CHAPTER X

THE instant I noticed her resemblance to my mistress a frightful idea

occurred to me; it took irresistible possession of my muddled mind and I

put it into execution at once.

I took that girl home with me, I arranged my room just as I was

accustomed to do when my mistress was with me. I was dominated by a

certain recollection of past joys.

Having arranged my room to my satisfaction I gave myself up to the

intoxication of despair. I probed my heart to the bottom in order to

sound its depths. A Tyrolean song that my mistress used to sing began to

run through my head:

Altra volta gieri biele,

Blanch 'e rossa com' un flore;

Ma ora no. Non son piu biele,

Consumatis dal' amore.*

* Once I was beautiful, white and rosy as a flower; but now I am

not. I am no longer beautiful, consumed by the fire of love.

I listened to the echo of that song as it reverberated through my heart.

I said: "Behold the happiness of man; behold my little Paradise; behold

my queen Mab, a girl from the streets. My mistress is no better. Behold

what is found at the bottom of the glass when the nectar of the gods has

been drained; behold the corpse of love."

The unfortunate creature heard me singing and began to sing herself. I

turned pale; for that harsh and rasping voice, coming from the lips of

one who resembled my mistress, seemed to be a symbol of my experience. It

sounded like a gurgle in the throat of debauchery. It seemed to me that

my mistress, having been unfaithful, must have such a voice. I was

reminded of Faust who, dancing at Brocken with a young sorceress, saw a

red mouse come from her throat.

"Stop!" I cried. I arose and approached her.

Let me ask you, O, you men of the time, who are bent upon pleasure, who

attend the balls and the opera and who upon retiring this night will seek

slumber with the aid of some threadbare blasphemy of old Voltaire, some

sensible badinage of Paul Louis Courier, some essay on economics, you who

dally with the cold substance of that monstrous water-lily that Reason

has planted in the hearts of our cities; I beg of you, if by some chance

this obscure book falls into your hands, do not smile with noble disdain,

do not shrug your shoulders; do not be too sure that I complain of an

imaginary evil; do not be too sure that human reason is the most

beautiful of faculties, that there is nothing real here below but

quotations on the Bourse, gambling in the salon, wine on the table, a

healthy body, indifference toward others, and the orgies, which come with

the night.

For some day, across your stagnant life, a gust of wind will blow. Those

beautiful trees that you water with the stream of oblivion, Providence

will destroy; you will be reduced to despair, messieurs the impassive,

there will be tears in your eyes. I will not say that your mistresses

will deceive you; that would not grieve you so much as the loss of your

horse; but I do tell you that you will lose on the Bourse; your moneyed

tranquillity, your golden happiness are in the care of a banker who may

fail; in short I tell you, all frozen as you are, you are capable of

loving something; some fiber of your being will be torn and you will give

vent to a cry that will resemble a moan of pain. Some day, wandering

about the muddy streets, when daily material joys shall have failed, you

will find yourself seated disconsolately on a deserted bench at midnight.

O! men of marble, sublime egoists, inimitable reasoners who have never

given way to despair or made a mistake in arithmetic, if this ever

happens to you, at the hour of your ruin you will remember Abelard when

he lost Heloise. For he loved her more than you love your horses, your

money or your mistresses; for he lost in losing her more than your prince

Satan would lose in falling again from the battlements of Heaven; for he

loved her with a certain love of which the gazettes do not speak, the

shadow of which your wives and your daughters do not perceive in our

theaters and in our books; for he passed half of his life kissing her

white forehead, teaching her to sing the psalms of David and the

canticles of Saul; for he did not love her on earth alone; and God

consoled him.

Believe me, when in your distress you think of Abelard you will not look

with the same eye upon the sweet blasphemy of Voltaire and the badinage

of Courier; you will feel that the human reason can cure illusions but

not sorrows; that God has use for Reason but He has not made her the

sister of Charity. You will find that when the heart of man said: "I

believe in nothing, for I see nothing," it did not speak the last word on

the subject. You will look about you for something like hope, you will

shake the doors of churches to see if they still swing, but you will find

them walled up; you will think of becoming Trappists, and destiny will

mock at you and for reply give you a bottle of wine and a courtesan.

And if you drink the wine, if you take the courtesan, you will have

learned how such things come about.

PART II

CHAPTER I

AWAKENING the next morning I experienced a feeling of such deep disgust

with myself, I felt so degraded in my own eyes that a horrible temptation

assailed me. I leaped from bed and ordered the creature to leave my room

as quickly as possible. Then I sat down and looked gloomily about the

room, my eyes resting mechanically on a brace of pistols that decorated

the walls.

When the suffering mind advances its hands, so to speak, toward

annihilation, when our soul forms a violent resolution, there seems to be

an independent physical horror in the act of touching the cold steel of

some deadly weapon; the fingers stiffen in anguish, the arm grows cold

and hard. Nature recoils as the condemned walks to death. I can not

express what I experienced while waiting for that girl to go, unless it

was as though my pistol had said to me "Think what you are about to do."

Since then I have often wondered what would have happened to me if the

girl had departed immediately. Doubtless the first flush of shame would

have subsided; sadness is not despair, and God has joined them in order

that one should not leave us alone with the other. Once relieved of the

presence of that woman, my heart would have become calm. There would

remain only repentance, for the angel of pardon has forbidden man to

kill. But I was doubtless cured for life; debauchery was once for all

driven from my door and I would never again know the feeling of disgust

with which its first visit had inspired me.

But it happened otherwise. The struggle which was going on within, the

poignant reflections which overwhelmed me, the disgust, the fear, the

wrath, even (for I experienced all these emotions at the same time), all

these fatal powers nailed me to my chair, and, while I was thus a prey to

the most dangerous delirium, the creature, standing before my mirror,

thought of nothing but how best to arrange her dress and fix her hair,

smiling the while. This lasted more than a quarter of an hour, during

which I had almost forgotten her. Finally, some slight noise attracted my

attention to her, and turning about with impatience I ordered her to

leave the room in such a tone that she at once opened the door and threw

me a kiss before going out.

At the same moment some one rang the bell of the outer door. I arose

hastily and had only time to open the closet door and motion the creature

into it when Desgenais entered the room with two friends.

The great currents that are found in the middle of the ocean resemble

certain events in life. Fatality, Chance, Providence, what matters the

name? Those who quarrel over the word, admit the fact. Such are not those

who, speaking of Napoleon or Caesar, say: "He was a man of Providence."

They apparently believe that heroes merit the attention which Heaven

shows them and that the color of purple attracts gods as well as bulls.

What decides the course of these little events, what objects and

circumstances, in appearance the least important, lead to changes in

fortune, there is not, to my mind, a deeper abyss for the thought. There

is something in our ordinary actions that resembles the little blunted

arrows we shoot at targets; little by little we make of our successive

results an abstract and regular entity that we call our prudence or our

will. Then a gust of wind passes, and behold the smallest of these

arrows, the very lightest and most futile, is carried beyond our vision,

beyond the horizon, to the dwelling-place of God himself.

What a strange feeling of unrest seizes us then! What becomes of those

fantoms of tranquil pride, the will and prudence? Force itself, that

mistress of the world, that sword of man in the combat of life, in vain

do we brandish it over our heads in wrath, in vain do we seek to ward off

with it a blow which threatens us; an invisible power turns aside the

point, and all the impetus of our effort, deflected into space, serves

only to precipitate our fall.

Thus at the moment I was hoping to cleanse myself from the sin I had

committed, perhaps to inflict the penalty, at the very instant when a

great horror had taken possession of me, I learned that I had to sustain

a dangerous intervention.

Desgenais was in good humor; stretching out on my sofa he began to chaff

me about the appearance of my face which looked, he said, as though I had

not slept well. As I was little disposed to indulge in pleasantry I

begged him to spare me.

He appeared to pay no attention to me, but warned by my tone he soon

broached the subject that had brought him to me. He informed me that my

mistress had not only two lovers at a time, but three, that is to say she

had treated my rival as badly as she had treated me; the poor boy having

discovered her inconstancy made a great ado and all Paris knew it. At

first I did not catch the meaning of Desgenais' words as I was not

listening attentively; but when he had repeated his story three times in

detail I was so stupefied that I could not reply. My first impulse was to

laugh, for I saw that I had loved the most unworthy of women; but it was

no less true that I loved her still. "Is it possible?" was all I could

say.

Desgenais' friends confirmed all he had said. My mistress had been

surprised in her own house between two lovers, and a scene that all Paris

knew by heart ensued. She was disgraced, obliged to leave Paris or remain

exposed to the most bitter taunts.

It was easy for me to see that in all, the ridicule expended on the

subject of this woman, on my unreasonable passion for her, was

premeditated. To say that she deserved severest censure, that she had

perhaps committed worse sins than those with which she was charged, that

was to make me feel that I had been merely one of her dupes.

All that did not please me; but Desgenais had undertaken the task of

curing me of my love and was prepared to treat my disease heroically. A

long friendship founded on mutual services gave him rights, and as his

motive appeared praiseworthy I allowed him to have his way.

Not only did he not spare me, but when he saw my trouble and my shame

increase, he pressed me the harder. My impatience was so obvious that he

could not continue, so he stopped and remained silent, a course that

irritated me still more.

In my turn I began to ask questions; I paced to and fro in my room.

Although the recital of that story was insupportable, I wanted to hear it

again. I tried to assume a smiling face and tranquil air, but in vain.

Desgenais suddenly became silent after having shown himself to be a most

virulent gossip. While I was pacing up and down my room he looked at me

calmly as though I was a caged fox.

I can not express my feeling. A woman who had so long been the idol of my

heart and who, since I had lost her, had caused me such deep affliction,

the only one I had ever loved, she for whom I would weep till death,

become suddenly a shameless wretch, the subject of coarse jests, of

universal censure and scandal! It seemed to me that I felt on my shoulder

the impression of a heated iron and that I was marked with a burning

stigma.

The more I reflected, the more the darkness thickened about me. From time

to time I turned my head and saw a cold smile or a curious glance.

Desgenais did not leave me, he knew very well what he was doing, he knew

that I might go to any length in my present desperate condition.

When he found that he had brought me to the desired point he did not

hesitate to deal the finishing stroke.

"Does that story displease you?" he asked. "The best is yet to come. My

dear Octave, the scene I have described took place on a certain night

when the moon was shining brightly; while the two lovers were quarreling

over their fair one and talking of cutting her throat as she sat before

the fire, down in the street a certain shadow was seen to pass up and

down before the house, a shadow that resembled you so closely that it was

decided that it must be you."

"Who says that," I asked, "who has seen me in the street?"

"Your mistress herself; she has told every one about it who cared to

listen, just as cheerfully as we tell you her story. She claims that you

love her still, that you keep guard at her door, in short--everything you

can think of; but you should know that she talks about you publicly."

I have never been able to lie, for whenever I have tried to disguise the

truth my face betrayed me. Amour propre, the shame of confessing my

weakness before witnesses induced me, however, to make the effort. "It is

very true that I was in the street," I thought, "but if I had known that

my mistress was as bad as she was, I would not have been there."

