does not experience it? If
your virtue cries out, is it not because it feels the approach of death?
O wretch! those far-off voices that you hear groaning in your heart, do
you think they are sobs? They are perhaps only the cry of the sea-mew,
that funereal bird of the tempest, whose presence portends shipwreck.
Who has ever told the story of the childhood of those who have died
stained with human blood? They, also, have been good in their day; they
sometimes bury their faces in their hands and think of those happy
days. You do evil, and you repent? Nero did the same when he killed his
mother. Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt?
“And even if it were true that a part of your soul is not devoted to
evil forever, what will you do with the other part that is not yours?
You will touch with your left hand the wounds that you inflict with
your right; you will make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your
crimes; you will strike, and like Brutus you will engrave on your sword
the prattle of Plato! Into the heart of the being who opens her arms
to you, you will plunge that blood-stained but repentant arm; you will
follow to the cemetery the victim of your passion, and you will plant on
her grave the sterile flower of your pity. You will say to those who see
you ‘What could you expect? I have learned how to kill, and observe that
I already, weep; learn that God made me better than you see me.’ You
will speak of your youth, and you will persuade yourself that heaven
ought to pardon you, that your misfortunes are involuntary, and you will
implore sleepless nights to grant you a little repose.
“But who knows? You are still young. The more you trust in your heart,
the farther astray you will be led by your pride. To-day you stand
before the first ruin you are going to leave on your route. If Brigitte
dies to-morrow you will weep on her tomb; where will you go when you
leave her? You will go away for three months perhaps, and you will
travel in Italy; you will wrap your cloak about you like a splenetic
Englishman, and you will say some beautiful morning, sitting in your inn
with your glasses before you, that it is time to forget in order to live
again.
“You who weep too late, take care lest you weep more than one day. Who
knows? When the present which makes you shudder shall have become the
past, an old story, a confused memory, may it not happen some night of
debauchery that you will overturn your chair and recount, with a smile
on your lips, what you witnessed with tears in your eyes? It is thus
that one drinks away shame. You have begun by being good, you will
become weak, and you will become a monster.
“My poor friend,” said I, from the bottom of my heart, “I have a word of
advice for you, and it is this: I believe that you must die. While there
is still some virtue left, profit by it in order that you may not become
altogether bad; while a woman you love lies there dying on that bed, and
while you have a horror of yourself, strike the decisive blow; she still
lives; that is enough; do not attend her funeral obsequies for fear that
on the morrow you will not be consoled; turn the poignard against your
own heart while that heart yet loves the God who made it. Is it your
youth that gives you pause? And would you spare those youthful locks?
Never allow them to whiten if they are not white to-night.
“And then what would you do in the world? If you go away, where will you
go? What can you hope for if you remain? Ah! in looking at that woman
you seem to have a treasure buried in your heart. It is not merely that
you lose her; it is less what has been than what might have been. When
the hands of the clock indicated such and such an hour, you might have
been happy. If you suffer why do you not open your heart? If you love,
why do you not say so? Why do you die of hunger, clasping a priceless
treasure in your hands? You have closed the door, you miser; you debate
with yourself behind locks and bolts. Shake them, for it was your hand
that forged them.
“O fool! who desired and have possessed your desire, you have not
thought of God! You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle,
and you do not reflect how rare and fragile a thing you hold in your
hands; you treat it with disdain, you smile at it and you continue to
amuse yourself with it, forgetting how many prayers it has cost your
good angel to preserve for you that shadow of daylight! Ah! if there is
in heaven one who watches over you, what is he doing at this moment? He
is seated before an organ; his wings are half-folded, his hands extended
over the ivory keys; he begins an eternal hymn; the hymn of love and
immortal rest, but his wings droop, his head falls over the keys; the
angel of death has touched him on the shoulder, he disappears into the
Nirvana.
“And you, at the age of twenty-two, when a noble and exalted passion,
when the strength of youth might perhaps have made something of you when
after so many sorrows and bitter disappointments, a youth so dissipated,
you saw a better time shining in the future; when your life, consecrated
to the object of your adoration, gave promise of new strength, at
that moment the abyss yawns before you! You no longer experience vague
desires, but real regrets; your heart is no longer hungry, it is broken!
And you hesitate? What do you expect? Since she no longer cares for your
life, it counts for nothing! Since she abandons you, abandon yourself!
