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

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

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

that evening on her bosom; I picked it up and bore it to my lips.

"Who is there at this hour? Is it you?"

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

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

center of the garden; I was walking like a somnambulist, without knowing

what I was doing.

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

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

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

my knees before her and seized her hand.

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

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

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

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

longer."

CHAPTER VI

WHEN Madame Pierson had spoken these words, she waited some time as

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

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

reentered the house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

brought a large trunk and busied himself with preparations for departure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

with a relative who lived at N-----, a small town some distance north. He

handed me a letter that had been given him. It was conceived in the

following terms:

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

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

part a resolution to conceal this from me and conquer yourself. I already

esteemed you, this enhanced my respect. I do not reproach you for the

past, nor for the weakness of your will.

"What you take for love is nothing more than desire. I am well aware that

many women seek to arouse it; it would be better if they did not feel the

necessity of pleasing those who approach them; but that vanity is a

dangerous thing since I have done wrong in entertaining it with you.

"I am some years older than you and ask you not to try to see me again.

It would be vain for you to try to forget the weakness of a moment; but

what has passed between us can neither be repeated nor forgotten.

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

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

appreciate your action as the final evidence of your friendship and

esteem.

"BRIGITTE PIERSON."

CHAPTER VII

THE fever confined me to my bed a week. When I was able to write I

assured Madame Pierson that she would be obeyed, and that I would go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

would have died on the spot. I told the driver to turn around, and,

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

whither Madame Pierson had gone.

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

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

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

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

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

of our village cure.

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

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

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

preceding the servant; she descended rapidly, and did not see me in the

darkness; I stepped up to her and touched her arm. She recoiled with

terror and cried out:

"What do you wish of me?"

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

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

possible that my unexpected appearance could disturb her in such a

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

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

Nevertheless, she repeated her question in a firmer tone.

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

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

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

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

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

that."

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

replied, almost graciously:

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

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

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

sofa. I sat down before her.

"Madame," I began, "I come neither to speak of what I suffer, nor to deny

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

not be forgotten, and that is true; but you say that on that account we

can not meet on the same footing as heretofore, and you are mistaken. I

love you, but I have not offended you; nothing is changed in our

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

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

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

She tried to interrupt me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what I have come to ask you. What have I done? I have bent my knee, but I

have not said a word. What have I told you? What you already knew. I have

been weak because I have suffered. It is true, madame, that I am twenty

years of age and what I have seen of life has only disgusted me, I could

use a stronger word; it is true that there is not at this hour on earth,

either in the society of men or in solitude, a place, however small and

insignificant, that I care to occupy. The space enclosed between the four

walls of your garden is the only spot in the world where I live; you are

the only human being who has made me love God. I had renounced everything

before I knew you; why deprive me of the only ray of light that

Providence has spared me? If it is on account of fear, what have I done

to inspire it? If it is on account of pity, in what respect am I

culpable? If it is on account of pity and because I suffer, you are

mistaken in supposing that I can cure myself; it might have been done,

perhaps, two months ago; but I preferred to see you and to suffer, and I

do not repent, whatever may come of it. The only misfortune that can

reach me, is losing you. Put me to the proof. If I ever feel that there

is too much suffering for me in our bargain, I will go away; and you may

be sure of it, since you send me away to-day, and I am ready to go. What

risk do you run in giving me a month or two of the only happiness I will

ever know?"

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

Then a moment of silence ensued.

"Rest assured," she said, "it is not so."

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

and that she was anxious to avoid hurting me.

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

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

but one word, this moment decides my life."

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

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

you send me away--"

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

frightful sensation of loneliness at the idea that I was going away, that

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

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

her lips.

"Very well," she said, "listen to me. This move of yours in coming to see

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

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

you for a friend of my family. If you find that it is a little far, let

it be the occasion of an absence which shall last as long as you choose,

but which must not be too short. Although you said a moment ago," she

added with a smile, "that a short trip would calm you. You will stop in

the Vosges and you will go as far as Strasburg. Then in a month, or

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

again and give you further instructions."

CHAPTER VIII

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

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

I returned.

While absent, I had thought of nothing but her, and I despaired of ever

forgetting her. Nevertheless, I determined to restrain my feelings in her

presence; I had suffered too cruelly at the prospect of losing her, to

run any further risks. My esteem for her rendered it impossible for me to

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

leave the country, anything that resembled hypocrisy. In a word, I was

firmly convinced that at the first word of love her door would be closed

to me.

Upon my return, I found her thin and changed. Her habitual smile seemed

to languish on her discolored lips. She told me that she had been

suffering.

We did not speak of the past. She did not appear to wish to recall it and

I had no desire to refer to it. We resumed our old relations of

neighbors; yet there was something of constraint between us, a sort of

conventional familiarity. It was as though we had said: "It was thus

before, let it still be thus." She granted me her confidence, a

concession that was not without its charms for me; but our conversation

was colder, for the reason that our eyes expressed as much as our

tongues. In all that we said there was more to be surmised than was

actually spoken. We no longer endeavored to fathom each other's mind;

there was not the same interest attaching to each word, to each

sentiment; that curious analysis that characterized our past intercourse;

she treated me with kindness, but I distrusted even that kindness; I

walked with her in the garden, but no longer accompanied her outside of

the premises; we no longer wandered through the woods and valleys; she

opened the piano when we were alone; the sound of her voice no longer

awakened in my heart those transports of joy which are like sobs that are

inspired by hope. When I took leave of her, she gave me her hand, but I

was conscious of the fact that it was lifeless; there was much effort in

our familiar ease, many reflections in our lightest remarks, much sadness

at the bottom of it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

depicted my past life in the most somber colors and gave her to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

obedience flattered her pride, while my pallor awakened her charitable

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

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

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

sad, but resigned, she sweetened the cup of bitterness by adding: "I am

not sure of it, come whenever you please;" or her adieu was more friendly

than usual, her glance more tender.

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

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

before I knew you. God has sent you as an angel of light to draw me from

the abyss. He has confided a sacred mission to you; who knows, if I

should lose you, whither the sorrow that consumes me might lead me, the

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

and my ennui?"

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

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

the only consideration that induced Madame Pierson to permit me to see

her.

I was preparing to go to see her one day when some one knocked at my door

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

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

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

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

cure, and asked what I could do for him.

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

searching for phrases and fingering everything on the table before him as

though at a loss what to say. Finally, he informed me that Madame Pierson

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

able to see me that day.

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

well at that time!"

He bowed.

"But," I continued, "if she is ill, why send word to me by a third party?

She does not live so far away that a useless call would harm me."

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

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

him.

"Very well," I said, "I shall see her to-morrow and she will explain what

this means."

His hesitation continued.

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

requested to--"

"Well, what is it?" I cried, impatiently.

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

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

Another bow, and he retired.

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

did not wish to see me, and I could not explain why, _or_ Mercanson had

interfered on his own responsibility.

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

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

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

would not answer my questions.

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

was surrounded by a number of school children, his uncle's pupils. I

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

with him.

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

loss how to proceed to draw his secret from him.

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

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

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

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

serious."

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

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

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

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

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

"What does this mean, sir? You intend to resort to violence?" he cried.

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

"Sir, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought to know."

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

Madame Pierson is not sick, I am sure of it."

"How do you know?"

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

did she send you to tell me of it?"

Mercanson saw a peasant passing.

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

with you."

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

use violence in the presence of a third party. I let go of him, but so

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

fist and turned away without a word.

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

Pierson's and was each time refused admittance. I received one letter

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

begged me to call less frequently. Not a word about Mercanson or her

illness.

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

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

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

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

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

I purposely delayed going to see her even when permitted to do so, and no

longer sent to inquire about her condition, as I wished to have her know

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

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

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

was accustomed to spend entire days in the woods, and one day I happened

to encounter her there.

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

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

was obliged to pass without seeing her, and live in the hope of a visit.

All the time I was strongly tempted to throw myself at her feet, and tell

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

that she would at least express her pity; but her severity and the abrupt

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

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

danger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

checked herself and relapsed into her accustomed coldness. Upon one

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

going, she said to me at the door:

"To-morrow, I am going to St. Luce, a neighboring village, and it is too

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

have nothing to do, and go with me."

