Nevertheless, our preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatient

to get away; at the same time, I was so happy that I could hardly rest.

When I arose in the morning, and the sun was shining through our windows,

I experienced such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated with

happiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love for

Brigitte, that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her dress. Her lightest

words made me tremble as though her voice was strange to me; I alternated

between tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except with

horror and disgust.

Our room was full of our goods scattered about in disorder, albums,

pictures, books, and the dear map we loved so much. We were going and

coming about the room; every few moments I would stop and kneel before

Brigitte, who would call me an idler, saying that she had to do all the

work, and that I was good for nothing; and all sorts of projects flitted

through our minds. Sicily was far away, but the winters are so delightful

there! Genoa is very pretty with its painted houses, its green gardens

and the Apennines in the background! But what noise! What crowds! Out of

every three men on the street, one is a monk and another a soldier.

Florence is sad, it is the Middle Ages living in the midst of modern

life. How can any one endure those grilled windows and that horrible

brown color with which all the houses are soiled? What could we do at

Rome? We are not traveling in order to forget ourselves, much less for

the sake of instruction. To the Rhine? But the season is over, and

although we do not care for the world of fashion, still it is sad to

visit its haunts when it has fled them. But Spain? Too many restrictions

there; one has to travel like an army on the march and may expect

everything except repose. Let us go to Switzerland! Too many people go

there, and most of them are deceived as to the nature of its attractions;

but it is there, are unfolded the three most beautiful colors on God's

earth: the azure of the sky, the verdure of the plains, and the whiteness

of the snows on the summits of glaciers.

"Let us go, let us go," cried Brigitte, "let us fly away like two birds.

Let us pretend, my dear Octave, that we just met each other yesterday.

You met me at a ball, I pleased you and I love you; you tell me that some

leagues distant, in a certain little town you loved a certain Madame

Pierson; what passed between you and her I do not know. You will not tell

me the story of your love for another! And I will whisper to you that not

long since, I loved a terrible fellow who made me very unhappy; you will

reprove me and close my mouth, and we will agree never to speak of such

things."

When Brigitte spoke thus, I experienced a feeling that resembled avarice;

I caught her in my arms and cried:

"O God! I know not whether it is with joy or with fear that I tremble. I

am about to carry off my treasure. Die, my youth, die all memories of the

past, die, all cares and regrets! O my good, brave mistress! You have

made a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I will never love again.

Perhaps, before I knew you, another woman might have cured me; but now

you, alone, of all the world, have power to destroy me or to save me, for

I bear on my heart the wound of all the evil I have done you. I have been

an ingrate, blind and cruel. God be praised! You love me still. If you

ever return to that home under whose lindens, where I first met you, look

carefully about that deserted house; you will find a fantom there, for

the man who left it, and went away with you, is not the man who entered

it."

"Is it true?" said Brigitte, and her head, all radiant with love, was

raised to heaven; "is it true that I am yours? Yes, far from this odious

world in which you have grown old before your time--yes, my child, you

are going to love. I will have you, such as you are, and wherever we go

you will forget the day when you will no longer love me. My mission will

have been accomplished, and I shall always be thankful for it."

Finally, we decided to go to Geneva and then choose some resting-place in

the Alps. Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought I could

already breathe the air which floats over its surface and the odor of the

verdure-clad valley; already Lausanne, Vevay, Oberland and beyond the

summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of Lombardy; already,

oblivion, repose, flight, all the delights of happy solitude, invited us;

already, when in the evening with joined hands, we looked at one another

in silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment of strange grandeur

which takes possession of the heart on the eve of a long journey,

mysterious and indescribable vertigo, which has in it something of the

terrors of exile and the hopes of a pilgrimage. Are there not in the

human mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords that vibrate? How shall

I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in the simple words: "All

is ready, we are about to go"?

Suddenly, Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head and was silent.

When I asked her if she was in pain, she said no, in a voice that was

scarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold and

resigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that she

was going to be happy and that I would consecrate my life to her, she

shut herself up in her room and wept; when I kissed her, she turned pale

and averted her eyes as my lips approached hers; when I told her that

nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our

plans, she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to me

and I told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw

her arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as though

involuntarily. Finally, I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on

which our places were marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approached

her and placed it in her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed and

fell unconscious at my feet.

CHAPTER II

ALL my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were as vain

as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill and obstinately

remained silent. After an entire day passed in supplication and

conjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing the

Opera, I entered it from force of habit.

I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theater. I was so

overwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak,

except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses.