“Let those who have loved you in your youth weep for you! They are not
many. If you would live, you must not only forget love, but you must
deny that it exists; not only deny what there has been of good in you,
but kill all that may be good in the future; for what will you do if you
remember? Life for you would be one ceaseless regret. No, no, you must
choose between your soul and your body; you must kill one or the other.
The memory of the good drives you to the evil, make a corpse of yourself
unless you wish to become your own spectre. O child, child! die while
you can! May tears be shed over your grave!”
I threw myself on the foot of the bed in such a frightful state of
despair that my reason fled and I no longer knew where I was or what I
was doing. Brigitte sighed.
My senses stirred within me. Was it grief or despair? I do not know.
Suddenly a horrible idea occurred to me.
“What!” I muttered, “leave that for another! Die, descend into the
ground, while that bosom heaves with the air of heaven? Just God!
another hand than mine on that fine, transparent skin! Another mouth on
those lips, another love in that heart! Brigitte happy, loving, adored,
and I in a corner of the cemetery, crumbling into dust in a ditch! How
long will it take her to forget me if I cease to exist to-morrow? How
many tears will she shed? None, perhaps! Not a friend who speaks to
her but will say that my death was a good thing, who will not hasten to
console her, who will not urge her to forget me! If she weeps, they will
seek to distract her attention from her loss; if memory haunts her, they
will take her away; if her love for me survives me, they will seek to
cure her as if she had been poisoned; and she herself, who will perhaps
at first say that she desires to follow me, will a month later turn
aside to avoid the weeping-willow planted over my grave!
“How could it be otherwise? Who, as beautiful as she, wastes life in
idle regrets? If she should think of dying of grief, that beautiful
bosom would urge her to live, and her mirror would persuade her; and the
day when her exhausted tears give place to the first smile, who will not
congratulate her on her recovery? When, after eight days of silence, she
consents to hear my name pronounced in her presence, then she will speak
of it herself as if to say: ‘Console me;’ then little by little she will
no longer refuse to think of the past but will speak of it, and she will
open her window some beautiful spring morning when the birds are singing
in the garden; she will become pensive and say: ‘I have loved!’ Who will
be there at her side? Who will dare to tell her that she must continue
to love?
“Ah! then I shall be no more! You will listen to him, faithless one! You
will blush as does the budding rose, and the blood of youth will mount
to your face. While saying that your heart is sealed, you will allow
it to escape through that fresh aureole of beauty, each ray of which
allures a kiss. How much they desire to be loved who say they love no
more! And why should that astonish you? You are a woman; that body,
that spotless bosom, you know what they are worth; when you conceal them
under your dress you do not believe, as do the virgins, that all are
alike, and you know the price of your modesty. How can a woman who has
been praised resolve to be praised no more? Does she think she is living
when she remains in the shadow and there is silence round about her
beauty? Her beauty itself is the admiring glance of her lover. No, no,
there can be no doubt of it; she who has loved, can not live without
love; she who has seen death clings to life. Brigitte loves me and will
perhaps die of love; I will kill myself and another will have her.
“Another, another!” I repeated, bending over her until my head touched
her shoulder. “Is she not a widow? Has she not already seen death? Have
not these little hands prepared the dead for burial? Her tears for
the second will not flow as long as those shed for the first. Ah! God
forgive me! While she sleeps why should I not kill her? If I should
awaken her now and tell her that her hour had come, and that we were
going to die with a last kiss, she would consent. What does it matter?
Is it certain that all does not end with that?”
I found a knife on the table and I picked it up.
“Fear, cowardice, superstition! What do they know about it who talk
of something else beyond? It is for the ignorant common people that
a future life has been invented, but who really believes in it?
What watcher in the cemetery has seen Death leave his tomb and hold
consultation with a priest? In olden times there were phantoms; they
are interdicted by the police in civilized cities, and no cries are now
heard issuing from the earth except from those buried in haste. Who has
silenced death, if it has ever spoken? Because funeral processions are
no longer permitted to encumber our streets, does the celestial spirit
languish?