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

word with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house, I experienced a

feeling of deep dejection. In restoring me to the privilege I had

formerly enjoyed of accompanying her on her missions about the country,

she had clearly been guilty of a cruel caprice if she did not love me.

She knew how I was suffering; why abuse my courage unless she had changed

her mind?

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

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

desire or anger. "If she is touched," I said to myself, "why this

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

on a gallop. We soon reached the foot of the mountain and were compelled

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

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

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

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

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

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

said a word of that fatal love which is consuming me? Raise your head and

answer me. Do you not see that I suffer and that my nights are given to

weeping? Have you not met in the forest an unfortunate wretch, sitting in

solitary dejection with his hands pressed to his forehead? Have you not

seen tears on these bushes? Look at me, look at these mountains; do you

realize that I love you? They know it, they are my witnesses; these rocks

and these trees know my secret. Why lead me before them? Am I not

wretched enough? Do I fail in courage? Have I obeyed you? To what tests,

what tortures am I subjected, and for what crime? If you do not love me,

what are you doing here?"

"Let us return," she said, "let us retrace our steps."

I seized her horse's bridle.

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

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

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

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

sorrowful lover who suffered without complaint and who drank with

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

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

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

Very well, madame, I lose you! I have wept and I have suffered, I have

too long nourished in my heart a pitiless love that devours me. You have

been cruel!"

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

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

slipped from her hand and she fell to the ground.

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

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

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

pushed my arm aside, and burst into tears.

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

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

hands twitching and trembling, her cheeks suffused with color, brilliant

with purple and with pearls.

"Do not come near me!" she cried, "not a step!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

recall the words he uses when he confesses that love!

CHAPTER IX

IF I were a jeweler, and had in my stock a pearl necklace that I wished

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

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

rather die than snatch the necklace from the jeweler's hand. I have seen

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

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

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

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

loved.

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

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

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

blossomed flower. At times, she would abandon herself to an impulse of

sudden gaiety and then suddenly check herself, treating me like a child,

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

thousand pleasantries, as a pretext for a more familiar word or caress,

then quitting me to go aside and abandon herself to reverie. Is there a

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

in some spot where I had remained watching her.

"Oh! my friend!" I said. "Heaven itself rejoices to see how you are

loved."

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

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

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

considerable change in my affairs.

"How is it," she asked, "that you make this announcement and smile at the

same time?"

"There is a certain maxim of a Persian poet," I replied, "'He who is

loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow.'"

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

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

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

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

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

followed her in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

now! I felt a hymn of praise rising up in my heart. I surrounded the form

of my dear beloved with my arm; she gently turned her head; her eyes were

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

on mine, and the universe was forgotten.

CHAPTER X

ETERNAL angel of happy nights, who will utter thy silence? A kiss!

mysterious vintage that flows from the lips as from a stainless chalice!

Intoxication of the senses! O voluptuous pleasure! Yes, like God, thou

art immortal! Sublime exaltation of the creature, universal communion of

beings, thrice sacred pleasure, what have they sung who have celebrated

thy praise? They have called thee transitory, O thou who dost create! And

they have said that thy passing beams have illumined their fugitive life.

Words that are as feeble as the dying breath! Words of a sensual brute

who is astonished that he should live for an hour, and who mistakes the

rays of the eternal lamp for the spark which is struck from the flint.

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

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

of all, by whom all exists! The spirit of destruction would itself die,

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

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

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

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

lest they look upon the face of perfect joy.

But your first delights, languishing smiles, first stammering utterance

of love, you who can be seen, who are you? Are you less in God's sight

than all the rest, beautiful cherubim who soar in the alcove, and who

bring to this world man awakened from the dream divine! Ah! dear children

of pleasure, how your mother loves you! It is you, curious prattlers, who

behold the first mysteries, touches, trembling yet chaste, glances that

are already insatiable, who begin to trace on the heart, as a tentative

sketch, the ineffaceable image of cherished beauty! O royalty! O

conquest! It is you who make lovers. And thou, true diadem, thou,

serenity of happiness! First glance bent on life, first return of

happiness to the many little things of life which are seen only through

the medium of joy, first steps made by nature in the direction of the

well-beloved! Who will paint you? What human word will ever express thy

slightest caress?

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

woman; he who has walked through the streets without hearing the voices

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

weeping without knowing why; he who has placed his hands to his face in

order to breathe the perfume that still clings to them; he who has

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

the trees along the route and to the birds in their flight; finally, he

who in the midst of men has acted the madman, and then has fallen on his

knees and thanked God for it; he will die without complaint: he has known

the joy of love.

PART IV

CHAPTER I

I MUST now recite what happened to my love, and the change that took

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

story and as I say: "It is the truth."

For two days, neither more nor less, I was Madame Pierson's lover. One

fine night, I set out and traversed the road that led to her house. I was

feeling so well in body and soul, that I leaped for joy and extended my

arms to heaven. I found her at the top of the stairway, leaning on the

railing, a lighted candle beside her. She was waiting for me and when she

saw me ran to meet me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

an incident; and with every confession, a kiss. She said that whatever I

saw in her room that pleased my taste, whatever bagatelle on her table

attracted my attention, she would give me; that whatever she did in the

future, in the morning, in the evening, at any hour, I should regulate as

I pleased; that the judgments of the world did not concern her; that if

she had appeared to care for them, it was only to send me away; but that

she wished to be happy and close her ears; that she was thirty years of

age and had not long to be loved by me. "And you will love me a long

time? Are those fine words with which you have beguiled me, true?" And

then, loving reproaches because I had been late in coming to her; that

she had put on her slippers in order that I might see her foot but that

she was no longer beautiful; that she could wish she were; that she was,

at fifteen. She went here and there, silly with love, crimson with joy;

and she did not know what to imagine, what to say or do, in order to give

herself and all that she had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

which she sang for me a number of times, gave me great pleasure.

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

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

"It is yours?"

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

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

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

deceived."

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

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

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

settled on me; my countenance changed.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Are you ill?"

"It is nothing; play that air again."

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

over my forehead as though to brush away the fog, I stamped my foot,

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

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

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

gathered around my head.

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

possible you can lie so fluently?"

She looked at me with an air of astonishment.

"What is it?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

every moment, as though about to faint, she stood with open lips and bent

body, looking like a statue.

"God of Heaven!" she cried, "is it possible?"

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

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

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

horizon.

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

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

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

of day, piercing through the curtains, illumined her charming face and

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

with a thousand terms of endearment.

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

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

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

which I, myself, did not understand.

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

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

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

abomination to me and I can not endure it."

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

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

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

promising myself that I would henceforth enjoy my happiness and allow

nothing to disturb it.

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

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

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

first day I met you."

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

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

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

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

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

"Do not read that."

I threw the book on the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and unfolded to me his catechism of vice.

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

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

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

I staggered like a drunken man. What secret was Brigitte concealing from

me? I knew very well that I had only to bend over and open the book; but

at what place? How could I recognize the leaf on which my eye had chanced

to fall?

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

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

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

am, can I never love?"

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

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

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

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

been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

than suspicious; and when the words in that book suddenly struck me, it

seemed to me I felt a new being within me, a sort of unknown self; my

reason revolted against the feeling, and I did not dare ask whither all

that was leading me.

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

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

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

those that I had unconsciously surmised during my sad experience,

finally, debauchery, contempt of love, abuse of everything, that is what

I had in my heart although I did not suspect it; and at the moment when

life and hope were again being born within me, all these furies that were

growing numb with time, seized me by the throat and cried out that they

were there.

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

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

neither wounded pride nor anger; there was nothing but tender solicitude

as if I were ill.

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

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

would die, loving you."

When I returned home to dinner I said to Larive:

"Who is that Madame Pierson?"

He looked at me in astonishment.

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

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

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

receive as her friends?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

receives, there are only the cure and M. de Dalens, during vacation."

"Who is this M. de Dalens?"

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

only comes here for the chase."

"Is he young?"

"Yes."