Finally I persuaded myself that I had not been seen distinctly; I

attempted to deny it. A deep blush suffused my face and I felt the

futility of my feint. Desgenais smiled.

"Take care," said he, "take care, do not go too far."

"But," I protested, "how did I know it, how could I know--"

Desgenais compressed his lips as though to say:

"You knew enough."

I stopped short, mumbling the remnant of my sentence. My blood became so

hot that I could not continue.

"I, in the street bathed in tears, in despair; and during that time that

encounter within! What! that very night! Mocked by her! Surely Desgenais

you are dreaming. Is it true? Can it be possible? What do you know about

it?"

Thus talking at random, I lost my head, and an irresistible feeling of

wrath began to rise within me. Finally I sat down exhausted.

"My friend," said Desgenais, "do not take the thing so seriously. The

solitary life you have been leading for the last two months has made you

ill, I see you have need of distraction. Come to supper with me this

evening, and to-morrow morning we will go to the country."

The tone in which he said this hurt me more than anything else; in vain I

tried to control myself. "Yes," I thought, "deceived by that woman,

poisoned by horrible suggestions, having no refuge either in work or in

fatigue, having for my only safeguard against despair and ruin, a sacred

but frightful grief. O God! it is that grief, that sacred relic of my

sorrow that has just crumbled in my hands! It is no longer my love, it is

my despair that is insulted. Mockery! She mocks at me as I weep!" That

appeared incredible to me. All the memories of the past clustered about

my heart when I thought of it. I seemed to see, one after the other, the

specters of our nights of love; they hung over a bottomless eternal

abyss, black as chaos, and from the bottom of that abyss there burst

forth a shriek of laughter, sweet but mocking, that said: "Behold your

reward!"

If I had been told that the world mocked at me I would have replied: "So

much the worse for it," and I would not be angry; but at the same time I

was told that my mistress was a shameless wretch. Thus, on one side, the

ridicule was public, vouched for, stated by two witnesses who, before

telling what they knew, must have felt that the world was against me;

and, on the other hand, what reply could I make? How could I escape? What

could I do when the center of my life, my heart itself, was ruined,

killed, annihilated. What could I say when that woman for whom I had

braved all, ridicule as well as blame, for whom I had borne a mountain of

misery, when that woman whom I loved and who loved another, of whom I

demanded no love, of whom I desired nothing but permission to weep at her

door, no favor but that of vowing my youth to her memory and writing her

name, her name alone, on the tomb of my hopes! Ah! when I thought of it,

I felt the hand of death heavy upon me; that woman mocked me, it was she

who first pointed her finger at me, singling me out to the idle crowd

which surrounded her; it was she, it was those lips so many times pressed

to mine, it was that body, that soul of my life, my flesh and my blood,

it was from that source the injury came; yes, the last of all, the most

cowardly and the most bitter, the pitiless laugh that spits in the face

of grief.

The more I thought of it the more enraged I became. Did I say enraged? I

do not know what passion controlled me. What I do know is that an

inordinate desire for vengeance took possession of me. How could I

revenge myself on a woman? I would have paid any price for a weapon that

could be used against her. But I had none, not even the one she had

employed; I could not pay her in her own coin.

Suddenly I noticed a shadow moving behind the curtain before the closet.

I had forgotten her.

"Listen to me!" I cried, rising. "I have loved, I have loved like a fool.

I deserve all the ridicule you have subjected me to. But, by Heaven! I

will show you something that will prove to you that I am not such a fool

as you think."

With these words I pulled aside the curtain and exposed the interior of

the closet. The girl was trying to conceal herself in a corner.

"Go in, if you choose," I said to Desgenais; "you who call me a fool for

loving a woman, see how your teaching has affected me. Do you think I

passed last night under the windows of -----? But that is not all," I

added, "that is not all I have to say. You give a supper to-night, and

to-morrow go to the country; I am with you, and shall not leave you from

now on. We shall not separate, but pass the entire day together. Are you

with me? Agreed! I have tried to make of my heart the mausoleum of my

love, but I will bury my love in another tomb."

With these words I sat down, marveling how indignation can solace grief

and restore happiness. Whoever is astonished to learn that from that day

I completely changed my course of life does not know the heart of man,

and he does not understand that a young man of twenty may hesitate before

taking a step, but does not retreat when he has once taken it.

CHAPTER II

THE apprenticeship to debauchery resembles vertigo, for one feels at

first a sort of terror mingled with sensuous delight as though peering

down from some dizzy height. While shameful secret dissipation ruins the

noblest of men, in frank and open irregularities there is some palliation

even for the most depraved. He who goes at nightfall, muffled in his

cloak, to sully his life incognito, and to clandestinely shake off the

hypocrisy of the day, resembles an Italian who strikes his enemy from

behind, not daring to provoke him to open quarrel. There are

assassinations in the dark corners of the city under shelter of the

night. He who goes his way without concealment says: "Every one does it

and conceals it; I do it and do not conceal it." Thus speaks pride, and

once that cuirass has been buckled on, it glitters with the refulgent

light of day.

It is said that Damocles saw a sword suspended over his head. Thus

libertines seem to have something over their heads which says "Go on, but

I hold the thread." Those masked carriages that are seen during carnival

are the faithful images of their life. A dilapidated open wagon, flaming

torches lighting up painted faces; such laugh and sing. Among them you

see what appears to be women; they are in fact the remains of women, with

human semblance. They are caressed and insulted; no one knows who they

are or what their names. All that floats and staggers under the flaming

torch in an intoxication that thinks of nothing, and over which, it is

said, a god watches.

But if the first impression is astonishment, the second is horror, and

the third pity. There is displayed there so much force, or rather such an

abuse of force, that it often happens that the noblest characters and the

strongest constitutions are ruined. It appears hardy and dangerous to

these; they would make prodigies of themselves; they bind themselves to

debauchery as did Mazeppa to his horse; they gallop, they make Centaurs

of themselves, and they see neither the bloody trail that the shreds of

their flesh leave, nor the eyes of the wolves that gleam in hungry

pursuit, nor the desert, nor the vultures.

Launched into that life by the circumstances that I have recounted, I

must now describe what I saw there.

The first time I had a close view of one of those famous gatherings

called theatrical masked balls I heard the debauchery of the Regency

spoken of, and the time when a queen of France was disguised as a flower

merchant. I found there flower merchants disguised as camp-followers. I

expected to find libertinism there, but in fact I found none at all. It

is only the scum of libertinism, some blows and drunken women lying in

deathlike stupor on broken bottles.

The first time I saw debauchery at table I heard of the suppers of

Heliogabalus and of the philosophy of Greece which made the pleasure of

the senses a kind of religion of nature. I expected to find oblivion or

something like joy; I found there the worst thing in the world, ennui

trying to live, and an Englishman who said: "I do this or that, therefore

I amuse myself. I have spent so many pieces of gold, therefore I

experience so much pleasure." And they wear out their life on that

grindstone.

The first time I saw courtesans I heard of Aspasia who sat on the knees

of Alcibiades while discussing philosophy with Socrates. I expected to

find something bold and insolent, but gay, free, and vivacious, something

of the sparkle of champagne; I found a yawning mouth, a fixed eye and

hooked hands.

The first time I saw titled courtesans I read Boccaccio and Andallo;

tasting of everything, I read Shakespeare. I had dreamed of those

beautiful triflers; of those cherubim of hell. A thousand times I had

drawn those heads so poetically foolish, so enterprising in audacity,

heads of harebrained mistresses who spoil a romance with a glance and who

walk through life by waves and by shocks like the undulating sirens; I

thought of the fairies of the modern tales who are always drunk with love

if not with wine. I found, instead, writers of letters, arrangers of

precise hours who practise lying as an art and cloak their baseness under

hypocrisy, whose only thought is to give themselves and forget.

The first time I looked on the gaming table I heard of floods of gold, of

fortunes made in the quarter of an hour, and of a lord of the court of

Henry IV who won on one card a hundred thousand _louis_. I found a narrow

room where workmen who had but one shirt, rented a suit for the evening

for twenty _sous_, police stationed at the door and starving wretches

staking a crust of bread against a pistol-shot.

The first time I saw an assembly, public or other, open to one of those

thirty thousand women who are permitted to sell themselves in Paris, I

heard of the saturnalia of all times, of every imaginable orgy, from

Babylon to Rome, from the temple of Priapus to the _Parc-aux-Cerfs_, and

I have always seen written on the sill of that door the word, "Pleasure."

I found nothing suggestive of pleasure but in its place the word,

"Prostitution;" and it has always appeared ineffaceable, not graven in

that metal that takes the sun's light, but in the palest of all, that of

the cold light whose colors seem tinted by the somber hues of night,

silver.

The first time I saw the people--it was a frightful morning of Ash

Wednesday, near Courtille. A cold fine rain had been falling since the

evening before; the streets were covered with pools of water. Masked

carriages filed hither and thither, crowding between hedges of hideous

men and women standing on the sidewalks. That sinister wall of spectators

had tiger eyes, red with wine, gleaming with hatred. The carriage wheels

splashed mud over this wall, but it did not move. I was standing on the

front seat of an open carriage; from time to time a man in rags would

step out from the wall, hurl a torrent of abuse at us, then cover us with

a cloud of flour. Mud would soon follow; yet we kept on our way toward

the Isle of Love and the pretty wood of Romainville consecrated by so

many sweet kisses. One of my friends fell from his seat into the mud,

narrowly escaping death on the paving. The people threw themselves on him

to overpower him and we were obliged to hasten to his assistance. One of

the trumpeters who preceded us on horseback was struck on the shoulder by

a paving stone; the flour had given out. I had never heard of anything

like that.

I began to understand the time and comprehend the spirit of the age.

CHAPTER III

DESGENAIS had planned a reunion of young people at his country house. The

best wines, a splendid table, gaming, dancing, hunting, nothing was

lacking. Desgenais was rich and generous. He combined antique hospitality

with modern custom. Moreover one could always find in his house the best

books; his conversation was that of a man of learning and culture. He was

a problem.

I took with me a taciturn humor that nothing could overcome; he respected

it scrupulously. I did not reply to his questions and he dropped the

subject; he was satisfied that I had forgotten my mistress. Nevertheless,

I went to the chase and appeared at the table and was as convivial as the

best; he asked no more.

One of the most unfortunate proclivities of inexperienced youth is to

judge of the world from first impressions; but it must be confessed that

there is a race of men who are very unfortunate; it is that race which

says to youth: "You are right in believing in evil, and we know what it

is." I have heard, for example, a curious thing spoken of, a medium

between good and evil, a certain arrangement between heartless women and

men worthy of them; they call love the passing sentiment. They speak of

it as of an engine constructed by a wagon builder or a building

contractor. They said to me: "This and that are agreed upon, such and

such phrases are spoken and certain others are repeated in reply; letters

are written in a prescribed manner, the knees adjusted in a certain

attitude." All that was regulated as a parade; these fine fellows had

gray hair.