“To die, that is the final purpose, the end. God has established it, man
discusses it; but over every door is written: ‘Do what thou wilt, thou
shalt die.’ What will be said if I kill Brigitte? Neither of us will
hear. In to-morrow’s journal would appear the intelligence that Octave
de T-----had killed his mistress, and the day after no one would speak
of it. Who would follow us to the grave? No one who, upon returning to
his home, could not enjoy a hearty dinner; and when we were extended
side by side in our narrow, bed, the world could walk over our graves
without disturbing us.
“Is it not true, my well-beloved, is it not true that it would be well
with us? It is a soft bed, that bed of earth; no suffering can reach us
there; the occupants of the neighboring tombs will not gossip about us;
our bones will embrace in peace and without pride, for death is solace,
and that which binds does not also separate. Why should annihilation
frighten thee, poor body, destined to corruption? Every hour that
strikes drags thee on to thy doom, every step breaks the round on which
thou hast just rested; thou art nourished by the dead; the air of heaven
weighs upon and crushes thee, the earth on which thou treadest attracts
thee by the soles of thy feet.
“Down with thee! Why art thou affrighted? Dost thou tremble at a word?
Merely say: ‘We will not live.’ Is not life a burden that we long to lay
down? Why hesitate when it is merely a question of a little sooner or a
little later? Matter is indestructible, and the physicists, we are
told, grind to infinity the smallest speck of dust without being able to
annihilate it. If matter is the property of chance, what harm can it do
to change its form since it can not cease to be matter? Why should God
care what form I have received and with what livery I invest my grief?
Suffering lives in my brain; it belongs to me, I kill it; but my bones
do not belong to me and I return them to Him who lent them to me: may
some poet make a cup of my skull from which to drink his new wine!
“What reproach can I incur and what harm can that reproach do me? What
stern judge will tell me that I have done wrong? What does he know about
it?
“Was he such as I? If every creature has his task to perform, and if
it is a crime to shirk it, what culprits are the babes who die on the
nurse’s breast! Why should they be spared? Who will be instructed by the
lessons which are taught after death? Must heaven be a desert in order
that man may be punished for having lived? Is it not enough to have
lived? I do not know who asked that question, unless it were Voltaire
on his death-bed; it is a cry of despair worthy of the helpless old
atheist.
“But to what purpose? Why so many struggles? Who is there above us who
delights in so much agony? Who amuses himself and wiles away an idle
hour watching this spectacle of creation, always renewed and always
dying, seeing the work of man’s hands rising, the grass growing; looking
upon the planting of the seed and the fall of the thunderbolt; beholding
man walking about upon his earth until he meets the beckoning finger
of death; counting tears and watching them dry upon the cheek of pain;
noting the pure profile of love and the wrinkled face of age; seeing
hands stretched up to him in supplication, bodies prostrate before him,
and not a blade of wheat more in the harvest!
“Who is it, then, that has made so much for the pleasure of knowing that
it all amounts to nothing! The earth is dying--Herschel says it is of
cold; who holds in his hand the drop of condensed vapor and watches it
as it dries up, as a fisher watches a grain of sand in his hand? That
mighty law of attraction that suspends the world in space, torments
it--and consumes it in endless desire--every planet that carries its
load of misery and groans on its axle--calls to each other across the
abyss, and each wonders which will stop first. God controls them; they
accomplish assiduously and eternally their appointed and useless task;
they whirl about, they suffer, they burn, they become extinct and they
light up with new flame; they descend and they reascend, they follow
and yet they avoid one another, they interlace like rings; they carry
on their surface thousands of beings who are ceaselessly renewed; the
beings move about, cross one another’s paths, clasp one another for an
hour, and then fall, and others rise in their place.
“Where life fails, life hastens to the spot; where air is wanting, air
rushes; no disorder, everything is regulated, marked out, written down
in lines of gold and parables of fire; everything keeps step with the
celestial music along the pitiless paths of life; and all for nothing!
And we, poor nameless dreams, pale and sorrowful apparitions, helpless
ephemera, we who are animated by the breath of a second in order that
death may exist, we exhaust ourselves with fatigue in order to prove
that we are living for a purpose, and that something indefinable is
stirring within us.
“We hesitate to turn against our breasts a little piece of steel, or to
blow out our brains with a little instrument no larger than our hands;
it seems to us that chaos would return again; we have written and
revised the laws both human and divine, and we are afraid of our
catechisms; we suffer thirty years without murmuring and imagine that we
are struggling; finally suffering becomes the stronger, we send a pinch
of powder into the sanctuary of intelligence, and a flower pierces the
soil above our grave.”