"Is he related to Madame Pierson?"

"No, he was a friend of her husband."

"Has her husband been dead long?"

"Five years on All-Saints' day. He was a worthy man."

"And has this M. de Dalens paid court?"

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

"Well, will you answer me?"

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

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

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

"In a word, yes or no?"

"Yes, sir, I think so, at least."

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

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

"Sir," he said, "you exhibited signs of anger which it does not become a

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

charged to communicate a message which appeared so unwelcome."

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

walked along at my side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

have never known which; it is certain that he had reason to hate me and

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

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

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

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

beautiful mouth, may arouse some people to jealous rage.

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

but who knows his own mind?

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

know and had decided not to satisfy me.

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

intimately, I think so, at least, and have not met M. de Dalens? But,

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

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

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

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

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

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

that lady on her visits, just as you do. His family enjoys an excellent

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

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

frankly, as becomes me when it concerns persons of his merit. I believe

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

is said to be rich and very generous; but I know nothing about it except

that--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that these four months of happiness were but a dream?

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

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

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

attempt to escape in order to know the happiness of being pursued: it is

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

act, at the very moment I had decided that she would never be mine? Did

she not accept my arm, the first day I met her? If that Dalens has been

her lover, he probably is still; there are certain liaisons that have

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

when parted, it is forgotten. If that man comes here this summer, she

will probably see him without breaking with me. Who is that aunt, what

mysterious life is this that has charity for its cloak, this liberty that

cares nothing for opinion? May they not be adventurers, these two women

with their little house, their prudence and their caution which enables

them to impose on people so easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I have

fallen into an affair of gallantry when I thought I was engaged in a

romance. But what can I do? There is no one here who can help me except

the priest, who does not care to tell me what he knows, and his uncle who

will say still less. Who will save me? How can I learn the truth?

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

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

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

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

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

While absorbed in these reflections, I was slowly approaching Madame

Pierson's.

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

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

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

thin and wrinkled and habitually bent over, a common deformity in people

who have worked in the fields. I found her shaking a cooking utensil over

a filthy sink. A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about her

were pots, kettles and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffed

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

emanated from the reeking walls. When the old woman caught sight of me,

she smiled in a confidential way; she had seen me take leave of her

mistress.

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

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

personified, and as though the stench of her dishes had come from my

heart.

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

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

rocking it with her disengaged hand; the child's mouth was full of

bonbons, and in gurgling eloquence it was addressing an incomprehensible

apostrophe to its nurse. I sat down near her and kissed the child on its

fat cheeks, as though to imbibe some of its innocence. Brigitte accorded

me a timid greeting; she could see her troubled image in my eyes. For my

part, I avoided her glance; the more I admired her beauty and her air of

candor, the more I was convinced that such a woman was either an angel or

a monster of perfidy; I forced myself to recall each one of Mercanson's

words, and I confronted, so to speak, the man's insinuations with her

presence and her face. "She is very beautiful," I said to myself, "and

very dangerous if she knows how to deceive; but I will fathom her and I

will sound her heart; and she shall know who I am."

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

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

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

ought to do."

"What reply did you make?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fell to the floor.

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

to call any one. She explained that she was subject to violent

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

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

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

shoulder.

"Ah! my friend," she said, "I pity you."

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

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

mountain and comes to see you?"

She appeared astonished to hear me mention that name.

"Dalens?" she replied. "He was my husband's friend."

She looked at me as though to say: "Why do you ask?" It seemed to me that

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

deceive me," I thought, "I was foolish to question her."

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

down the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Read that, read that!" she repeated in freezing tones.

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

that I was seized with remorse.

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

and you shall learn it. You will open these drawers and you will read all

that I have written and all that has been written to me."

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

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

throat swollen.

"Brigitte! Brigitte!" I cried, "in the name of Heaven, do not speak! God

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

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

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

to the very brink of the precipice, and for a year I have seen nothing

but evil here below. God is my witness that up to this day I did not

believe myself capable of playing the ignoble role I have assumed, the

meanest role of all, that of a jealous lover. God is my witness that I

love you and that you are the only one in the world who can cure me of

the past. I have had to do, up to this time, with women who deceived me,

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

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

calumny, if base suggestion, to-day planted in a heart whose fibers were

still trembling with pain and prompt to assimilate all that resembles

sorrow, has driven me to despair? I have just heard the name of a man I

have never met, of whose existence I was ignorant; I have been given to

understand that there has been between you and him a certain intimacy,

which proves nothing; I do not intend to question you; I have suffered

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

wrong. But rather than consent to what you propose, I will throw it all

in the fire. Ah! my friend, do not degrade me; do not attempt to justify

yourself, do not punish me for suffering. How could I, in the bottom of

my heart, suspect you of deceiving me? No, you are beautiful and you are

true; a single glance of yours, Brigitte, tells me more than words could

utter, and I am content. If you knew what horrors, what monstrous deceit,

the child who stands before you has seen! If you knew how he had been

treated, how they have mocked at all that is good, how they have taken

pains to teach him all that leads to doubt, to jealousy, to despair!

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

me but rather pity me; I must forget that other beings than you exist.

Who can know through what frightful trials, through what pitiless

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

moment. Since you have become mine, I realize what I have done; I have

felt, in kissing you, that my lips were not, like yours, unsullied. In

the name of Heaven, help me live! God made me a better man than the one

you see before you."

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

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

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

Mercanson. She insisted that I listen to her explanation. M. de Dalens

had loved her; but he was a man of frivolous disposition, dissipated and

inconstant, she had given him to understand that, not wishing to remarry,

she could only request that he drop the role of suitor, and he had

yielded to her wishes with good grace; but his visits had become more

rare since that time, until now they had ceased altogether. She drew from

the bundle a certain letter which she showed me, the date of which was

recent; I could not help blushing as I found in it the confirmation of

all she had said; she assured me that she pardoned me, and exacted a

promise that in the future I would promptly tell her of any cause I might

have to suspect her. Our treaty was sealed with a kiss, and when I left

her we had both forgotten that M. de Dalens ever existed.

CHAPTER II

A KIND of stagnant inertia, tempered with bitter joy, is characteristic

of debauchery. It is the sequence of a life of caprice, where nothing is

regulated according to the needs of the body, but everything according to

the fantasy of the mind and one must be always ready to obey the behests

of the other. Youth and will can resist excess; but nature silently

avenges herself, and the day when she decides to repair her forces, the

will struggles to retard her work and abuses her anew.

Finding about him, then, all the objects that were able to tempt him the

evening before, the man who is incapable of enjoying them, looks down at

them with a smile of disgust. At the same time, the objects which excite

his desire are never attained with sangfroid; all that the debauchee

loves, he takes violent possession of; his life is a fever; his organs,

in order to search the depths of joy, are forced to avail themselves of

the stimulant of fermented liquors, and sleepless nights; in the days of

ennui and of idleness, he feels more keenly than other men the disparity

between his impotence and his temptations, and, in order to resist the

latter, pride must come to his aid and make him believe that he disdains

them. It is thus he spits on all the feasts and pleasures of his life,

and that between an ardent thirst and a profound satiety a feeling of

tranquil vanity leads him to his death.

Although I was no longer a debauchee it came to pass that my body

suddenly remembered that it had been. It is easy to understand why I had

not felt the effects of it sooner. While mourning my father's death,

every other thought was crowded from my mind. Then a passionate love

succeeded; while I was alone, ennui had nothing to struggle for. Sad or

gay, fair or foul, what matters it to him who is alone?

As zinc, that demi-metal, drawn from the blue vein where it lies

sleeping, attracts to itself a ray of light when placed near a piece of

green leather, thus Brigitte's kisses gradually awakened in my heart what

had been buried there. At her side I perceived what I really was.