That made me laugh. Unfortunately for me I can not tell a woman whom I

despise that I love her, even when I know that it is only a convention

and that she will not be deceived by it. I have never bent my knee to the

ground when my heart did not go with it. So that class of women known as

easy is unknown to me, or if I allow myself to be taken with them, it is

without knowing it, and through simplicity.

I can understand that one's soul can be put aside but not that it should

be handled. That there is some pride in this, I confess, but I do not

intend either to boast or to lower myself. Above all things I hate those

women who laugh at love and I permit them to reciprocate the sentiment;

there will never be any dispute between us.

Such women are beneath the courtesans, for courtesans may lie as well as

they; but courtesans are capable of love and those women are not. I

remember a woman who loved me and who said to a man many times richer

than I with whom she was living: "I am weary of you, I am going to my

lover." That woman is worth more than many others who are not despised by

society.

I passed the entire season with Desgenais, and learned that my mistress

had left France; that news left in my heart a feeling of languor which I

could not overcome.

At the sight of that world which surrounded me, so new to me, I

experienced at first a kind of bizarre curiosity, at once sad and

profound, that caused me to look at things as does a restless horse. An

incident occurred which made a deep impression on me.

Desgenais had with him a very beautiful mistress who loved him much. One

evening as I was walking with him I told him that I considered her such

as she was, that is to say, admirable, as much on account of her

attachment for him as because of her beauty. In short, I praised her

highly and with warmth, giving him to understand that he ought to be

happy.

He made no reply. It was his manner, for he was the driest of men. That

night when all had retired and I had been in bed some fifteen minutes I

heard a knock at my door. I supposed it was some one of my friends who

could not sleep and invited him to enter.

There appeared before my astonished eyes a woman, very pale, carrying a

bouquet in her hands to which was attached a piece of paper bearing these

words: "To Octave, from his friend Desgenais."

I had no sooner read these words when a flash of light came to me. I

understood the meaning of this action of Desgenais in making me this

Turk's gift. It was intended for a lesson in love. That woman loved him,

I had praised her and he wished to tell me that I ought not to love her,

whether I refused her or accepted her.

That made me think. The poor woman was weeping and did not dare dry her

tears for fear I would see them. What threat had he used to make her

come? I did not know. I said to her:

"You may return and fear nothing."

She replied that if she should return Desgenais would send her back to

Paris.

"Yes," I replied, "you are beautiful and I am susceptible to temptation;

but you weep, and your tears not being shed for me, I care nothing for

the rest. Go, therefore, and I will see to it that you are not sent back

to Paris."

One of my peculiarities is that meditation, which with the great number

is a firm and constant quality of the mind, is in my case an instinct

independent of the will and it seizes me like an access of passion. It

comes to me at intervals in its own good time, in spite of me and in

almost any place. But when it comes I can do nothing against it. It takes

me whither it pleases by whatever route seems good to it.

When the woman had left, I sat up.

"My friend," I said to myself, "behold what has been sent you. If

Desgenais had not seen fit to send you his mistress he would not have

been mistaken, perhaps, in supposing that you might fall in love with

her.

"Have you well considered it? A sublime and divine mystery is

accomplished. Such a being costs nature the most vigilant maternal care;

yet man who would cure you, can think of nothing better than to offer you

lips which belong to him in order to teach you how to cease to love.

"How was it accomplished? Others than you have doubtless admired her, but

they ran no risk. She might employ all the seduction she pleased; you

alone were in danger.

"It must be that Desgenais has a heart, since he lives. In what respect

does he differ from you? He is a man who believes in nothing, fears

nothing, who knows no care or ennui, perhaps, and yet it is clear that a

scratch on the finger would fill him with terror, for if his body

abandons him, what becomes of him? He lives only in the body. What sort

of creature is that who treats his soul as the flagellants treat their

bodies? Can one live without a head?

"Think of it. Here is a man who possesses the most beautiful woman in the

world; he is young and ardent; he finds her beautiful and tells her so;

she replies that she loves him. Some one touches him on the shoulder and

says to him 'She is unfaithful.' Nothing more, he is sure of himself. If

some one had said: 'She is a poisoner,' he would, perhaps, have continued

to love her, he would not have given her a kiss less; but she is

unfaithful and it is no more a question of love with him than of the star

of Saturn.

"What is there in that word? A word that is merited, positive, withering,

it is agreed. But why? It is still but a word. Can you kill a body with a

word?

"And if you love that body? Some one pours a glass of wine and says to

you: 'Do not love that, for you can get four for six francs.' And if you

become intoxicated?

"But that Desgenais loves his mistress, since he keeps her; he must,

therefore, have a peculiar fashion of loving? No, he has not; his fashion

of loving is not love, and he cares no more for the woman who merits

affection than for her who is unworthy. He loves no one, simply and

truly.

"What has led him to that? Was he born thus? To love is as natural as to

eat and to drink. He is not a man. Is he a dwarf or a giant? What! always

that impassive body? Upon what does he feed, what brew does he drink?

Behold him at thirty as old as the senile Mithridates; the poisons of

vipers are his familiar friends.

"There is the great secret, my child, the key to which you must seize. By

whatever process of reasoning debauchery may be defended, it will be

proven that it is natural at a given day, hour or evening, but not

to-morrow nor every day. There is not a people on earth which has not

considered woman either the companion and consolation of man or the

sacred instrument of life, and has not under these two forms honored her.

And yet here is an armed warrior who leaps into the abyss that God has

dug with his own hands between man and brute; as well might he deny the

fact. What mute Titian is this who dares repress under the kisses of the

body the love of the thought, and place on human lips the stigma of the

brute, the seal of eternal silence?

"There is a word that should be studied. There breathes under the wind of

those dismal forests that are called secrets of the body, one of those

mysteries that the angels of destruction whisper in the ear of night as

it descends upon the earth. That man is better or worse than God has made

him. His bowels are like those of sterile women, where nature has not

completed her work, or there is distilled in the shadow some venomous

poison.

"Ah! yes, neither occupation nor study have been able to cure you, my

friend. To forget and to learn, that is your device. You finger the

leaves of dead books; you are too young for ruins. Look about you, the

pale herd of men surrounds you. The eyes of the sphinx glitter in the

midst of divine hieroglyphics; decipher the book of life! Courage,

scholar, launch out on the Styx, the invulnerable flood, and let the

waves of sorrow waft you to death or to God."

CHAPTER IV

"ALL there was of good in that, supposing there was some good in it, was

that false pleasures were the seeds of sorrow and of bitterness which

fatigued me to the point of exhaustion." Such are the simple words spoken

with reference to his youth by that man who was the most a man of any who

have lived, Saint Augustine. Of those who have done as I, few would say

those words, all have them in their hearts; I have found no others in

mine.

Returning to Paris in the month of December I passed the winter attending

pleasure parties, masquerades, suppers, rarely leaving Desgenais, who was

delighted with me; I was not with him. The more I went about, the more

unhappy I became. It seemed to me after a short enough time, that the

world, which had at first appeared so strange, would tie me up, so to

speak, at every step; where I had expected to see a specter, I

discovered, upon closer inspection, a shadow.

Desgenais asked what was the matter with me.

"And you?" I asked. "What is the matter with you? You have lost some

relative? Or do you suffer from some wound?"

At times he seemed to understand me and did not question me. We sat down

before a table and drank until we lost our heads; in the middle of the

night we took horses and rode ten or twelve leagues into the country;

returning we went to the bath, then to table, then to gambling, then to

bed; and when I reached mine, I fell on my knees and wept. That was my

evening prayer.

Strange to say, I took pride in passing for what I was not, I boasted of

being worse than I really was, and experienced a sort of melancholy

pleasure in doing so. When I had actually done what I claimed, I felt

nothing but ennui, but when I invented an account of some folly, some

story of debauchery or recital of an orgy with which I had nothing to do,

it seemed to me that my heart was better satisfied, although I know not

why.

Whenever I joined a party of pleasure-seekers and we visited some spot

made sacred by tender associations I became stupid, went off by myself,

looked gloomily at the trees and bushes as though I would like to crush

them under my feet. Upon my return I would remain silent for hours.

The baleful idea that truth is nudity beset me on every occasion.

"The world," I said to myself, "is accustomed to call his disguise

virtue, his chaplet religion, his flowing mantle convenience. Honor and

Morality are his chamber-maids; he drinks in his wine the tears of the

poor in spirit who believe in him; while the sun is high in the heavens

he walks about with downcast eye; he goes to church, to the ball, to the

assembly, and when evening has come he removes his mantle and there

appears a naked bacchante with hoofs of a goat."

But such thoughts aroused a feeling of horror, for I felt that if the

body was under the clothing, the skeleton was under the body. "Is it

possible that that is all?" I asked in spite of myself. Then I returned

to the city, I saw a little girl take her mother's arm and I became like

a child.

Although I had followed my friends into all manner of dissipation, I had

no desire to resume my place in the world of society. The sight of women

caused me intolerable pain; I could not touch a woman's hand without

trembling. I had decided never to love again.

Nevertheless I returned from the ball one evening so sick at heart that I

feared that it was love. I happened to have beside me at supper the most

charming and the most distinguished woman whom it had ever been my good

fortune to meet. When I closed my eyes to sleep I saw her image before

me. I thought I was lost, and I at once resolved that I would avoid

meeting her again. A sort of fever seized me and I lay on my bed for

fifteen days, repeating over and over the lightest words I had exchanged

with her.

As there is no spot on earth where one is so well known by his neighbors

as at Paris, it was not long before people of my acquaintance who had

seen me with Desgenais began to accuse me of being a great libertine. In

that I admired the discernment of the world: in proportion as I had

passed for inexperienced and sensitive at the time of my rupture with my

mistress, I was now considered insensible and hardened. Some one had just

told me that it was clear I had never loved that woman, that I had

doubtless merely played at love, thereby paying me a compliment which I

really did not deserve; but the most of it was that I was so swollen with

vanity that I was charmed with that view.

My desire was to pass for blase, even while I was filled with desires and

my exalted imagination was carrying me beyond all limits. I began to say

that I could not make any headway with the women; my head was filled with

chimeras which I preferred to realities. In short, my unique pleasure

consisted in altering the nature of facts. If a thought were but

extraordinary, if it shocked common sense, I became its ardent champion

at the risk of advocating the most dangerous sentiments.

My greatest fault was imitation of everything that struck me, not by its

beauty but by its strangeness, and not wishing to confess myself an

imitator I resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original.

According to my idea nothing was good or even tolerable; nothing was

worth the trouble of turning the head, and yet when I had become warmed

up in a discussion it seemed as if there was no expression in the French

language violent enough to sustain my cause; but my warmth would subside

as soon as my opponents ranged themselves on my side.

It was a natural consequence of my conduct. Although disgusted with the

life I was leading I was unwilling to change it:

Simigliante a quella 'nferma

Che non puo trovar posa in su le piume,

Ma con dar volta suo dolore scherma.--DANTE.

Thus I tortured my mind to give it change and I fell into all these

vagaries in order to get out of myself.