All my powers were centered on a single thought, and the more I turned it

over in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning. What

obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and the

realization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event,

or even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or loss of some friend,

why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done, when our

dreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature of a secret

that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me? What! she

conceals it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart to suspect

her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me with horror.

On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or of caprice in

that woman such as I knew her? I was lost in the abyss of doubt and I

could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point on which to base

conjecture.

In front of me in the gallery, sat a young man whose face was not unknown

to me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him without

thinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him.

Suddenly, I recognized him: it was he, who had brought letters to

Brigitte from N-----. I arose and started to accost him without thinking

what I was doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without

disturbing a large number of spectators and I was forced to await the

entr'acte.

My first thought was that if any one could enlighten me it was this young

man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson the last few days,

and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressed after his

visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was taken ill. The

letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possible that

he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he did not know

all the circumstances, but he could, doubtless, enlighten me as to the

contents of those letters, and there was no reason why I should hesitate

about questioning him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to the

foyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away and

entered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stood

looking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last, he appeared. I bowed and

approached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared down a

stairway.

My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any other

explanation than deliberate intention to avoid me on his part. He surely

knew my face, and whether he knew it or not, a man who sees another

approaching him, ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the only ones

in the corridor at the time and there could be no doubt he did not wish

to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatment from a man,

whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why should he insult me?

He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid an awkward

interview, during which questions might be asked, which he did not care

to answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost as much as the

first. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head, that young

man's action in avoiding me seemed to have some connection with

Brigitte's obstinate silence.

Uncertainty is of all torments, the most difficult to endure, and during

my life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not wait

patiently. When I returned to my apartments, I found Brigitte reading

those same fateful letters from N-----. I told her that I could not

remain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it at

any cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden, change which

had taken place in her, and that if she refused to speak I would look

upon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an order

for me to leave her forever.

She reluctantly handed me the letters she was reading. Her relatives had

written her that her departure had disgraced them, that every one knew

the circumstances, and that they felt it their duty to warn her of the

consequences; that she was living openly as my mistress, and that,

although she was a widow and free to do as she chose, she ought to think

of the name she bore; that neither they nor her old friends would ever

see her again if she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts of

threats and entreaties, they urged her to return.

The tone of that letter angered me, and at first I took it as an insult.

"And that young man who brings you these remonstrances," I cried,

"doubtless has orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail to do

his own part to the best of his ability. Am I not right?"

Brigitte's dejection made me reflect and calm my wrath.

"You will do as you wish, and achieve my ruin," she said. "My fate rests

with you, you have been for a long time my master. Avenge as you please

the last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to the

world that I formerly respected, to the honor that I have lost. I have

not a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply, I will obey you."

"I care to know nothing," I replied, "but your intentions; it is for me

to comply with your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to do it. Tell

me, do you desire to remain, to go away, or shall I go alone?"

"Why that question?" asked Brigitte; "have I said that I had changed my

mind? I am unwell and can not travel in my present condition, but when I

recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned."

We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she had

expressed her resolution saddened me more than a refusal. It was not the

first time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up to

this time, whatever letters Brigitte, had received she had never taken so

much to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigitte had been

so affected by protests which, in less happy moments, had had no effect

on her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoils from an

act of final significance? I will do as you please, she had said. No, it

does not please me to demand patience, and rather than look at that

sorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks, I will set out

alone.

Fool that I was! Had I the strength to do it? I did not close my eyes

that night, and the next morning I resolved to call on that young man I

had seen at the Opera. I do not know whether it was wrath or curiosity

that impelled me to this course, nor did I know just what I desired to

learn of him; but I reflected that he could not avoid me this time, and

that was all I wanted.

As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that I

felt under obligations to call on him after all the visits he had made

us; I had not said a word about my experience at the Opera. Brigitte's

eyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room she held out her

hand, and said:

"What do you wish?"

Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words and I set out

less unhappy.

The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was living

near by. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensation of

uneasiness; I was dazed, as though by a sudden flash of light. His first

gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accent Brigitte

had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held out his

hand and said:

"What do you wish?"

Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which the reason

can not explain. I sat still, as though awakened from a dream, and began

to repeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could I

tell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me,

how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N-----, and

knew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to question

him, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our first words

were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness in bringing

letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving France we would

ask him to do the same favor for us; and then we were silent, surprised

to find ourselves vis-a-vis.

I looked about me in embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor;

everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musical

instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, but

everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.

As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. On

the mantel, I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look at

it, and he said it was his mother.