There were days when I felt such a strange sensation in the mornings,

that it is impossible for me to define it. I awakened without a motive,

feeling like a man who has spent the night in eating and drinking to the

point of exhaustion. All external sensations caused me insupportable

fatigue, all well-known objects of daily life repelled and annoyed me; if

I spoke, it was in ridicule of what others thought or of what I thought

myself. Then, extended on the bed, as though incapable of motion, I

dismissed all thought of undertaking whatever had been agreed upon the

evening before; I recalled all the tender and loving things I had said to

my mistress during my better moments, and was not satisfied until I had

spoiled and poisoned those memories of happy days. "Can you not forget

all that?" Brigitte would sadly inquire, "if there are two different men

in you, do you not, when the bad rouses himself, forget to humor the

good?"

The patience with which Brigitte opposed those vagaries only served to

excite my sinister gaiety. Strange that man who suffers wishes to make

her, whom he loves, suffer! To lose control of oneself, is that not the

worst of evils? Is there anything more cruel for a woman than to hear a

man turn to derision all there is that is sacred and mysterious? Yet she

did not flee from me; she remained at my side while in my savage humor, I

insulted love and allowed insane ravings to escape from lips that were

still moist with her kisses.

On such days, contrary to my usual inclination, I liked to talk of Paris

and speak of my life of debauchery as the most commendable thing in the

world. "You are nothing but a saint," I would laughingly observe; "you do

not understand what I say. There is nothing like those careless ones who

make love without believing in it." Was that not the same as saying that

I did not believe in it?

"Very well," Brigitte replied, "teach me how to please you always. I am

perhaps as pretty as those mistresses whom you mourn; if I have not their

skill to divert you, I beg that you will instruct me. Act as though you

did not love me and let me love you without saying anything about it. If

I am devoted to religion, I am also devoted to love. What can I do to

make you believe it?"

Then she would stand before the mirror arraying herself as though for a

ball, affecting a coquetry that she was far from feeling, trying to adopt

my tone, laughing and skipping about the room. "Am I to your taste?" she

would ask. "Which one of your mistresses do I resemble? Am I beautiful

enough to make you forget that any one can believe in love? Have I a

sufficiently careless air to suit you?" Then in the midst of that

factitious joy, she would turn her back and I could see her shudder until

the flowers she had placed in her hair trembled. I threw myself at her

feet.

"Stop!" I cried, "you resemble only too closely, that which you try to

imitate, that which my mouth has been so vile as to conjure up before

you. Lay aside those flowers and that dress. Let us wash away such

mimicry with a sincere tear; do not remind me that I am but a prodigal

son; I remember the past too well."

But even this repentance was cruel as it proved to her that the fantoms

in my heart were full of reality. In yielding to an impulse of horror, I

merely gave her to understand that her resignation and her desire to

please me only served to call up an impure image.

And it was true; I reached her side transported with joy, swearing that I

would regret my past life; on my knees, I protested my respect for her;

then a gesture, a word, a trick of turning as she approached me, recalled

to my mind the fact that such and such a woman had made that gesture, had

used that word, had that same trick of turning.

Poor devoted soul! What didst thou suffer in seeing me turn pale before

thee, in seeing my arms fall as though lifeless at my side! When the kiss

died on my lips, and the full glance of love, that pure ray of God's

light, fled from my eyes like an arrow turned by the wind! Ah! Brigitte!

what diamonds trickled from thin eyes! What treasures of charity didst

thou exhaust with patient hand! How pitiful thy love!

For a long time, good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly;

I showed myself alternately cruel and scornful, tender and devoted,

insensible and haughty, repentant and submissive. The face of Desgenais

which had at first appeared to me, as though to warn me whither I was

drifting, was now constantly before me. On my days of doubt and coldness,

I conversed, so to speak, with him, often when I had offended Brigitte by

some cruel mockery I said to myself: "If he were in my place he would do

as I do!"

And then, at other times, when putting on my hat to go to see Brigitte, I

would look in my glass and say: "What is there so terrible about it,

anyway? I have, after all, a pretty mistress; she has given herself to a

libertine, let her take me for what I am." I reached her side with a

smile on my lips, I sank into a chair with an air of deliberate

insolence; then I saw Brigitte approach, her large eyes filled with

tenderness and anxiety; I seized her little hands in mine and lost myself

in an infinite dream.

How name a thing that is nameless? Was I good or bad? Was I distrustful

or a fool? It is useless to reflect on it; it happened thus.

One of our neighbors was a young woman by the name of Madame Daniel, she

possessed some beauty, and still more coquetry; she was poor but tried to

pass for rich; she would come to see us after dinner and always played a

heavy game against us, although her losses embarrassed her; she sang but

had no voice. In the solitude of that unknown village, where an unkind

fate had buried her, she was consumed with an uncontrollable passion for

pleasure. She talked of nothing but Paris, where she visited two or three

times a year; she pretended to keep up with the fashions; my dear

Brigitte assisted her as best she could, while smiling with pity. Her

husband was employed by the government; he, once a year, would take her

to the house of the chief of his department where, attired in her best,

the little woman danced to her heart's content. She would return with

shining eyes and tired body; she would come to us to tell of her prowess,

and her success in assaulting the masculine heart. The rest of the time

she read novels, never taking the trouble to look after her household

affairs, which were not always in the best condition.

Every time I saw her I laughed at her, finding nothing so ridiculous as

the high life she thought she was leading; I would interrupt her

description of a ball to inquire about her husband and her father-in-law,

both of whom she detested, the one because he was her husband, and the

other because he was only a peasant; in short, we were always disputing

on some subject.

In my evil moments, I thought of paying court to that woman just for the

sake of annoying Brigitte.

"You see," I said, "how perfectly Madame Daniel understands life! In her

present sprightly humor could one desire a more charming mistress?"

I then paid her the most extravagant compliments; her senseless chatting

I described as unrestraint tempered by finesse, her pretentious

exaggerations as a natural desire to please; was it her fault that she

was poor? At least, she thought of nothing but pleasure and confessed it

freely; she did not preach sermons herself, nor did she listen to them

from others; I went so far as to tell Brigitte that she ought to adopt

her as a model, and that she was just the kind of woman to please me.

Poor Madame Daniel discovered signs of melancholy in Brigitte's eyes. She

was a strange creature, as good and sincere, when you could get finery

out of her head, as she was stupid when absorbed in such frivolous

affairs. On occasions, she could be both good and stupid. One fine day

when they were walking together, she threw herself into Brigitte's arms

and told her that she had noticed that I was beginning to pay court to

her, and that I had made certain proposals to her, the meaning of which

was not doubtful; but she knew that I was another's lover, and as for

her, whatever might happen, she would die rather than destroy the

happiness of a friend. Brigitte thanked her, and Madame Daniel, having

set her conscience at ease, considered it no sin to render me desolate by

languishing glances.

In the evening when she had gone, Brigitte, in a severe tone, told me

what had happened; she begged me to spare her such affronts in the

future.

"Not that I attach any importance to such pleasantries," she said, "but

if you have any love for me, it seems to me it is useless to inform a

third party that there are times when you have not."

"Is it possible," I replied with a smile, "that it is important? You see

very well, that I was only joking, and that I do it only to pass away the

time."

"Ah! my friend, my friend," said Brigitte, "it is too bad that you must

seek pastimes."

Some days later, I proposed that we go to the prefecture to see Madame

Daniel dance; she unwillingly consented. While she was arranging her

toilet, I sat near the window and reproached her for losing her former

cheerfulness.

"What is the matter with you?" I asked; I knew as well as she. "Why that

morose air that never leaves you? In truth, you make our life quite sad.

I have known you when you were more joyous, more free and more open; I am

not flattered by the thought that I am responsible for the change. But

you have a cloistral disposition; you were born to live in a convent."

It was Sunday; as we were driving down the road, Brigitte ordered the

carriage to stop in order to say good evening to some friends, fresh and

vigorous country girls, who were going to dance at Tilleuls. When they

had gone on Brigitte followed them with longing eyes; her little rustic

dance was very dear to her; she dried her eyes with her handkerchief.

We found Madame Daniel at the prefecture in high feather. I danced with

her so often that it excited comment, I paid her a thousand compliments

and she replied as best she could.

Brigitte was near us, and her eyes never left us. I can hardly describe

what I felt; it was both pleasure and pain. I clearly saw that she was

jealous; but instead of being moved by it, I did all I could to increase

her suffering.