As I finished these words I directed the knife I held in my hand against
Brigitte’s bosom. I was no longer master of myself, and in my delirious
condition I know not what might have happened; I threw back the
bed-clothing to uncover the heart, when I discovered on her white bosom
a little ebony crucifix.
I recoiled, seized with sudden fear; my hand relaxed, my weapon fell to
the floor. It was Brigitte’s aunt who had given her that little
crucifix on her deathbed. I did not remember ever having seen it before;
doubtless, at the moment of setting out, she had suspended it about her
neck as a preserving charm against the dangers of the journey. Suddenly
I joined my hands and knelt on the floor.
“O Lord, my God,” I said, in trembling tones, “Lord, my God, thou art
there!”
Let those who do not believe in Christ read this page; I no longer
believed in Him. Neither as a child, nor at school, nor as a man, have
I frequented churches; my religion, if I had any, had neither rite
nor symbol, and I believed in a God without form, without a cult, and
without revelation. Poisoned, from youth, by all the writings of the
last century, I had sucked, at an early hour, the sterile milk of
impiety. Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed my mouth against
prayer, while my affrighted soul took refuge in the hope of nothingness.
I was as if drunken or insensate when I saw that effigy of Christ on
Brigitte’s bosom; while not believing in Him myself, I recoiled, knowing
that she believed in Him.
It was not vain terror that arrested my hand. Who saw me? I was alone
and it was night. Was it prejudice? What prevented me from hurling out
of my sight that little piece of black wood? I could have thrown it into
the fire, but it was my weapon I threw there. Ah! what an experience
that was and still is for my soul! What miserable wretches are men who
mock at that which can save a human being! What matters the name, the
form, the belief? Is not all that is good sacred? How dare any one touch
God?
As at a glance from the sun the snows descend the mountains, and the
glaciers that threatened heaven melt into streams in the valley, so
there descended into my heart a stream that overflowed its banks.
Repentance is a pure incense; it exhaled from all my suffering. Although
I had almost committed a crime when my hand was arrested, I felt that
my heart was innocent. In an instant, calm, self-possession, reason
returned; I again approached the bed; I leaned over my idol and kissed
the crucifix.
“Sleep in peace,” I said to her, “God watches over you! While your lips
were parting in a smile, you were in greater danger than you have ever
known before. But the hand that threatened you will harm no one; I swear
by the faith you profess I will not kill either you or myself! I am a
fool, a madman, a child who thinks himself a man. God be praised! You
are young and beautiful. You live and you will forget me. You will
recover from the evil I have done you, if you can forgive me. Sleep
in peace until day, Brigitte, and then decide our fate; to whatever
sentence you pronounce I will submit without complaint.
“And thou, Lord, who hast saved me, grant me pardon. I was born in an
impious century, and I have many crimes to expiate. Thou Son of God,
whom men forget, I have not been taught to love Thee. I have never
worshipped in Thy temples, but I thank heaven that where I find Thee,
I tremble and bow in reverence. I have at least kissed with my lips a
heart that is full of Thee. Protect that heart so long as life lasts;
dwell within it, Thou Holy One; a poor unfortunate has been brave
enough to defy death at the sight of Thy suffering and Thy death; though
impious, Thou hast saved him from evil; if he had believed, Thou wouldst
have consoled him.
“Pardon those who have made him incredulous since Thou hast made him
repentant; pardon those who blaspheme! When they were in despair they
did not see Thee! Human joys are a mockery; they are scornful and
pitiless; O Lord! the happy of this world think they have no need of
Thee! Pardon them. Although their pride may outrage Thee, they will be,
sooner or later, baptized in tears; grant that they may cease to believe
in any other shelter from the tempest than Thy love, and spare them
the severe lessons of unhappiness. Our wisdom and scepticism are in
our hands but children’s toys; forgive us for dreaming that we can defy
Thee, Thou who smilest at Golgotha. The worst result of all our vain
misery is that it tempts us to forget Thee.