But while my vanity was thus occupied, my heart was suffering, so that

there was always within me a man who laughed and a man who wept. It was a

perpetual counter-stroke between my head and my heart. My own mockeries

frequently caused me great pain and my deepest sorrows aroused a desire

to burst into laughter.

One day a man boasted of being proof against superstitious fears, in

fact, fear of every kind; his friends put a human skeleton in his bed and

then concealed themselves in an adjoining room to wait for his return.

They did not hear any noise, but in the morning they found him dressed

and sitting on the bed playing with the bones; he had lost his reason.

There would be in me something that resembled that man but for the fact

that my favorite bones were those of a well-beloved skeleton; they were

the debris of my love, all that remained of the past.

But it must not be supposed that there were no good moments in all this

disorder. Among Desgenais's companions were several young men of

distinction, a number of artists. We sometimes passed together delightful

evenings under pretext of being libertines. One of them was infatuated

with a beautiful singer who charmed us with her fresh and melancholy

voice. How many times we sat listening while supper was served and

waiting! How many times, when the flagons had been emptied, one of us

held a volume of Lamartine and read in a voice choked by emotion! Every

other thought disappeared. The hours passed by unheeded. What strange

libertines we were! We did not speak a word and there were tears in our

eyes.

Desgenais especially, habitually the coldest and driest of men, was

inexplicable on such occasions; he delivered himself of such

extraordinary sentiments that he might have been considered a poet in

delirium. But after these effusions he would be seized with furious joy.

He would break everything within reach when warmed by wine; the genius of

destruction stalked forth armed to the teeth. I have seen him pick up a

chair and hurl it through a closed window.

I could not help making a study of that singular man. He appeared to me

the marked type of a class which ought to exist somewhere but which was

unknown to me. One could never tell whether his outbursts were the

despair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a spoiled child.

During the fete, in particular, he was in such a state of nervous

excitation that he acted like a schoolboy. He persuaded me to go out on

foot with him one day, muffled in grotesque costumes, with masks and

instruments of music. We promenaded gravely all night, in the midst of a

most frightful din of horrible sounds. We found a driver asleep on his

box and unhitched his horses; then pretending we had just come from the

ball, set up a great cry. The coachman started up, cracked his whip and

his horses started off on a trot, leaving him seated on the box. The same

evening we passed through the Champs Elysees; Desgenais, seeing another

carriage passing, stopped it after the manner of a highwayman; he

intimidated the coachman by threats and forced him to climb down and lie

flat on his stomach. He then opened the carriage door and found within a

young man and lady motionless with fright. Whispering to me to imitate

him, we began to enter one door and go out the other, so that in the

obscurity the poor young people thought they saw a procession of bandits

going through their carriage.

As I understand it, the men who say that the world gives experience ought

to be astonished if they are believed. The world is merely a number of

whirlpools, each one whirling independent of the others; they float about

in groups like flocks of birds. There is no resemblance between the

different quarters of the same city, and the denizen of the Chausee

d'Antin has as much to learn at Marais as at Lisbon. It is true that

these whirlpools are traversed, and have been since the beginning of the

world, by seven personages who are always the same: the first is called

hope; the second, conscience; the third, opinion; the fourth, desire; the

fifth, sorrow; the sixth, pride; and the seventh, man.

We were, therefore, my companions and I, a flock of birds, and we

remained together until springtime, sometimes singing, sometimes flying.

"But," the reader objects, "where are the women in all this? I see

nothing of debauchery here."

O! creatures who bear the name of women and who have passed like dreams

through a life that was itself a dream, what shall I say of you? Where

there is no shadow of hope can there be memory? Where shall I seek for

memory's meed? What is there more dumb in human memory? What is there

more completely forgotten than you?

If I must speak of women I will mention two; here is one of them:

I ask what would be expected of a poor sewing-girl, young and pretty,

about eighteen, with a romantic affair on her hands that is purely a

question of love; with little knowledge of life and no idea of morals;

eternally sewing near a window before which processions were not allowed

to pass, by order of the police, but near which a dozen women prowled who

were licensed and recognized by these same police; what could you expect

of her, when, after having tired her hands and eyes all day long on a

dress or a hat, she leans out of that window as night falls? That dress

she has sewed, that hat she has trimmed with her poor and honest hands in

order to earn a supper for the household, she sees passing along the

street on the head or on the body of a public woman. Thirty times a day a

hired carriage stops before the door and there steps out a prostitute,

numbered as is the hack in which she rides, who stands before a glass and

primps, taking off and putting on the results of many days' work on the

part of the poor girl who watches her. She sees that woman draw from her

pocket six pieces of gold, she who has but one a week; she looks at her

feet and her head, she examines her dress, and eyes her as she steps into

her carriage; and then, what could you expect? When night has fallen,

after a day when work has been scarce, when her mother is sick, she opens

her door, stretches out her hand and stops a passer-by.

Such was the story of a girl I have known. She could play the piano, knew

something of accounts, a little designing, even a little history and

grammar, and thus a little of everything. How many times have I regarded

with poignant compassion that sad sketch made by nature and mutilated by

society! How many times have I followed in the darkness the pale and

vacillating gleam of a spark flickering in abortive life! How many times

have I tried to revive the fire that smoldered under those ashes! Alas!

her long hair was the color of ashes and we called her Cendrillon.

I was not rich enough to help her; Desgenais, at my request, interested

himself in the poor creature; he made her learn over again all of which

she had a slight knowledge. But she could make no appreciable progress.

When her teacher left her she would fold her arms and for hours look

silently across the public square. What days! What misery! One day I

threatened that if she did not work she should have no money; she

silently resumed her task and I learned that she stole out of the house a

few minutes later. Where did she go? God knows. Before she left I asked

her to embroider a purse for me. I still have that sad relic, it hangs in

my room a monument of the ruin that is wrought here below.

But here is another case:

It was about ten in the evening when, after a riotous day, we repaired to

Desgenais, who had left us some hours before to make his preparations.

The orchestra was ready and the room filled when we arrived.

Most of the dancers were girls from the theaters. As soon as we entered I

plunged into the giddy whirl of the waltz. That delightful exercise has

always been dear to me; I know of nothing more beautiful, more worthy of

a beautiful woman and a young man; all dances compared with the waltz are

but insipid conventions or pretexts for insignificant converse. It is

truly to possess a woman, in a certain sense, to hold her for a half hour

in your arms, and to draw her on in the dance, palpitating in spite of

herself, in such a way that it can not be positively asserted whether she

is being protected or seduced. Some deliver themselves up to the pleasure

with such modest voluptuousness, with such sweet and pure abandon that

one does not know whether he experiences desire or fear, and whether, if

pressed to the heart they would faint or break in pieces like the rose.

Germany, where that dance was invented, is surely the land of love.

I held in my arms a superb danseuse from an Italian theater who had come

to Paris for the carnival; she wore the costume of a bacchante, with a

dress of panther's skin. Never have I seen anything so languishing as

that creature. She was tall and slender, and while dancing with extreme

rapidity, had the appearance of allowing herself to be led; to see her

one would think that she would tire her partner, but such was not the

case, for she moved as though by enchantment.

On her bosom rested an enormous bouquet, the perfume of which intoxicated

me. She yielded to my encircling arms as does the Indian liana, with a

gentleness so sweet and so sympathetic that I seemed surrounded with a

perfumed veil of silk. At each turn there could be heard a light tinkling

from her metal girdle; she moved so gracefully that I thought I beheld a

beautiful star, and her smile was that of a fairy about to vanish from

human sight. The tender and voluptuous music of the dance seemed to come

from her lips, while her head, covered with a wilderness of black

tresses, bent backward as though her neck was too slender to support its

weight.

When the waltz was over I threw myself on a chair; my heart beat wildly.

"O, Heaven!" I murmured, "how can it be possible! O, superb monster! O,

beautiful reptile! How you writhe, how you coil in and out, sweet adder,

with supple and spotted skin! Thy cousin the serpent has taught thee to

coil about the tree of life, holding between thy lips the apple of

temptation. O, Melusina! Melusina! The hearts of men are thine. You know

it well, enchantress, with your soft languor that seems to suspect

nothing! You know very well that you ruin, that you destroy, you know

that he who touches you will suffer; you know that he dies who basks in

your smile, who breathes the perfume of your flowers and comes under the

magic influence of your charms; that is why you abandon yourself so

freely, that is why your smile is so sweet, your flowers so fresh; that

is why you so gently place your arms on our shoulders. O, Heaven! what is

your will with us?"

Professor Halle has said a terrible thing: "Woman is the nervous part of

humanity, man the muscular." Humboldt himself, that serious thinker, has

said that an invisible atmosphere surrounds the human nerves. I do not

quote the dreamers who watch the flight of Spallanzani's bat, and who

think they have found a sixth sense in nature. Such as nature is, her

mysteries are terrible enough, her powers mighty enough, that nature

which creates us, mocks at us, and kills us, without deepening the

shadows that surround us. But where is the man who has lived who will

deny woman's power over us, if he has ever taken leave of a beautiful

dancer with trembling hands. If he has ever felt that indefinable

enervating magnetism which, in the midst of the dance, under the

influence of the sound of music, and the warmth that makes all else seem

cold, that comes from a young woman, that electrifies her and leaps from

her to him as the perfume of aloes from the swinging censer? I was struck

with stupor. I was familiar with a certain sensation similar to

drunkenness, which characterizes love; I knew that it was the aureole

which crowned the well-beloved. But that she should excite such

heart-throbs, that she should evoke such fantoms with nothing but her

beauty, her flowers, her motley costume, and a certain trick of turning

she had learned from some merry-andrew; and that without a word, without

a thought, without even appearing to know it! What was chaos if it

required seven days to transform it?

It was not love, however, that I felt, and I do not know how to describe

it unless I call it thirst. For the first time I felt vibrating in my

body a cord that was not attuned to my heart. The sight of that beautiful

animal had aroused a responsive roar from another animal in my bowels. I

felt sure I would never tell that woman that I loved her or that she

pleased me or even that she was beautiful; there was nothing on my lips

but a desire to kiss her, and say to her: "Make a girdle of those

listless arms and lean that head on my breast; place that sweet smile on

my lips." My body loved hers, I was under the influence of beauty as of

wine.

Desgenais passed and asked what I was doing there.

"Who is that woman?" I asked.

"What woman? Of whom do you speak?" I took his arm and led him into the

hall. The Italian saw us coming and smiled. I stopped and stepped back.

"Ah!" said Desgenais, "you have danced with Marco?"

"Who is Marco?" I asked.

"Why, that idle creature who is laughing over there. Does she please

you?"

"No," I replied, "I have waltzed with her and wanted to know her name; I

have no further interest in her."

Shame led me to speak thus, but when Desgenais turned away I followed

him.

"You are very prompt," he said, "Marco is no ordinary woman. She was

almost the wife of M. de -----, ambassador to Milan. One of his friends

brought her here. Yet," he added, "you may rest assured I shall speak to

her. We shall not allow you to die so long as there is any hope for you

or any resource left untried. It is possible that she will remain to

supper."