On the return, I expected to hear her reproaches; she made none, but

remained silent for three days. When I came to see her, she would greet

me kindly; then we would sit down facing each other, both of us

preoccupied, scarcely exchanging a word. The third day she spoke,

overwhelmed me with bitter reproaches, told me that my conduct was

unreasonable, that she could not account for it except on the supposition

that I had ceased to love her; but she could not endure this life and

would resort to anything rather than submit to my caprices and coldness.

Her eyes were full of tears, and I was about to ask her pardon when some

words escaped her that were so bitter that my pride revolted. I replied

in the same tone, and our quarrel became violent. I told her that it was

absurd to suppose that I could not inspire enough confidence in my

mistress to escape the necessity of explaining my every action; that

Madame Daniel was only a pretext; that she very well knew that I did not

think of that woman seriously; that her pretended jealousy was nothing

but the expression of her desire for despotic power, and that, moreover,

if she had tired of this life, it was easy enough to put an end to it.

"Very well," she replied; "it is true that I do not recognize you as the

same man I first knew; you doubtless performed a little comedy to

persuade me that you loved me; you are tired of your role and can think

of nothing but abuse. You suspect me of deceiving you upon the first

word, and I am under no obligation to submit to your insults. You are no

longer the man I loved."

"I know what your sufferings are," I replied. "I can not make a step

without exciting your alarm. Soon I will not be permitted to address a

word to any one but you. You pretend that you have been abused in order

that you may be justified in offering insult; you accuse me of tyranny in

order that I may become your slave. Since I trouble your repose, I leave

you in peace; you will never see me again."

We parted in anger, and I passed an entire day without seeing her. The

next night, toward midnight, I was seized by a feeling of melancholy that

I could not resist. I shed a torrent of tears; I overwhelmed myself with

reproaches that I richly deserved. I told myself that I was nothing but a

fool, and a cowardly fool at that, to make the noblest, the best of

creatures, suffer in this way. I ran to her to throw myself at her feet.

Entering the garden, I saw that her room was lighted and a flash of

suspicion crossed my mind. "She does not expect me at this hour," I said

to myself; "who knows what she may be doing. I left her in tears

yesterday; I may find her ready to sing to-day and caring no more for me

than if I never existed. I must enter gently in order to surprise her."

I advanced on tiptoe, and the door being open, I could see Brigitte

without being seen.

She was seated at her table and was writing in that same book that had

aroused my suspicions. She held in her left hand, a little box of white

wood which she looked at from time to time and trembled. There was

something sinister in the quiet that reigned in the room. Her secretary

was open and several bundles of papers were carefully ranged in order.

I made some noise at the door. She rose, went to the secretary, closed

it, then came to me with a smile:

"Octave," she said, "we are two children. If you had not come here, I

would have gone to you. Pardon me, I was wrong. Madame Daniel comes to

dinner to-morrow; make me repent, if you choose, of what you call my

despotism. If you but love me I am happy; let us forget what is past and

let us not spoil our happiness."

CHAPTER III

OUR quarrel had been less sad than our reconciliation; it was attended,

on Brigitte's part, by a mystery which frightened me at first and then

planted in my soul the seeds of constant dread.

There developed in me, in spite of my struggles, the two elements of

misfortune which the past had bequeathed me: at times, furious jealousy

attended by reproaches and insults; at other times, a cruel gaiety, an

affected cheerfulness that mockingly outraged whatever I held most dear.

Thus, the inexorable specters of the past pursued me without respite;

thus, Brigitte seeing herself treated alternately, as a faithless

mistress and a shameless woman, fell into a condition of melancholy that

clouded our entire life; and worst of all, that sadness even, the cause

of which I knew, was not the most burdensome of our sorrows. I was young

and I loved pleasure; that daily association with a woman older than I

who suffered and languished, that face more and more serious, which was

always before me, all that repelled my youth and aroused within me bitter

regrets for the liberty I had lost.

When we were passing through the forest by the beautiful light of the

moon, we both experienced a profound melancholy. Brigitte looked at me in

pity. We sat down on a rock near a wild gorge; we passed two entire hours

there; her half-veiled eyes plunged into my soul athwart the glance from

mine, then wandered to nature, to the heavens and the valley.

"Ah! my dear child," she said, "how I pity you! You do not love me."

In order to reach that rock, one must travel two leagues; two more in

returning makes four. Brigitte was afraid of neither fatigue nor

darkness. We set out at eleven at night, expecting to reach home some

time in the morning. When we went on long tramps, she always dressed in a

blue blouse and the apparel of a man, saying that skirts were not made

for bushes. She walked before me in the sand with a firm step and such a

charming melange of feminine delicacy and childlike temerity, that I

stopped every few moments to look at her. It seemed that, once started,

she had to accomplish a difficult but sacred task; she walked in front

like a soldier, her arms swinging, her voice ringing through the woods in

song; suddenly she turned, came to me, and kissed me. This was going; on

the return, she leaned on my arm; then more songs; there were

confidences, tender avowals in low tones, although we were alone, two

leagues from anywhere. I do not recall a single word spoken on the return

that was not of love or friendship.

One night, we struck out through the woods, leaving the road which led to

the rock. Brigitte was tramping along so stoutly, her little velvet cap

on her light hair made her look so much like a resolute gamin, that I

forgot that she was a woman when there were no obstacles in our path.

More than once, she was obliged to call me to her aid when I, without

thinking of her, had pushed on ahead. I can not describe the effect

produced on me in the clear night air, in the midst of the forest, by

that voice of a woman, half-joyous and half-plaintive, coming from that

little schoolboy body wedged in between roots and trunks of trees, unable

to advance. I took her in my arms.

"Come, madame," I cried, laughing, "you are a pretty little mountaineer,

but you are blistering your white hands and in spite of your hobnailed

shoes, your stick and your martial air, I see that you must be carried."

We arrived at the rock breathless, about my body was strapped a leather

belt to which was attached a wicker bottle. When we were seated on the

rock, my dear Brigitte asked for the bottle; I had lost it, as well as a

tinder-box which served another purpose: that was to read the

inscriptions on the guide-posts when we went astray, which occurred

frequently. At such times, I would climb the posts and read the

half-effaced inscription by the light of the tinder-box; all that

playfully, like the children that we were. At a cross-road, we would have

to examine not one guide-post, but five or six until the right one was

found. But this time we had lost our baggage on the way.

"Very well," said Brigitte, "we will pass the night here as I am rather

tired. This rock will make a hard bed but we can cover it with dry

leaves. Let us sit down and make the best of it."

The night was superb; the moon was rising behind us; I looked at it over

my left shoulder. Brigitte was watching the lines of the wooded hills as

they began to design themselves against the background of sky. As the

light flooded the copse and threw its halo over sleeping nature,

Brigitte's song became more gentle and more melancholy. Then she bent

over, and, throwing her arms around my neck, said:

"Do not think that I do not understand your heart or that I would

reproach you for what you make me suffer. It is not your fault, my

friend, if you have not the power to forget your past life; you have

loved me in good faith and I shall never regret, although I should die

for it, the day I gave myself to you. You thought you were entering upon

a new life and that with me, you would forget the women who had deceived

you. Alas! Octave, I used to smile at that precocious experience which

you said you had been through, and of which I heard you boast like a

child who knows nothing of life. I thought I had but to will it, and all

that there was that was good in your heart would come to your lips with

my first kiss. You, too, believed it, but we were both mistaken. O my

child! You have, in your heart, a plague that can not be cured; that

woman who deceived you, how you must have loved her! Yes, more than you

love me, alas! much more, since with all my poor love I can not efface

her image; she must have deceived you most cruelly since it is in vain

that I am faithful! And the others, those wretches who then poisoned your

youth! The pleasures they sold must have been terrible since you ask me

to imitate them! You remember them with me! Alas! my dear child, that is

too cruel. I like you better when you are unjust and furious, when you

reproach me for imaginary crimes and avenge on me the wrong done you by

others, than when you are under the influence of that frightful gaiety,

when you assume that air of hideous mockery, when that mask of scorn

affronts my eyes. Tell me, Octave, why that? Why those moments when you

speak of love with contempt and rail at the most sacred mysteries of

love? What frightful power over your irritable nerves has that life you

have led, that such insults mount to your lips in spite of you? Yes, in

spite of you, for your heart is noble, you blush at your own blasphemy;

you love me too much not to suffer when you see me suffer. Ah! I know you

now. The first time I saw you thus, I was seized with a feeling of terror

of which I can give you no idea. I thought you were only a roue, that you

had deliberately deceived me by feigning a love you did not feel, and

that I saw you such as you really were. O my friend! I thought it was

time to die; what a night I passed! You do not know my life; you do not

know that I, who speak to you, have had an experience as terrible as

yours. Alas! life is sweet only to those who do not know life.