“But Thou knowest that it is all but a shadow which a glance from Thee
can dissipate. Hast not Thou Thyself been a man? It was sorrow that made
Thee God; sorrow is an instrument of torture by which Thou hast mounted
to the very throne of God, Thy Father, and it is sorrow that leads us to
Thee with our crown of thorns to kneel before Thy mercy-seat; we touch
Thy bleeding feet with our bloodstained hands, for Thou hast suffered
martyrdom to be loved by the unfortunate.”
The first rays of dawn began to appear: man and nature were rousing
themselves from sleep and the air was filled with the confusion of
distant sounds. Weak and exhausted, I was about to leave Brigitte, and
seek a little repose. As I was passing out of the room, a dress thrown
on a chair slipped to the floor near me, and in its folds I spied
a piece of paper. I picked it up; it was a letter, and I recognized
Brigitte’s hand. The envelope was not sealed. I opened it and read as
follows:
23 December, 18--
“When you receive this letter I shall be far away from you, and
shall perhaps never see you again. My destiny is bound up with that
of a man for whom I have sacrificed everything; he can not live
without me, and I am going to try to die for him. I love you;
adieu, and pity us.”
I turned the letter over when I had read it, and saw that it was
addressed to “M. Henri Smith, N------, poste restante.”
On the morrow, a clear December day, a young man and a woman who rested
on his arm, passed through the garden of the Palais-Royal. They
entered a jeweler’s store where they chose two similar rings which
they smilingly exchanged. After a short walk they took breakfast at the
Freres-Provencaux, in one of those little rooms which are, all things
considered, the most beautiful spots in the world. There, when the
garcon had left them, they sat near the windows hand in hand.
The young man was in travelling dress; to see the joy which shone on
his face, one would have taken him for a young husband showing his young
wife the beauties and pleasures of Parisian life. His happiness was calm
and subdued, as true happiness always is. The experienced would have
recognized in him the youth who merges into manhood. From time to time
he looked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered in
his eyes, but he heeded them not, but smiled as he wept. The woman was
pale and thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man. On her face were
traces of sorrow which she could not conceal, although evidently touched
by the exalted joy of her companion.
When he smiled, she smiled too, but never alone; when he spoke, she
replied, and she ate what he served her; but there was about her a
silence which was only broken at his instance. In her languor could
be clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, that lethargy of the
weaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only in the other and
responds to him as does the echo. The young man was conscious of it, and
seemed proud of it and grateful for it; but it could be seen even by his
pride that his happiness was new to him.
When the woman became sad and her eyes fell, he cheered her with his
glance; but he could not always succeed, and seemed troubled himself.
That mingling of strength and weakness, of joy and sorrow, of anxiety
and serenity, could not have been understood by an indifferent
spectator; at times they appeared the most happy of living creatures,
and the next moment the most unhappy; but, although ignorant of their
secret, one would have felt that they were suffering together, and,
whatever their mysterious trouble, it could be seen that they had placed
on their sorrow a seal more powerful than love itself-friendship. While
their hands were clasped their glances were chaste; although they were
alone they spoke in low tones. As if overcome by their feelings, they
sat face to face, although their lips did not touch. They looked at each
other tenderly and solemnly. When the clock struck one, the woman heaved
a sigh and said:
“Octave, are you sure of yourself?”
“Yes, my friend, I am resolved. I shall suffer much, a long time,
perhaps forever; but we will cure ourselves, you with time, I with God.”
“Octave, Octave,” repeated the woman, “are you sure you are not
deceiving yourself?”
“I do not believe we can forget each other; but I believe that we can
forgive, and that is what I desire even at the price of separation.”
“Why could we not meet again? Why not some day--you are so young!”
Then she added, with a smile:
“We could see each other without danger.”
“No, my friend, for you must know that I could never see you again
without loving you. May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of you!
Smith is brave, good, and honest, but however much you may love him, you
see very well that you still love me, for if I should decide to remain,
or to take you away with me, you would consent.”
“It is true,” replied the woman.
“True! true!” repeated the young man, looking into her eyes with all his
soul. “Is it true that if I wished it you would go with me?”
Then he continued, softly:
“That is the reason why I must never see you again. There are certain
loves in life that overturn the head, the senses, the mind, the heart;
there is among them all but one that does not disturb, that penetrates,
and that dies only with the being in which it has taken root.”
“But you will write to me?”