He left me, and I was alarmed to see him approach her. But they were soon

lost in the crowd.

"Is it possible," I murmured, "have I come to this? O, heavens! is this

what I am going to love? But after all," I thought, "my senses have

spoken, but not my heart."

Thus I tried to calm myself. A few minutes later Desgenais tapped me on

the shoulder.

"We shall go to supper at once," said he. "You will give your arm to

Marco; she knows that she has pleased you and it is all arranged."

"Listen," I said; "I hardly know what I experienced. It seems to me I see

limping Vulcan covering Venus with kisses while his beard smokes with the

fumes of the forge. He fixes his affrighted eyes on the dazzling skin of

his prey. His happiness in the possession of his prize causes him to

laugh for joy, and at the same time shudder with happiness, and then he

remembers his father, Jupiter, who is seated up on high among the gods."

Desgenais looked at me but made no reply; taking me by the arm he led me

away.

"I am tired," he said, "and I am sad; this noise wearies me. Let us go to

supper, that will refresh us."

The supper was splendid, but I could not touch it.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Marco.

But I sat like a statue, making no reply and looking at her from head to

foot with amazement.

She began to laugh, and Desgenais, who could see us from his table,

joined her. Before her was a large crystal glass, cut in the shape of a

chalice, which reflected the glittering lights on its thousand sparkling

facets, shining like the prism and revealing the seven colors of the

rainbow. She listlessly extended her arm and filled it to the brim with

Cyprian and a sweetened Oriental wine which I afterward found so bitter

on the deserted Lido.

"Here," she said, presenting it to me, "_per voi, bambino mio_."

"For you and for me," I said, presenting her my glass in turn.

She moistened her lips while I emptied my glass, unable to conceal the

sadness she seemed to read in my eyes.

"Is it not good?" she asked.

"No," I replied.

"Perhaps your head aches?"

"No."

"Or you are tired?"

"No."

"Ah! then it is the ennui of love?"

With these words she became serious, for in spite of herself, in speaking

of love, her Italian heart beat the faster.

A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becoming heated, cheeks were assuming

that purple hue with which wine colors the face as though to prevent

shame from appearing there; a confused murmur like to that of a rising

sea could be heard all over the room, here and there eyes would become

inflamed, then fixed and empty; I know not what wind stirred above this

drunkenness. A woman rose, as in a tranquil sea the first wave that feels

the tempest's breath, and rises to announce it; she makes a sign with her

hand to command silence, empties her glass at a gulp, and with the same

movement undoes her hair, which falls in shining tresses over her

shoulders; she opens her mouth as though to start a drinking song; her

eyes were half closed. She breathed with an effort; twice a harsh sound

came from her throat; a mortal pallor overspread her features and she

dropped into her chair.

Then came an uproar which lasted an hour. It was impossible to

distinguish anything, either laughter, songs or cries.

"What do you think of it?" asked Desgenais.

"Nothing," I replied. "I have stopped my ears and am looking at it."

In the midst of that bacchanal the beautiful Marco remained mute,

drinking nothing and leaning quietly on her bare arm. She seemed neither

astonished nor affected by it.

"Do you not wish to do as they?" I asked. "You have just offered me

Cyprian wine; why do you not drink some yourself?"

With these words I poured out a large glass full to the brim. She raised

it to her lips, and then placed it on the table and resumed her listless

attitude.

The more I studied that Marco, the more singular she appeared; she took

pleasure in nothing and did not seem to be annoyed by anything. It

appeared as difficult to anger her as to please her; she did what was

asked of her, but no more. I thought of the genius of eternal repose, and

I imagined that if that pale statue should become somnambulant it would

resemble Marco.

"Are you good or bad?" I asked. "Are you sad or gay? Are you loved? Do

you wish to be loved? Are you fond of money, of pleasure, of what?

Horses, the country, balls? What pleases you? Of what are you dreaming?"

To all these questions the same smile on her part, a smile that expressed

neither joy nor sorrow, but which seemed to say, "What does it matter?"

and nothing more.

I held my lips to hers; she gave me a listless kiss and then passed her

handkerchief over her mouth.

"Marco," I said, "woe to him who loves you."

She turned her dark eyes on me, then turned them upward, and raising her

finger with that Italian gesture which can not be imitated, she

pronounced that characteristic feminine word of her country:

"_Forse_!"

And then dessert was served. Some of the party had departed, some were

smoking, others gambling, and a few still at table; some of the women

danced, others slept. The orchestra returned; the candles paled and

others were lighted. I recalled a supper of Petronius where the lights

went out around the drunken masters, and the slaves entered and stole the

silver. All the while songs were being sung in various parts of the room,

and three Englishmen, three of those gloomy figures for whom the

continent is a hospital, kept up a most sinister ballad that must have

been born of the fogs of their marshes.

"Come," said I to Marco, "let us go."

She arose and took my arm.

"To-morrow!" cried Desgenais to me, as we left the hall.

When approaching Marco's house, my heart beat violently and I could not

speak. I could not understand such a woman; she seemed to experience

neither desire nor disgust, and could think of nothing but the fact that

my hand was trembling and hers motionless.

Her room was, like her, somber and voluptuous; it was dimly lighted by an

alabaster lamp.

The chairs and sofa were as soft as beds, and there was everywhere

suggestion of down and silk. Upon entering I was struck with the strong

odor of Turkish pastilles, not such as are sold here on the streets, but

those of Constantinople, which are more nervous and more dangerous. She

rang and a maid appeared. She entered an alcove without a word, and a few

minutes later I saw her leaning on her elbow in her habitual attitude of

nonchalance.

I stood looking at her. Strange to say, the more I admired her, the more

beautiful I found her, the more rapidly I felt my desires subside. I do

not know whether it was some magnetic influence or her silence and

listlessness. I lay down on a sofa opposite the alcove and the coldness

of death settled on my soul.

The pulsation of the blood in the arteries is a sort of clock, the

ticking of which can be heard only at night. Man, abandoned by exterior

objects, falls back upon himself; he hears himself live. In spite of my

fatigue I could not close my eyes; those of Marco were fixed on me; we

looked at each other in silence, gently, so to speak.

"What are you doing there?" she asked.

She heaved a gentle sigh that was almost a plaint. I turned my head and

saw that first gleams of morning light were shining through the window.

I arose and opened the window; a bright light penetrated every corner of

the room. The sky was clear.

I motioned to her to wait. Considerations of prudence had led her to

choose an apartment some distance from the center of the city; perhaps

she had other quarters, for she sometimes received a number of visitors.

Her lover's friends sometimes visited her, and this room was doubtless

only a _petite maison_; it overlooked the Luxembourg, the garden of which

extended as far as my eye could reach.

As a cork held under water seems restless under the hand which holds it,

and slips through the fingers to rise to the surface, thus there stirred

in me a sentiment that I could neither overcome nor escape. The garden of

the Luxembourg made my heart leap and banished every other thought. How

many times had I stretched out on one of those little mounds, a sort

sylvan school, while I read in the cool shade some book filled with

foolish poetry! For such, alas! were the debauches of my childhood. I saw

many souvenirs of the past among those leafless trees and faded lawns.

There, when ten years of age, I had walked with my brother and my tutor,

throwing bits of bread to some of the poor benumbed birds; there, seated

under a tree, I had watched a group of little girls as they danced; I

felt my heart beat in unison with the refrain of their childish song;

there, returning from school, I had followed a thousand times the same

path, lost in contemplation of some verse of Virgil and kicking the

pebbles at my feet. "Oh! my childhood! You are there!" I cried. "O,

Heaven! now I am here."

I turned around. Marco was asleep, the lamp had gone out, the light of

day had changed the aspect of the room; the hangings, which had at first

appeared blue, were now a faded yellow, and Marco, the beautiful statue,

was livid as death.

I shuddered in spite of myself; I looked at the alcove, then at the

garden; my head became drowsy and fell on my breast. I sat down before an

open secretary near one of the windows. A piece of paper caught my eye;

it was an open letter, and I looked at it mechanically. I read it several

times before I thought what I was doing. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence

came to me, although I could not understand everything. I picked up the

paper and read what follows, written in an unskilled hand and filled with

errors in spelling:

"She died yesterday. She began to fail at twelve, the night before. She

called me and said: 'Louison, I am going to join my companion; go to the

closet and take down the cloth that hangs on a nail; it is the mate of

the other.' I fell on my knees and wept, but she took my hand and said:

'Do not weep, do not weep!' And she heaved such a sigh--"

The rest was torn. I can not describe the impression, that sad letter

made on me; I turned it over and saw on the other side Marco's address

and the date, that of the evening previous.

"Is she dead? Who is dead?" I cried, going to the alcove. "Dead! Who?"

Marco opened her eyes. She saw me with the letter in my hand.

"It is my mother," she said, "who is dead. You are not coming?"

As she spoke she extended her hand.

"Silence!" I said; "sleep and leave me to myself."

She turned over and went to sleep. I looked at her for some time to

assure myself that she would not hear me, and then quietly left the

house.

CHAPTER V

ONE evening I was seated by the fire with Desgenais. The window was open;

it was one of the early days in March, a harbinger of spring. It had been

raining and a sweet odor came from the garden.

"What shall we do this spring?" I asked. "I do not care to travel."

"I shall do what I did last year," replied Desgenais. "I shall go to the

country when the time comes."

"What!" I replied. "Do you do the same thing every year? Are you going to

begin life over again this year?"

"What would you expect me to do?"

"What would I expect you to do?" I cried, jumping to my feet. "That is

just like you. Ah! Desgenais, how all this wearies me! Do you never tire

of this sort of life?"

"No," he replied.

I was standing before an engraving of the Madeleine. Involuntarily I

joined my hands.

"What are you doing?" asked Desgenais.

"If I were an artist," I replied, "and wished to represent Melancholy, I

would not paint a dreamy girl with a book in her hands."

"What is the matter with you this evening?" he asked, smiling.

"No, in truth," I continued, "that Madeleine, in tears, has the spark of

hope in her bosom; that pale and sickly hand on which she supports her

head, is still sweet with the perfume with which she anointed the feet of

her Lord. You do not understand that in that desert there are thinking

people who pray. This is not Melancholy."

"It is a woman who reads," he replied dryly.

"And a happy woman," I continued, "and a happy book."

Desgenais understood me; he saw that a profound sadness had taken

possession of me. He asked if I had some secret cause of sorrow. I

hesitated, but did not reply.

"My dear Octave," he said, "if you have any trouble, do not hesitate to

confide in me. Speak freely and you will find that I am your friend!"

"I know it," I replied, "I know I have a friend; that is not my trouble."

He urged me to explain.

"But what will it avail," I asked, "since neither of us can help matters?

Do you want the bottom of my heart or merely a word and an excuse?"

"Be frank!" he said.

"Very well," I replied, "you have seen fit to give me advice in the past

and now I ask you to listen to me as I have listened to you. You ask what

is in my heart and I am about to tell you.