"You are not, my dear Octave, the only man I have loved. There is hidden

in my heart a fatal story that I wish you to know. My father destined me,

when I was quite young, for the only son of an old friend. They were

neighbors and each owned a little domain of almost equal value. The two

families saw each other every day and lived, so to speak, together. My

father died; my mother had been dead some time. I lived with an aunt whom

you know. A journey she was compelled to take, forced her to confide me

to the care of my future father-in-law. He called me his daughter and it

was so well known about the country that I was to marry his son that we

were allowed the greatest liberty together.

"That young man, whose name you need not know, appeared to love me. What

had been friendship from infancy, became love in time. He began to tell

me of the happiness that awaited us; he spoke of his impatience, I was

only one year younger than he; but he had made the acquaintance of a man

of dissipated habits who lived in the vicinity, a sort of adventurer, and

had listened to his evil suggestions. While I was yielding to his

caresses with the confidence of a child, he resolved to deceive his

father and to abandon me after having ruined me.

"His father called us into his room one evening and, in the presence of

the family, set the day of our wedding. The very evening before that day,

he met me in the garden and spoke to me of love with more force than

usual; he said that, since the time was set, we were just the same as

married, and for that matter had been in the eyes of God, ever since our

birth. I have no other excuse to offer than my youth, my ignorance and my

confidence in him. I gave myself to him before becoming his wife, and

eight days afterward he left his father's house; he fled with a woman

with whom his new friend had made him acquainted; he wrote that he had

set out for Germany and that we would never see him again.

"That is, in a word, the story of my life; my husband knew it as you now

know it. I am proud, my child, and I have sworn that no man should ever

make me again suffer what I suffered then. I saw you and forgot my oath,

but not my sorrow. You must treat me gently; if you are sick, I am also;

we must care for each other. You see, Octave, I too know what it is to

cherish up memories of the past. It inspires me at times with cruel

terror; I should have more courage than you, for perhaps I have suffered

more. It is my place to begin; my heart is not sure of itself, I am still

very feeble; my life in this village was so tranquil before you came! I

had promised myself that it should never change! All that, makes me

exacting. Ah! well, it does not matter, I am yours. You have told me, in

your better moments, that Providence appointed me to watch over you as a

mother. Yes, when you make me suffer, I do not look upon you as a lover,

but as a sick child, fretful and rebellious, that I must care for and

cure in order that I may always keep him and love him. May God give me

that power!" she added, looking up to heaven. "May God, who sees me, who

hears us, may the God of mothers and of lovers, permit me to accomplish

that task! When I feel as though I would sink under it, when my pride

rebels, when my heart is breaking, when all my life--"

She could not finish; her tears choked her. O God! I saw her there on her

knees, her hands clasped on the rock; she swayed in the breeze as did the

bushes about us. Frail and sublime creature; she prayed for her love. I

raised her in my arms.

"O my only friend!" I cried. "Oh! my mistress, my mother, and my sister!

Pray also for me, that I may be able to love you as you deserve. Pray

that I may have the courage to live; that my heart may be cleansed in

your tears; that it may become a holy offering before God and that we may

share it together."

All was silent about us; above our heads, spread the heavens resplendent

with stars.

"Do you remember," I said, "do you remember the first day?"

From that night, we never returned to that spot. That rock was an altar

which has retained its purity; it is one of the visions of my life which

still passes before my eyes wreathed in spotless white.

CHAPTER IV

AS I was crossing the public square one evening, I saw two men standing

together; one of them said:

"It appears to me that he has ill-treated her."

"It is her fault," replied the other; "why choose such a man? He has

known only public women; she is paying the price of her folly."

I advanced in the darkness to see who was speaking thus, and to hear more

if possible; but they passed on as soon as they spied me.

I found Brigitte much disturbed; her aunt was seriously ill; she had time

for only a few words with me. I did not see her for an entire week; I

knew that she had summoned a physician from Paris; finally, she sent for

me.

"My aunt is dead," she said; "I lose the only one left me on earth, I am

now alone in the world and I am going to leave the country."

"Am I, then, nothing to you?"

"Yes, my friend; you know that I love you, and I often believe that you

love me. But how can I count on you? I am your mistress, alas! but you

are not my lover. It is for you that Shakespeare has written these sad

words: 'Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very

opal.' And I, Octave," she added, pointing to her mourning costume, "I am

reduced to a single color, and I shall not change it for a long time."

"Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or I will

follow you. Ah! Brigitte," I continued, throwing myself on my knees

before her, "you thought you were alone when your aunt died! That is the

most cruel punishment you could inflict on me; never, have I so keenly

felt the misery of my love for you. You must retract those terrible

words; I deserve them, but they will kill me. O God! can it be true that

I count for nothing in your life, or that I am an influence in your life

only because of the evil I have done you!"

"I do not know," she said, "who is busying himself in our affairs;

certain insinuations, mixed with idle gossip, have been set afloat in the

village and in the neighboring country. Some say that I have been ruined;

others accuse me of imprudence and folly; others represent you as a cruel

and dangerous man. Some one has spied into our most secret thoughts;

things that I thought no one else knew, events in your life and sad

scenes to which they have led, are known to others; my poor aunt spoke to

me about it some time since, and she knew it some time before speaking to

me. Who knows but what that has hastened her death? When I meet my old

friends in the street, they either treat me coldly, or turn aside, even

my dear peasant girls, those good girls who love me so much, shrug their

shoulders when they see my place empty at the Sunday afternoon balls. How

has that come about? I do not know, nor do you, I suppose; but I must go

away, I can not endure it. And my aunt's death, so sudden, so unexpected,

above all this solitude! this empty room! Courage fails me; my friend, my

friend, do not abandon me!"

She wept; in an adjoining room, I saw her household goods in disorder, a

trunk on the floor, everything indicating preparations for departure. It

was evident that, at the time of her aunt's death, Brigitte tried to go

away without seeing me but could not. She was so overwhelmed with emotion

that she could hardly speak, her condition was pitiful, and it was I who

had brought her to it. Not only was she unhappy, but she was insulted in

public, and the man who ought to be her support and her consolation in

such an hour, was the cause of all her troubles.

I felt the wrong I had done her so keenly that I was overcome with shame.

After so many promises, so much useless exaltation, so many plans and

hopes, what had I, in fact, accomplished in three months! I thought I had

a treasure in my heart and there came out of it nothing but malice, the

shadow of a dream, and the misfortune of a woman I adored. For the first

time, I found myself really face to face with myself; Brigitte reproached

me for nothing; she had tried to go away and could not; she was ready to

suffer still. I suddenly asked myself if I ought not to leave her, if it

was not my duty to flee from her and rid her of the scourge of my

presence.

I arose and, passing into the next room, sat down on Brigitte's trunk.

There, I leaned my head on my hand and sat motionless. I looked about me

at the confused piles of goods. Alas! I knew them all; my heart was not

so hardened that it could not be moved by the memories which they

awakened. I began to calculate all the harm I had done; I saw my dear

Brigitte walking under the lindens with her goat beside her.

"O man!" I mused, "and by what right? How dared you come to this house

and lay hands on this woman? Who has ordained that she should suffer for

you? You array yourself in fine linen and set out, sleek and happy, for

the home where your mistress languishes; you throw yourself upon the

cushions where she has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, and you

gently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You think it no

evil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in your

deliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes from a

suit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy, you make sport of

suffering; you find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments, to commit

murder by means of little pin pricks. What will you say to the living God

when your work is finished? What will become of the woman who loves you?