“Yes, at first, for what I have to suffer is so keen that the absence of
the habitual object of my love would kill me. When I was unknown to you,
I gradually approached closer and closer to you, until--but let us not
go into the past. Little by little my letters will become less frequent
until they cease altogether. I shall thus descend the hill that I have
been climbing for the past year. When one stands before a fresh
grave, over which are engraved two cherished names, one experiences
a mysterious sense of grief, which causes tears to trickle down one’s
cheeks; it is thus that I wish to remember having once lived.”
At these words the woman threw herself on the couch and burst into
tears. The young man wept with her, but he did not move and seemed
anxious to appear unconscious of her emotion. When her tears ceased to
flow, he approached her, took her hand in his and kissed it.
“Believe me,” said he, “to be loved by you, whatever the name of the
place I occupy in your heart, will give me strength and courage. Rest
assured, Brigitte, no one will ever understand you better than I;
another will love you more worthily, no one will love you more truly.
Another will be considerate of those feelings that I offend, he will
surround you with his love; you will have a better lover, you will not
have a better brother. Give me your hand and let the world laugh at
a sentence that it does not understand: Let us be friends, and part
forever. Before we became such intimate friends there was something
within that told us we were destined to mingle our lives. Let our souls
never know that we have parted upon earth; let not the paltry chance of
a moment undo our eternal happiness!”
He held the woman’s hand; she arose, tears streaming from her eyes, and,
stepping up to the mirror with a strange smile on her face, she cut
from her head a long tress of hair; then she looked at herself thus
disfigured and deprived of a part of her beautiful crown, and gave it to
her lover.
The clock struck again; it was time to go; when they passed out they
seemed as joyful as when they entered.
“What a beautiful sun!” said the young man.
“And a beautiful day,” said Brigitte, “the memory of which shall never
fade.”
They hastened away and disappeared in the crowd.
Some time later a carriage passed over a little hill behind
Fontainebleau. The young man was the only occupant; he looked for the
last time upon his native town as it disappeared in the distance, and
thanked God that, of the three beings who had suffered through his
fault, there remained but one of them still unhappy.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
A terrible danger lurks in the knowledge of what is possible
Accustomed to call its disguise virtue
Adieu, my son, I love you and I die
All philosophy is akin to atheism
All that is not life, it is the noise of life
And when love is sure of itself and knows response
Because you weep, you fondly imagine yourself innocent
Become corrupt, and you will cease to suffer
Began to forget my own sorrow in my sympathy for her
Beware of disgust, it is an incurable evil
Can any one prevent a gossip
Cold silence, that negative force
Contrive to use proud disdain as a shield
Death is more to be desired than a living distaste for life
Despair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a spoiled child
Do they think they have invented what they see
Each one knows what the other is about to say
Fool who destroys his own happiness
Force itself, that mistress of the world
Funeral processions are no longer permitted
Galileo struck the earth, crying: “Nevertheless it moves!”
Good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly
Great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--they listen
Grief itself was for her but a means of seducing
Happiness of being pursued
He who is loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow
He lives only in the body
How much they desire to be loved who say they love no more
Human weakness seeks association
I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment
I can not love her, I can not love another
I boasted of being worse than I really was
I neither love nor esteem sadness
I do not intend either to boast or abase myself
Ignorance into which the Greek clergy plunged the laity
In what do you believe?
Indignation can solace grief and restore happiness
Is he a dwarf or a giant
Is it not enough to have lived?
It is a pity that you must seek pastimes
Make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes
Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer
Men doubted everything: the young men denied everything
No longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her
Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity
Perfection does not exist
Pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason
Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation
Reading the Memoirs of Constant
Resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original
Sceptic regrets the faith he has lost the power to regain
Seven who are always the same: the first is called hope
She pretended to hope for the best
Sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness
Speak to me of your love, she said, “not of your grief”
St. Augustine
Suffered, and yet took pleasure in it
Suspicions that are ever born anew
Terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me
There are two different men in you
Ticking of which (our arteries) can be heard only at night
“Unhappy man!” she cried, “you will never know how to love”
We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum
What you take for love is nothing more than desire
What human word will ever express thy slightest caress
When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning
Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt
Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame appearing there
You believe in what is said here below and not in what is done
You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle
You turn the leaves of dead books
Your great weapon is silence
Youth is to judge of the world from first impressions
End of Project Gutenberg’s Child of a Century, Complete, by Alfred de Musset