"Take the first comer and say to him: 'Here are people who pass their

lives drinking, riding, laughing, gambling, enjoying all kinds of

pleasures; no barrier restrains them, their law is their pleasure, women

are their playthings; they are rich. They have no cares, not one. All

their days are days of feasting.' What do you think of it? Unless that

man happened to be a severe bigot he would probably reply that that was

the greatest happiness that could be imagined.

"Then take that man into the thick of the action, place him at a table

with a woman on either side, a glass in his hand, a handful of gold every

morning and say to him: 'This is your life. While you sleep near your

mistress, your horses neigh in the stables; while you drive your horses

along the boulevards, your wines are ripening in your vaults; while you

pass away the night drinking, the bankers are increasing your wealth. You

have but to express a wish and your desires are gratified. You are the

happiest of men. But take care lest some night of carousal you drink too

much and destroy the capacity of your body for enjoyment. That would be a

serious misfortune, for all the ills that afflict human flesh can be

cured, except that. You ride some night through the woods with joyous

companions; your horse falls and you are thrown into a ditch filled with

mud, and it may be that your companions, in the midst of their happy

fanfares, will not hear your cry of anguish; it may be that the sound of

their trumpets will die away in the distance while you drag your broken

limbs through the deserted forest. Some night you will lose at the gaming

table; Fortune has its bad days. When you return to your home and are

seated before the fire, do not strike your forehead with your hands, and

do not allow sorrow to moisten your cheeks with tears, do not bitterly

cast your eyes about here and there as though seeking for a friend; do

not, under any circumstances, think of those who, under some thatched

roof, enjoy a tranquil life and who sleep holding each other by the hand;

for before you, on your luxurious bed, will sit a pale creature who

loves--your money. You will seek from her consolation for your grief, and

she will remark that you are very sad and ask if your loss was

considerable; the tears from your eyes will concern her deeply, for they

may be the cause of allowing her dress to grow old or the rings to drop

from her fingers. Do not name him who won your money that night for she

may meet him on the morrow, and she may make sweet eyes at him that would

destroy your remaining happiness. That is what is to be expected of human

frailty; have you the strength to endure it? Are you a man? Beware of

disgust, it is an incurable evil; death is more to be desired than a

living distaste for life. Have you a heart? Beware of love, for it is

worse than disease for a debauchee and it is ridiculous. Debauchees pay

their mistresses, and the woman who sells herself has no right but that

of contempt for the purchaser. Are you passionate? Take care of your

face. It is shameful for a soldier to throw down his arms and for a

debauchee to appear to hold to anything; his glory consists in touching

nothing except with hands of marble that have been bathed in oil in order

that nothing may stick to them. Are you hot-headed? If you desire to

live, learn how to kill, for wine is a wrangler. Have you a conscience?

Take care of your slumber, for a debauchee who repents too late is like a

ship that leaks: it can neither return to land nor continue on its

course; the winds can with difficulty move it, the ocean yawns for it, it

careens and disappears. If you have a body, look out for suffering; if

you have a soul, despair awaits you. O, unhappy one! beware of men; while

they walk along the same path with you, you will seem to see a vast plain

strewn with garlands where a happy throng of dancers trip the gladsome

_furandole_ standing in a circle, each a link in an endless chain; it is

but a mirage; those who look down know that they are dancing on a silken

thread stretched over an abyss that swallows up all who fall and shows

not even a ripple on its surface. What foot is sure? Nature herself seems

to deny you her divine consolation; trees and flowers are yours no more;

you have broken your mother's laws, you are no longer one of her

foster-children, the birds of the field become silent when you appear.

You are alone! Beware of God! You are face to face with Him, standing

like a cold statue upon the pedestal of will. The rain from heaven no

longer refreshes you, it undermines and weakens you. The passing wind no

longer gives you the kiss of life, the benediction on all that lives and

breathes; it buffets you and makes you stagger. Every woman who kisses

you, takes from you a spark of life and gives you none in return; you

exhaust yourself on fantoms; wherever falls a drop of our sweat, there

springs up one of those sinister weeds that grow in graveyards. Die! You

are the enemy of all, who love; blot yourself from the face of the earth,

do not wait for old age; do not leave a child behind you, do not

fecundate a drop of your corrupted blood; vanish as does the smoke, do

not deprive a single blade of living grass of a ray of sunlight!'"

When I had spoken these words, I fell back in my chair and a flood of

tears streamed from my eyes.

"Ah! Desgenais," I cried, sobbing, "this is not what you told me. Did you

not know it? And if you did, why did you not tell me of it?"

But Desgenais sat still with folded hands; he was as pale as a shroud and

a long tear trickled down his cheek.

A moment of silence ensued. The clock struck; I suddenly remembered that

it was this hour and this day, one year ago, that my mistress deceived

me.

"Do you hear that clock?" I cried, "do you hear it? I do not know what it

means at this moment, but it is a terrible hour and one that will count

in my life."

I was beside myself and scarcely knew what I was saying. But that instant

a servant rushed into the room; he took my hand and led me aside,

whispering in my ear:

"Sir, I have come to inform you that your father is dying; he has just

been seized with an attack of apoplexy and the physicians despair of his

life."

PART III

CHAPTER I

MY father lived in the country, some miles from Paris. When I arrived, I

found a physician at the door who said to me:

"You are too late; your father expressed a desire to see you before he

died."

I entered and saw my father dead. "Sir," I said to the physician, "please

have every one retire that I may be alone here; my father had something

to say to me, and he will say it."

In obedience to my order the servants left the room. I approached the bed

and raised the shroud which already covered the face. But when my eyes

fell on that face, I stooped to kiss it and lost consciousness.

When I recovered, I heard some one say:

"If he requests it, you must refuse him on some pretext or other."

I understood that they wanted to get me away from the bed of death and so

I feigned that I had heard nothing. When they saw that I was resting

quietly, they left me. I waited until the house was quiet and then took a

candle and made my way to my father's room. I found there a young priest

seated near the bed.

"Sir," I said, "to dispute with an orphan the last vigil at a father's

side, is a bold enterprise. I do not know what your orders may be. You

may remain in the adjoining room; if anything happens, I alone am

responsible."

He retired. A single candle on the table shone on the bed. I sat down in

the chair the priest had just left and again uncovered those features I

was to see for the last time.

"What do you wish to say to me, father?" I asked. "What was your last

thought concerning your child?"

My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to day

the record of his life. That book lay on the table and I saw that it was

open; I kneeled before it; on the open page were these words and no more:

"Adieu, my son, I love you and I die."

I did not shed a tear, not a sob came from my lips; my throat was swollen

and my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving.

He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow and

anxiety. He did not refer to my future, to my youth and my follies. His

advice had often saved me from some evil course, and had influenced my

entire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue and kindness. I

supposed that before dying he wished to see me, to try once more to turn

me from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly; he felt that

he could express all he had to say in one word and he wrote in his book

that he loved me.

CHAPTER II

A SMALL wooden railing was placed around my father's grave. According to

his expressed wish, he was buried in the village cemetery. Every day I

visited his tomb and passed part of the day on a little bench in the

interior of the vault. The rest of the time I lived alone in the house in

which he died and I kept with me only one servant.

Whatever sorrows the passions may cause, the woes of life are not to be

compared with those of death. My first thought, as I sat beside my

father's bedside, was that I was a helpless child, knowing nothing,

understanding nothing; I can not say that my heart felt physical pain,

but I sometimes bent over and wrung my hands as one who wakens from a

long sleep.

During the first months of my life in the country I had no thought of

either the past or the future. It did not seem to be I who had lived up

to that time; what I felt was not despair, and in no way resembled the

terrible grief I had experienced in the past; there was a sort of languor

in every action, a sense of fatigue with all of life, a poignant

bitterness that was eating out my heart. I held a book in my hand all day

long but I did not read, I did not even know what I dreamed about. I had

no thoughts; within, all was silence; I had received such a violent blow,

and yet one that was so prolonged in its effect, that I remained a purely

passive being and there seemed to be no reaction.

My servant, Larive by name, had been much attached to my father; he was,

after my father himself, probably the best man I have ever known. He was

the same height and wore the clothes my father had left him, having no

livery.

He was about the same age, that is, his hair was turning gray, and during

the twenty years he had lived with my father, he had learned some of his

ways. While I was pacing up and down the room after dinner, I heard him

doing the same in the hall; although the door was open, he did not enter

and not a word was spoken; but from time to time we would look at each

other and weep. The entire evening would pass thus, and it would be late

in the night before I would ask for a light, or get one myself.

Everything about the house was left unchanged, not a piece of paper was

moved. The great leather armchair in which my father sat, stood near the

fire; his table and his books, just as he left them; I respected even the

dust on these articles, which in life, he never liked to see disturbed.

The walls of that solitary house, accustomed to silence and the most

tranquil life, seemed to look down on me in pity as I sat in my father's

chair, enveloped in his dressing-gown. A feeble voice seemed to whisper:

"Where is the father? It is plain to see that this is an orphan."

I received several letters from Paris and replied to each that I desired

to pass the summer alone in the country, as my father was accustomed to

do. I began to realize that in all evil there is some good, and that

sorrow, whatever else may be said of it, is a means of repose. Whatever

the message brought by those who are sent by God, they always accomplish

the happy result of awakening us from the sleep of the world, and when

they speak, all are silent. Passing sorrows blaspheme and accuse Heaven;

great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme, they listen.

In the morning, I passed entire hours in the contemplation of nature. My

windows overlooked a valley in the midst of which arose the village

steeple; all was plain and calm. Spring, with its budding leaves and

flowers, did not produce on me the sinister effect of which the poets

speak, who find in the contrasts of life the mockery of death. I looked

upon that frivolous idea, if it was serious and not a simple antithesis

made in pleasantry, as the conceit of a heart that has known no real

experience. The gambler who leaves the table at break of day, his eyes

burning and hands empty, may feel that he is at war with nature like the

torch at some hideous vigil; but what can the budding leaves say to a

child who mourns a lost father? The tears of his eyes are sisters of the

rose; the leaves of the willow are themselves tears. It is when I look at

the sky, the woods and the prairies, that I understand men who seek

consolation.

Larive had no more desire to console me than to console himself. At the

time of my father's death he feared I would sell the property and take

him to Paris. I did not know what he had learned of my past life, but I

had noticed his anxiety, and, when he saw me settle down in the old home,

he gave me a glance that went to my heart. One day I had a large portrait

of my father sent from Paris, and placed it in the dining-room. When

Larive entered the room to serve me, he saw it; he hesitated, looked at

the portrait, and then at me, in his eyes there shone a melancholy joy

that I could not fail to understand. It seemed to say: "What happiness!

We are to suffer here in peace!"

I gave him my hand which he covered with tears and kisses.

He looked upon my grief as the mistress of his own. When I visited my

father's tomb in the morning I found him there watering the flowers; when

he saw me he went away and returned home. He followed me in my rambles;

when I was on my horse I did not expect him to follow me, but when I saw

him trudging down the valley, wiping the sweat from his brow, I bought a

small horse from a peasant and gave it to him; thus we rode through the

woods together.