Where will you fall while she leans on you for support? With what face

will you one day bury your pale and wretched creature, who has just

buried the only being who was left to protect her? Yes, yes, you will

doubtless have to bury her, for your love kills and consumes; you have

devoted her to the furies and it is she who appeases them. If you follow

that woman, you will be the cause of her death. Take care! her guardian

angel hesitates; he has just knocked at the door of this house, in order

to frighten away a fatal and shameful passion! He inspired Brigitte with

the idea of flight; at this moment he may be whispering in her ear his

final warning. O you assassin! You murderer! beware! it is a matter of

life and death."

Thus, I communed with myself; then on the sofa I caught sight of a little

gingham dress, folded and ready to be packed in the trunk. It had been

the witness of our happy days. I took it up and examined it.

"I leave you!" I said to it; "I lose you! O little dress, would you go

away without me?"

"No, I can not abandon Brigitte; under the circumstances it would be

cowardly. She has just lost her aunt, and is all alone; she is exposed to

the power of, I know not what enemy. Can it be Mercanson? He may have

spoken of my conversation with him, and seeing that I was jealous of

Dalens, may have guessed the rest. Assuredly, he is the snake who has

been hissing about my well-beloved flower. I must punish him, and I must

repair the wrong I have done Brigitte. Fool that I am! I think of leaving

her when I ought to consecrate my life to her, to the expiation of my

sins, to rendering her happy after the tears I have drawn from her eyes!

When I am her only support in the world, her only friend, her only

protection! When I ought to follow her to the end of the world, to

shelter her with my body, to console her for having loved me, for having

given herself to me!"

"Brigitte!" I cried, returning to her room, "wait an hour for me and I

will return."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Wait for me," I replied, "do not set out without me. Remember the words

of Ruth: 'Whither thou goest, I shall go; and where thou lodgest, I will

lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God, where thou

diest will I die, and there will I be buried.'"

I left her precipitately, and rushed out to find Mercanson. I was told

that he had gone out, and I entered his house to wait for him.

I sat in the corner of the room on a priest's chair before a dirty black

table. I was becoming impatient when I recalled my duel on account of my

first mistress.

"I received a wound from a bullet and am still a fool," I said to myself.

"What have I come to do here? This priest will not fight; if I seek a

quarrel with him, he will say that his priestly robes forbid and he will

continue his vile gossip when I have gone. Moreover, for what can I hold

him responsible? What is it that has disturbed Brigitte? They say that

her reputation has been sullied, that I ill-treat her and that she ought

not to submit to it. What stupidity! that concerns no one, there is

nothing to do but allow them to talk; in such a case, to notice an insult

is to give it importance. Is it possible to prevent provincials from

talking about their neighbors? Can any one prevent a gossip from

maligning a woman who loves? What measures can be taken to stop a public

rumor? If they say that I ill-treat her, it is for me to prove the

contrary by my conduct with her, and not by violence. It would be as

ridiculous to seek a quarrel with Mercanson, as to leave the country on

account of gossip. No, we must not leave the country; that would be a bad

move; that would be to say to all the world that there is truth in its

idle rumors, and to give excuse to the gossips. We must neither go away

nor take any notice of such things."

I returned to Brigitte. A half hour had passed, and I had changed my mind

three times. I dissuaded her from her plans, I told her what I had just

done and why I had not carried out my first impulse. She listened

resignedly, yet she wished to go away; the house where her aunt had died

had become odious to her, much effort and persuasion on my part were

required to get her to consent to remain; finally, I accomplished it. We

repeated that we would despise the world, that we would yield nothing,

that we would not change our manner of life. I swore that my love should

console her for all her sorrows, and she pretended to hope for the best.

I told her that this circumstance had so enlightened me in the matter of

the wrongs I had done her, that my conduct would prove my repentance,

that I would drive from me, as a fantom, all the evil that remained in my

heart, that henceforth she would not be offended, by either my pride or

my caprices; and thus, sad and patient, her arms around my neck, she

yielded obedience to the pure caprice that I, myself, mistook for a flash

of reason.

CHAPTER V

ONE day, I saw a little chamber she called her oratory; there was no

furniture except a priedieu and a little altar with a cross and some

vases of flowers. As for the rest, the walls and curtains were as white

as snow. She shut herself up in that room at times, but rarely since I

had known her.

I stepped to the door and saw Brigitte seated on the floor in the middle

of the room surrounded by the flowers she was throwing here and there.

She held in her hand a little wreath that appeared to be made of dried

grass, and she was breaking it to pieces.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

She trembled and stood up.

"It is nothing but a child's plaything," she said; "it is a rose wreath

that has faded here in the oratory; I have come here to change my flowers

as I have not attended to them for some time."

Her voice trembled, and she appeared to be about to faint. I recalled

that name of Brigitte la Rose that I had heard given her. I asked her if

it was not her crown of roses that she had just broken thus.

"No," she replied, turning pale.

"Yes," I cried, "yes, on my life. Give me the pieces."

I gathered them up and placed them on the altar, then I was silent, my

eyes fixed on the offering.

"Was I not right," she asked, "if it was my crown, to take it from the

wall where it has hung so long? What good are these remains? Brigitte la

Rose is no more, nor the flowers that baptized her."

She went out; I heard her sob, and the door closed on me; I fell on my

knees and wept bitterly.

When I returned to her room, I found her waiting for me; dinner was

ready. I took my place in silence, and not a word was said of what was on

our hearts.

CHAPTER VI

IT was Mercanson who had repeated in the village and in the chateaux my

conversation with him about Dalens and the suspicions that, in spite of

myself, I had allowed him clearly to see. Every one knows how bad news

travels in the provinces, flying from mouth to mouth and growing as it

flies; that is what happened in this case.

Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face with each other in a new

position. However feebly she may have tried to flee, she had nevertheless

made the attempt. It was on account of my prayers that she remained;

there was an obligation implied. I was under oath not to grieve her

either by my jealousy or my levity; every thoughtless or mocking word

that escaped me was a sin, every sorrowful glance from her was a reproach

acknowledged and merited.

Her simple, good nature gave a charm even to solitude; she could see me

now at all hours without resorting to any precaution. Perhaps she

consented to this arrangement in order to prove to me that she valued her

love more highly than her reputation; she seemed to regret having shown

that she cared for the representations of malice. At any rate, instead of

making any attempt to disarm criticism or thwart curiosity, we lived the

freest kind of life, more regardless of public opinion than ever.

For some time, I kept my word and not a cloud troubled our life. These

were happy days, but it is not of these that I must speak.

It was said everywhere about the country that Brigitte was living

publicly with a libertine from Paris; that her lover ill-treated her,

that they spent their time quarreling and that all of it would come to a

bad end. As they had praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, so

they blamed her now. There was nothing in her past life, even, that was

not picked to pieces and misrepresented. Her lonely tramps over the

mountains, when engaged in works of charity, suddenly became the subject

of quibbles and of raillery. They spoke of her as of a woman who had lost

all human respect and who deserved the frightful misfortunes she was

drawing down on her head.

I had told Brigitte that it was best to let them talk and pay no

attention to them; but the truth is, it became insupportable to me. I

sometimes tried to catch a word that I might consider an insult and

demand an explanation. I listened to whispered conversations in a salon

where I was a visitor, but could hear nothing; in order to do us better

justice, they waited until I had gone. I returned to Brigitte and told

her that all these stories were mere nonsense, that it was foolish to

notice them; that they could talk about us as much as they pleased and we

would care nothing about it.

Was I not terribly mistaken? If Brigitte was imprudent, was it not my

place to be cautious and ward off danger? On the contrary, I took, so to

speak, the part of the world against her.

I began by indifference; I was soon to grow malignant.

"It is true," I said, "that they speak evil of your nocturnal excursions.

Are you sure that they are wrong? Has nothing happened in those romantic

grottoes and by-paths in the forest? Have you never accepted the arm of

an unknown as you accepted mine? Was it merely charity that served as

your divinity in that beautiful temple of verdure that you visited so

bravely?"

Brigitte's glance when I adopted this tone, I shall never forget; I

shuddered at it myself. "But, bah," I thought, "she would do the same

thing my other mistress did, she would point me out as a ridiculous fool,

and I would pay for it all in the eyes of the public."

Between the man who doubts and the man who denies, there is only a step.

All philosophy is related to atheism. After having told Brigitte that I

suspected her past conduct, I began to regard it with real suspicion.

I came to imagine that Brigitte was deceiving me, she, who never left me

at any hour of the day; I sometimes planned long absences in order to

test her, as I supposed; but in truth, it was only to give myself some

excuse for suspicion and mockery. And then I took pleasure in observing

that I had outgrown my foolish jealousy, which was the same as saying,

that I no longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her.

At first, I kept such thoughts to myself, but soon found pleasure in

revealing them to Brigitte. We went out for a walk.

"That dress is pretty," I said, "such and such a girl, belonging to one

of my friends, has one like it."

We were seated at table.

"Come, my dear, my former mistress used to sing for me at dessert; it is

understood that you are to imitate her."

She sat at the piano.

"Ah! pardon me, but will you play that waltz that was so popular last

winter; that will remind me of happy times."

Reader, that lasted six months: for six long months, Brigitte,

scandalized, exposed to the insults of the world, had to endure from me

all the wrongs that a wrathful and cruel libertine could inflict on

woman.

Coming from these frightful scenes, in which my own spirit exhausted

itself in suffering and painful contemplation of the past; recovering

from that frenzy, a strange access of love, an extreme exaltation, led me

to treat my mistress like an idol, like a divinity. A quarter of an hour

after having insulted her, I was on my knees before her; when I was not

accusing her of some crime, I was begging her pardon; when I was not

mocking, I was weeping. Then I was seized by a delirium of joy, I almost

lost my reason in the violence of my transports; I did not know what to

do, what to say, what to think, in order to repair the evil I had done. I

took Brigitte in my arms, and made her repeat a hundred times that she

loved me, and that she pardoned me. I threatened to expiate my evil deeds

by blowing out my brains, if I ever ill-treated her again. These periods

of exaltation sometimes lasted several hours, during which time, I

exhausted myself in foolish expressions of love and esteem. Then morning

came; day appeared; I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and I awakened

with a smile on my lips, mocking at everything, believing in nothing.

During these terrible hours, Brigitte appeared to forget that there was

another man in me than the one she saw. When I asked her pardon she

shrugged her shoulders as though to say: "Do you not know that I pardon

you?" She would not complain as long as a spark of love remained in my

heart; she assured me that all was good and sweet coming from me,

insults, as well as tears.

And yet as time passed my evil grew worse, my moments of malignity and

irony became more somber and intractable. A real physical fever attended

my outbursts of passion; I awakened trembling in every limb and covered

with cold sweat. Brigitte, too, although she did not complain of it,

began to fail in health. When I began to abuse her she would leave me

without a word and lock herself in her room. Thank God, I have never

raised my hand against her; in my most violent moments I would rather die

than touch her.

One evening the rain was beating against the windows; we were alone, the

curtains closed.

"I am in happy humor this evening," I said to Brigitte, "and yet the

beastly weather saddens me. Let us seek some diversion in spite of the

storm."

I arose and lighted all the candles I could find. The room was small and

the illumination brilliant. At the same time a bright fire threw out a

stifling heat.

"Come," I said, "what shall we do while waiting until it is time for

supper?"

I happened to remember that it was carnival time in Paris. I seemed to

see the carriages filled with masks crossing the boulevards. I heard the

shouts of the crowds before the theaters; I saw the lascivious dances,

the gay costumes, the wine and the folly; all of my youth bounded in my

heart.

"Let us disguise ourselves," I said to Brigitte. "It will be for us

alone, but what does that matter? If you have no costumes we can make

them, and pass away the time agreeably."

We searched in the closet for dresses, cloaks, and artificial flowers;

Brigitte as usual, was patient and cheerful. We both arranged a sort of

travesty; she wanted to dress my hair herself; we painted and powdered

ourselves freely; all that we lacked was found in an old chest that

belonged, I believe, to the aunt. In an hour we could not recognize each

other. The evening passed in singing, in a thousand follies; toward one

in the morning it was time for supper.

We had ransacked all the closets; there was one near me that remained

open. While sitting down at the table, I perceived on a shelf the book of

which I have already spoken, the one in which Brigitte was accustomed to

write.

"Is it not a collection of your thoughts?" I asked, stretching out my

hand and taking the book down. "If I may, allow me to look at it."

I opened the book, although Brigitte made a gesture as though to prevent

me; on the first page I read these words:

"This is my last will and testament."

Everything was written in a firm hand; I found, first, a faithful recital

of all that Brigitte had suffered on my account since she had been my

mistress. She announced her firm determination to endure everything, so

long as I loved her and to die when I left her. Her daily life was

recorded there; what she had lost, what she had hoped, the isolation she

experienced even in my presence, the barrier that was growing up between

us, the cruelties I subjected her to in return for her love and her

resignation--all that was written down without a complaint; on the

contrary, she undertook to justify me. Then followed personal details,

the disposition of her effects. She would end her life by poison, she

wrote. She would die by her own hand and expressly forbid that her death

should be charged to me. "Pray for him," such were her last words.

I found in the closet, on the same shelf, a little box that I remembered

I had seen before, filled with a fine bluish powder resembling salt.

"What is this?" I asked of Brigitte, raising the box to my lips. She gave

vent to a scream of terror and threw herself upon me.

"Brigitte," I said, "tell me adieu. I shall carry this box away with me;

you will forget me, and you will live if you wish to save me from

becoming a murderer. I will set out this very night; you will agree with

me that God demands it. Give me a last kiss."

I bent over her and kissed her forehead.

"Not yet," she cried in anguish. But I repulsed her and left the room.

Three hours later I was ready to set out, and the horses were at the

door. It was still raining when I entered the carriage. At the moment the

carriage was starting, I felt two arms about my neck and a sob on my

breast.

It was Brigitte. I did all I could to persuade her to remain; I ordered

the driver to stop; I even told her that I would return to her when time

should have effaced the memory of the wrongs I had done her. I forced

myself to prove to her that yesterday was the same as to-day, to-day as

yesterday; I repeated that I could only render her unhappy, that to

attach herself to me was but to make an assassin of me. I resorted to

prayers, to vows, to threats even; her only reply was, "You are going

away, take me, let us take leave of the country, let us take leave of the

past. We can not live here, let us go elsewhere, wherever you please, let

us go and die together in some remote corner of the world. We must be

happy, I by you, you by me."

I kissed her with such passion that I feared my heart would burst.

"Drive on," I cried to the coachman. We threw ourselves into each other's

arms, and the horses set out at a gallop.

PART V

CHAPTER I

HAVING decided on a long tour, we went first to Paris; the necessary

preparations required time and we took a furnished apartment for one

month.

The decision to leave France had changed everything: joy, hope,

confidence, all returned; no more sorrow, no more grief over approaching

separation. It was now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows of

eternal love; I wished, once for all, to make my dear mistress forget all

the suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist such proofs

of tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only did Brigitte

pardon me, but she was willing to make a still greater sacrifice and

leave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of the devotion she

exhibited, I wished to requite her by my love; at last, my good angel had

triumphed, and admiration and love resumed their sway in my heart.

Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should go to bury

ourselves from the world; we had not yet decided and we found pleasure in

that very uncertainty; while glancing over the map, we said:

"Where shall we go? What shall we do? Where shall we begin life anew?"

How shall I tell how deeply I repented my cruelty when I looked upon her

smiling face, a face that laughed at the future, although still pale from

the sorrows of the past! Happy projects of future joy, you are, perhaps,

the only true happiness known to man!

For eight days we spent our time making purchases and preparing for our

departure; then a young man presented himself at our apartments: he

brought letters to Brigitte. After their interview, I found her sad and

distraught; but I could not guess the cause, unless the letters were from

N-----, that village where I had confessed my love and where Brigitte's

only relatives lived.