In the village were some people of our acquaintance who frequently

visited my father. My door was closed to them, although I regretted it;

but I could not see any one, with patience. Some time, when sure to be

free from interruption, I hoped to examine my father's papers. Finally,

Larive brought them to me, and untying the package with trembling hand,

spread them before me.

Upon reading the first pages, I felt in my heart that vivifying freshness

that characterizes the air near a lake of cool water; the sweet serenity

of my father's soul exhaled as a perfume from the dusty leaves I was

unfolding. The journal of his life lay open before me; I could count the

diurnal throbbings of that noble heart. I began to yield to the influence

of a dream that was both sweet and profound, and in spite of the serious

firmness of his character, I discovered an ineffable grace, the flower of

kindness. While I read, the recollection of his death mingled with the

narrative of his life, I can not tell with what sadness I followed that

limpid stream until its waters mingled with those of the ocean.

"Oh! just man," I cried, "fearless and stainless! what candor in thy

experience! Thy devotion to thy friends, thy admiration for nature, thy

sublime love of God, this is thy life, there is no place in thy heart for

anything else. The spotless snow on the mountain's summit is not more

pure than thy saintly old age, thy white hair resembles it. Oh! father,

father! Give thy snowy locks to me, they are younger than my blond head.

Let me live and die as thou hast lived and died. I wish to plant in the

soil over your grave the green branch of my young life, I will water it

with my tears, and the God of orphans will protect that sacred twig

nourished by the grief of youth and the memory of age."

After having read these precious papers I classified them and arranged

them in order. I formed a resolution to write a journal myself. I had one

made just like that of my father's, and, carefully searching out the

minor details of his life, I tried to conform my life to his. Thus

whenever I heard the clock strike the hour, tears came to my eyes:

"This," said I, "is what my father did at this hour," and whether it was

reading, walking, or eating, I never failed to follow his example. Thus I

accustomed myself to a calm and regular life; there was an indefinable

charm about this orderly life that did me good. I went to bed with a

sense of comfort and happiness, such as I had not known for a long time.

My father spent much of his time about the garden; the rest of the day

was devoted to walking and study, a nice adjustment of bodily and mental

exercise.

At the same time, I followed his example in doing little acts of

benevolence among the unfortunate. I began to search for those who were

in need of my assistance, and there were many of them in the valley. I

soon became known among the poor; my message to them was: "When the heart

is good, sorrow is sacred!" For the first time in my life I was happy,

God blessed my tears, and sorrow taught me virtue.

CHAPTER III

ONE evening, as I was walking under a row of linden-trees on the

outskirts of the village, I saw a young woman come from a house some

distance from the road. She was dressed simply and veiled so that I could

not see her face; but her form and her carriage seemed so charming that I

followed her with my eyes for some time. As she was crossing a field, a

white goat, running at liberty through the grass, ran to her side; she

caressed it softly, and looked about as though searching for some

favorite herb to feed it. I saw near me some wild mulberry; I plucked a

branch and stepped up to her holding it in my hand. The goat watched my

approach with apprehension; he was afraid to take the branch from my

hand. His mistress made a sign as though to encourage him, but he looked

at her with an air of anxiety; she then took the branch from my hand and

the goat promptly accepted it from hers. I bowed, and she passed on her

way.

On my return home, I asked Larive if he knew who lived in the house I

described to him; it was a small house, modest in appearance, with a

garden. He recognized it; there were but two people in the house, an old

woman who was very religious, and a young woman whose name was Madame

Pierson. It was she I had seen. I asked him who she was and if she ever

came to see my father. He replied that she was a widow, that she led a

retired life, and that she had visited my father, but rarely. When I had

learned all he knew, I returned to the lindens and sat down on a bench.

I do not know what feeling of sadness came over me as I saw the goat

approaching me. I arose from my seat, and, for distraction, I followed

the path I had seen Madame Pierson take, a path that led to the

mountains.

It was nearly eleven in the evening before I thought of returning; as I

had walked some distance, I directed my steps toward a farmhouse,

intending to ask for some milk and bread. Drops of rain began to splash

at my feet, announcing a thunder-shower which I was anxious to escape.

Although there was a light in the house and I could hear the sound of

feet going and coming through the house, no one responded to my knock,

and I walked around to one of the windows to ascertain if there was any

one within.

I saw a bright fire burning in the lower hall; the farmer, whom I knew,

was sitting near his bed; I knocked on the window-pane and called to him.

Just then the door opened and I was surprised to see Madame Pierson, who

inquired who was there.

I waited a moment, in order to conceal my astonishment. I then entered

the house and asked permission to remain until the storm should pass. I

could not imagine what she was doing at such an hour in this deserted

spot; suddenly, I heard a plaintive voice from the bed, and turning my

head, I saw the farmer's wife lying there with the mark of death on her

face.

Madame Pierson, who had followed me, sat down before the old man who was

bowed down with sorrow; she made me a sign to make no noise as the sick

woman was sleeping. I took a chair and sat in a corner until the storm

passed.

While I sat there, I saw her rise from time to time and whisper something

to the farmer. One of the children, whom I took upon my knee, said that

she came every night since the mother's illness. She performed the duties

of a sister of charity--there was no one else in the country who could do

it; there was but one physician, and he was very inferior.

"That is Brigitte la Rose," said the child; "do you not know her?"

"No," I replied in a low voice. "Why do you call her by such a name?"

He replied that he did not know, unless it was because she had been rosy

and the name had clung to her.

As Madame Pierson had laid aside her veil, I could see her face; when the

child left me I raised my head. She was standing near the bed, holding in

her hand a cup which she was offering the sick woman, who had awakened.

She appeared to be pale and thin; her hair was ashen blond. Her beauty

was not of the regular type. How shall I express it? Her large, dark eyes

were fixed on those of her patient, and those eyes, that shone with

approaching death, returned her gaze. There was, in that simple exchange

of kindness and gratitude, a beauty that can not be described.

The rain was falling in torrents; a heavy darkness settled over the

lonely mountain-side, pierced by occasional flashes of lightning. The

noise of the storm, the roaring of the wind, the wrath of the unchained

elements, made a deep contrast with the religious calm which prevailed in

the little cottage. I looked at the wretched bed, at the broken windows,

the puffs of smoke forced from the fire by the tempest, I observed the

helpless despair of the farmer, the superstitious terror of the children,

the fury of the elements besieging the bed of death; and when, in the

midst of all that, I saw that gentle, pale-faced woman, going and coming,

bravely meeting the duties of the moment regardless of the tempest, and

of our presence, it seemed to me there was in that calm performance

something more serene than the most cloudless sky, and that there was

something superhuman about this woman who, surrounded by such horrors,

did not for an instant, lose her faith in God.

What woman is this, I wondered; whence comes she and how long has she

been here? A long time since, they remember when her cheeks were rosy.

How is it I have never heard of her? She comes to this spot alone, and at

this hour? Yes, she has traversed these mountains and valleys through

storm and fair weather, she goes hither and thither, bearing life and

hope wherever they fail, holding in her hand that fragile cup, caressing

her goat as she passes. And this is what has been going on in this valley

while I have been dining and gambling; she was probably born here, and

will be buried in a corner of the cemetery, by the side of her father.

Thus will that obscure woman die, a woman of whom no one speaks and of

whom the children say: "Do you not know her?"

I can not express what I experienced; I sat quietly in my corner,

scarcely breathing, and it seemed to me that if I had tried to assist

her, if I had reached out my hand to spare her a single step, I would

have been guilty of sacrilege, I would have touched sacred vessels.

The storm lasted two hours. When it subsided, the sick woman sat up in

her bed and said that she felt better, that the medicine she had taken

had done her good. The children ran to the bedside, looking up into their

mother's face with great eyes that expressed both surprise and joy.

"I am very sure you are well," said the husband, who had not stirred from

his seat, "for we have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large

sum."

At that coarse and stupid expression, I glanced at Madame Pierson; her

swollen eyes, her pallor, her attitude, all clearly expressed fatigue and

the exhaustion of long vigils.

"Ah! my poor man!" said the farmer's wife, "may God reward you!"

I could hardly contain myself, I was so angered by the stupidity of these

brutes who were capable of crediting the work of charity to the avarice

of a cure. I was about to reproach them for their ingratitude and treat

them as they deserved, when Madame Pierson took one of the children in

her arms and said with a smile:

"You may kiss your mother, for she is saved."

I stopped when I heard these words.

Never, was the naive contentment of a happy and benevolent heart painted

in such beauty on so sweet a face. Fatigue and pallor seemed to be gone,

she became radiant with joy.

A few minutes later, Madame Pierson told the children to call the

farmer's boy to conduct her home. I advanced to offer my services; I told

her that it was useless to awaken the boy as I was going in the same

direction, and that she would do me an honor by accepting my offer. She

asked me if I was not Octave de T-----.

I replied that I was, and that she doubtless remembered my father. It

struck me as strange that she should smile at that question; she

cheerfully accepted my arm and we set out on our return.

CHAPTER IV

WE walked along without a word; the wind was lowering; the trees quivered

gently, shaking the rain from the boughs. Some distant flashes of

lightning could still be seen; the perfume of humid verdure filled the

warm air. The sky soon cleared and the moon illumined the mountain.

I could not help thinking of the freakishness of chance, which had seen

fit to make me the solitary companion of a woman, of whose existence I

knew nothing a few hours before. She had accepted me as her escort on

account of the name I bore, and leaned on my arm with quiet confidence.

In spite of her distracted air, it seemed to me that this confidence was

either very bold or very simple; and she must needs be either the one or

the other, for at each step, I felt my heart becoming at once proud and

innocent.

We spoke of the sick woman she had just left, of the scenes along the

route; it did not occur to us to ask the questions incident to a new

acquaintance. She spoke to me of my father, and always in the same tone I

had noted when I first revealed my name--that is, cheerfully, almost

gaily. By degrees, I thought I understood why she did this, observing

that she spoke thus of all, both living and dead, of life and of

suffering and death. It was because human sorrows had taught her nothing

that could accuse God, and I felt the piety of her smile.

I told her of the solitary life I was leading. Her aunt, she said, had

seen more of my father than she, as they sometimes played cards together

after dinner. She urged me to visit them, assuring me a welcome.

When about half-way home, she complained of fatigue and sat down to rest

on a bench that the heavy foliage had protected from the rain. I stood

before her and watched the pale light of the moon playing on her face.

After a moment's silence, she arose and in a constrained manner observed:

"Of what are you thinking? It is time for us to think of returning."

"I was wondering," I replied, "why God created you, and I was saying to

myself that it was for the sake of those who suffer."

"That is an expression, which, coming from you, I can not look upon

except as a compliment."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you appear to be very young."

"It sometimes happens," I said, "that one is older than the face would

seem to indicate."

"Yes," she replied, smiling, "and it sometimes happens that one is

younger than his words would seem to indicate."

"Have you no faith in experience?"

"I know that it is the name most young men give to their follies and

their disappointments; what can one know at your age?"

"Madame, a man of twenty may know more than a woman of thirty. The

liberty which men enjoy, enables them to see more of life and its

experiences than women; they go wherever they please and no barrier

restrains them; they test life in all its phases. When inspired by hope,

they press forward to achievement; what they will, they accomplish. When

they have reached the end, they return; hope has been lost on the route,

and happiness has broken its word."

As I was speaking, we reached the summit of a little hill which sloped

down to the valley; Madame Pierson, yielding to the downward tendency,

began to trip lightly down the incline. Without knowing why, I did the

same, and we ran down the hill, arm in arm; the long grass under our feet

retarded our progress. Finally, like two birds, spent with flight, we

reached the foot of the mountain.

"Behold!" cried Madame Pierson, "just a short time ago I was tired, but

now I am rested. And, believe me," she added, with a charming smile, "you

should treat your experience as I have treated my fatigue. We have made

good time and will enjoy supper the more on that account."

CHAPTER V

I WENT to call upon her the next morning. I found her at the piano, her

old aunt at the window sewing, the little room filled with flowers, the

sunlight streaming through the blinds, a large bird-cage at her side.

I expected to find her somewhat religious, at least one of those women of

the provinces who know nothing of what happens two leagues away, and who

live in a certain narrow circle from which they never escape. I confess

that such isolated life, which is found here and there in small towns,

under a thousand unknown roofs, had always produced on me the effect of

stagnant pools of water; the air does not seem respirable: in everything

on earth that is forgotten, there is something of death.

On Madame Pierson's table were some papers and new books; they looked as

though they had not been more than touched. In spite of the simplicity of

everything around her, of furniture and dress, it was easy to recognize

mode, that is to say, life; she did not live for this alone, but that

goes without saying. What struck me in her taste was, that there was

nothing bizarre, everything breathed of youth and pleasantness. Her

conversation indicated a finished education; there was no subject on

which she could not speak well and with ease. While admitting that she

was naive, it was evident that she was at the same time profound in

thought and fertile in resource; an intelligence, at once broad and free,

soared gently over a simple heart and over the habits of a retired life.

The sea-swallow, whirling through the azure heavens, soars thus over the

blade of grass that marks its nest.

We talked of literature, music, and even politics. She had visited Paris

during the winter; from time to time, she dipped into the world; what she

saw there served as a basis for what she divined.

But her distinguishing trait was gaiety, a cheerfulness that, while not

exactly joy itself, was constant and unalterable; it might be said that

she was born a flower, and that her perfume was gaiety.

Her pallor, her large dark eyes, her manner at certain moments, all led

me to believe that she had suffered. I know not what it was that seemed

to say that the sweet serenity of her brow was not of this world, but had

come from God, and that she would return it to him spotless in spite of

man; and there were times when she reminded one of the careful housewife,

who, when the wind blows, holds her hand before the candle.

When I had been in the house half an hour, I could not help saying what

was in my heart. I thought of my past life, of my disappointment and my

ennui; I walked to and fro, breathing the fragrance of the flowers, and

looking at the sun. I asked her to sing, and she did so with good grace.

In the meantime, I leaned on the window sill and watched the birds

flitting about the garden. A saying of Montaigne's came into my head: "I

neither love nor esteem sadness although the world has invested it, at a

given price, with the honor of its particular favor. They dress up in it

wisdom, virtue, conscience. Stupid and absurd adornment."

"What happiness!" I cried in spite of myself. "What repose! What joy!

What forgetfulness of self!"

The good aunt raised her head and looked at me with an air of

astonishment; Madame Pierson stopped short. I became red as fire when

conscious of my folly, and sat down without a word.

We went out into the garden. The white goat I had seen the evening before

was lying in the grass; it came up to her and followed us about the

garden.

When we reached the end of the garden walk, a large young man with a pale

face, clad in a kind of black cassock, suddenly appeared at the railing.

He entered without knocking, and bowed to Madame Pierson; it seemed to me

that his face, which I considered a bad omen, darkened a little when he

saw me. He was a priest I had often seen in the village, and his name was

Mercanson; he came from St. Sulpice and was related to the cure of the

parish.

He was large and at the same time pale, a thing which always displeased

me and which is, in fact, unpleasant; it impresses one as a sort of

diseased healthfulness. Moreover, he had the slow yet jerky way of

speaking that characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of walking, which

was not that of youth and health, repelled me; as for his glance, it

might be said that he had none. I do not know what to think of a man

whose eyes have nothing to say. These are the signs which led to an

unfavorable opinion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfortunately

correct.

He sat down on a bench and began to talk about Paris, which he called the

modern Babylon. He had been there, he knew every one; he knew Madame de

B-----, who was an angel; he had preached sermons in her salon and was

listened to on bended knee. (The worst of this was, that it was true.)

One of his friends, who had introduced him there, had been expelled from

school for having seduced a girl; a terrible thing to do, very sad. He

paid Madame Pierson a thousand compliments for her charitable deeds

throughout the country; he had heard of her benefactions, her care for

the sick, her vigils at the bed of suffering and of death. It was very

beautiful and noble; he would not fail to speak of it at St. Sulpice. Did

he not seem to say that he would not fail to speak of it to God?

Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal my rising disgust, I sat

down on the grass and began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned on me

his dull and lifeless eye:

"The celebrated Vergniand," said he, "was afflicted with that mania of

sitting on the ground and playing with animals."

"It is a mania," I replied, very innocently. "If there were none others,

the world would get along without so much meddling on the part of

others."

My reply did not please him; he frowned and changed the subject. He was

charged with a commission; his uncle, the cure, had spoken to him of a

poor devil who was unable to earn his daily bread. He lived in such and

such a place; he had been there himself and was interested in him; he

hoped that Madame Pierson--

I was looking at her while he was speaking, wondering what reply she

would make and hoping she would say something in order to drown out the

memory of the priest's voice with her gentle tones. She merely bowed, and

he retired.

When he had gone our gaiety returned. We entered a greenhouse in the rear

of the garden.

Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and her peasants,

everything about her must be well cared for, each flower must have its

drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that she might be gay and

happy as an angel; so nothing could be in better condition than her

little greenhouse. When we had made the round of the building she said:

"This is my little world; you have seen all I possess, and my domain ends

here."

"Madame," I said, "as my father's name has secured for me the favor of

admittance here, permit me to return and I will believe that happiness

has not entirely forgotten me."

She extended her hand and I touched it with respect, not daring to raise

it to my lips.

I returned home, closed my door and retired. There danced before my eyes

a little white house; I saw myself walking through the village and

knocking at the garden gate. "Oh! my poor heart!" I cried. "God be

praised, you are still young, you are still capable of life and of love!"

One evening I was with Madame Pierson. More than three months had passed,

during which I had seen her almost every day; and what can I say of that

time except that I saw her? "To be with those we love," said Bruyere,

"suffices; to dream, to talk to them, not to talk to them, to think of

them, to think of the most indifferent things, but to be near them, it is

all the same."

I loved. During the three months we had taken many long walks; I was

initiated into the mysteries of her modest charity; we passed through

dark streets, she on her little horse, I on foot, a small stick in my

hand; thus, half conversing, half dreaming, we knocked at the doors of

cottages. There was a little bench near the edge of the wood where I was

accustomed to rest after dinner; we met here regularly as though by

chance. In the morning, music, reading; in the evening, cards with the

aunt as in the days of my father; and she, always there smiling, her

presence filling my heart. By what road, O Providence! have you led me?

What irrevocable destiny am I to accomplish? What! a life so free, an

intimacy so charming, so much repose, such buoyant hope! O God! Of what

do men complain? What is there sweeter than love?

To live, yes, to feel intensely, profoundly, that one exists, that one is

man, created by God, that is the first, the greatest gift of love. We can

not deny, however, that love is a mystery, inexplicable, profound. With

all the chains, with all the pains, and I may even say, with all the

disgust with which the world has surrounded it, buried as it is under a

mountain of prejudices which distort and deprave it, in spite of all the

ordure through which it has been dragged, love, eternal and fatal love,

is none the less a celestial law as powerful and as incomprehensible as

that which suspends the sun in the heavens. What is this mysterious bond,

stronger and more durable than iron, that can neither be seen nor

touched? What is there in meeting a woman, in looking at her, in speaking

one word to her, and then never forgetting her? Why this one rather than

that one? Invoke the aid of reason, or habit, of the senses, the head,

the heart, and explain it if you can. You will find nothing but two

bodies, one here, the other there, and between them, what? Air, space,

immensity. O fools! who fondly imagine yourselves men, and who reason of

love! Have you talked with it? No, you have felt it. You have exchanged a

glance with a passing stranger, and suddenly there flies out from you

something that can not be defined, that has no name known to man. You

have taken root in the ground like the seed concealed in the blade of

grass which feels the motion of life, and which is on its way to the

harvest.

We were alone, the window was open, the murmur of a little fountain came

to us from the garden. O God! would that I could count, drop by drop, all

the water that fell while we were sitting there, while she was talking

and I was responding. It was there that I became intoxicated with her to

the point of madness.

It is said that there is nothing so rapid as a feeling of antipathy, but

I believe that the road to love is more swiftly traversed. Of what avail

are words spoken with the lips when hearts listen and respond? What

sweetness in the glance of a woman who begins to attract you! At first it

seems as though everything that passes between you is timid and

tentative, but soon there is born a strange joy, and echo answers the

voice of love; the thrill of a dual life is felt. What a touch! What a

strange attraction! And when love is sure of itself and recognizes

fraternity in the object beloved, what serenity in the soul! Words die on

the lips, for each one knows what the other is about to say before

utterance has shaped the thought. Souls expand, lips are silent. Oh! what

silence! What forgetfulness of all!

Although my love began the first day and had since grown to excess, the

respect I felt for Madame Pierson sealed my lips. If she had been less

frank in permitting me to become her friend, perhaps I would have been

more bold, for she had made such a strong impression on me, that I never

quitted her without transports of love. But there was something in her

frankness and the confidence she placed in me, that checked me; moreover,

it was in my father's name that I had been treated as a friend. That

consideration rendered me still more respectful and I resolved to prove

worthy of that name.

To talk of love, they say, is to make love. We rarely spoke of it. Every

time I happened to touch the subject Madame Pierson led the conversation

to some other topic. I did not discern her motive, but it was not

prudery; it seemed to me that at such times her face took on a stern

aspect and a wave of feeling, even of suffering, passed over it. As I had

never questioned her about her past life and was unwilling to do so, I

respected her obvious wishes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tempted to confess my love.

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

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

render me serious in the midst of gaiety. I conceived the idea of writing

to her, but burned the letters before half finished.

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

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

happiness since I had known her, and said to myself: "Why ask for more?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is the matter?" she asked.

I turned aside my head.

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

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

beyond those lindens where I had first met her. I fell into a profound

reverie; I even forgot that she was present and, extending my arms toward

heaven, a sob welled up from my heart.

She arose and stood behind me.

"What is it?" she again asked.

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

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

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

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

found a bench I sat down and then jumped up precipitately. Toward

midnight I approached Madame Pierson's house; she was at the window.

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

was fascinated; I advanced gently and sadly and sat down beneath her

window.