I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had known him

since childhood. Before I came to the country, she used to see him

occasionally at N-----, but at the time of her last visit there he was

away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned some

particulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honest

employment that enabled him to support his sister and mother.

His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; he deprived

himself of everything for them, but, although he possessed musical

talents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the immediate

needs of those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, had always led

him to prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances of success in

larger ventures. In a word, he belonged to that small class who live

quietly, and who are worth more to the world than those who do not

appreciate them. I had learned of certain traits in his character which

will serve to paint the man: he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl

in the neighborhood, and, after a year of devotion to her, secured her

parents' consent to their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was

ready to be signed, the preparations for the wedding complete, when his

mother said:

"And your sister? Who will marry her?"

That simple remark made him understand that if he married, he would spend

all his money in the household expenses and his sister would have no

dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy

prospects; he then came to Paris.

When I heard that story, I wanted to see the hero. That simple,

unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the

glories of war.

The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach

the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me

that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually, my

thoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemed

to me that he was also examining me with curiosity.

We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!

He was accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the

clock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it which

lies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy government

office; sending his mother all his savings--that farthing of human joy

which the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except for

the happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had been

a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, so

inexorable, during that time, that with him was bathed in sweat, what had

I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?

What I have said in a page, can be comprehended in a glance. He spoke to

me of our journey and the countries we were going to visit.

"When do you go?" he asked.

"I do not know; Madame Pierson is unwell and has been confined to her bed

for three days."

"For three days!" he repeated in surprise.

"Yes; why are you astonished?"

He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. He

was trembling violently.

"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand to

his head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently to

speak, he said:

"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when I have

sufficiently recovered, I will return your visit."

CHAPTER III

BRIGITTE was better. She had informed me that she wished to go away as

soon as she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to

rest at least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey.

Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured me

that the letter was the only cause of her melancholy and begged me to say

nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was passing in

her heart. We went to the theater every night in order to avoid

embarrassing tete-a-tetes. There, we sometimes pressed each other's hands

at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, or exchanged,

perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we were mute,

absorbed in our thoughts.

Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house had been

the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had left

singular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and his

simplicity reassured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he had

brought, and he did not appear offended, but saddened. He was ignorant of

the contents and his friendship for Brigitte led him to censure them

severely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, if he knew what

they contained. On account of Brigitte's tone of reserve in his presence,

I did not think he was in her confidence. I therefore welcomed him with

pleasure, although there was always a sort of awkward embarrassment in

our meeting. He was asked to act as intermediary between Brigitte and her

relatives after our departure. When we three were together, he noticed a

certain coldness and restraint which he endeavored to banish by cheerful

good humor. If he spoke of our liaison, it was with respect and as a man

who looks upon love as a sacred bond; in fact, he was a kind friend, and

he inspired me with full confidence.

But despite all that, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I could

not obliterate strange thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I had

seen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time as

Brigitte's, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discovered

between them, troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago, I would

have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect Brigitte?

Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not going away

with me? Even if it were possible that Smith could be in some secret of

which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of that mystery? What was

there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship? She had

known him as a child; she met him again, after long years, just as she

was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate situation,

and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding to her

sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful glances,

that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and regrets?

Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long journey,

proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions? I felt that

this must be the explanation and that it was my duty to assure them that

I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers, and of requiting

the other for the services he had rendered. And yet, a deadly sense of

coldness oppressed me and I could not determine what course to pursue.

When Smith left us in the evening, we either kept silence or talked of

him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him

continually. She, however, told me just what I have told the reader; his

life had never been other than it was at this time, poor, obscure and

honest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times,

without knowing why I took such an interest in it.

There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not confess.

If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest happiness, had

he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he pressed her hand

while assisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the least

attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had he not, had he

shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it matter so long as I was

happy? But, while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte's sorrow, I saw

that my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to do

with her present state. If I had been what I ought to have been for the

last six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I was

persuaded, could have troubled our love. Smith was only an ordinary man,

but he was good and devoted, his simple and modest qualities resembled

the large, pure lines which the eye seized at the first glance; one

became acquainted with him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspired

confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinking that if he were

Brigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the ends of the

earth.

I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it.

Brigitte, too, at times urged me to hasten the day.

"Why do we wait?" she asked. "Here I am recovered and everything is

ready."

Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know. Seated near the fire, my eyes

wandered from Smith to my mistress. I saw that they were both pale,

serious, silent. I did not know why they were thus, and I could not help

repeating that there was but one cause, but one secret to learn; but that

was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such as had formerly

tormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. What strange

creatures we! It pleased me to leave them alone before the fire and to go

out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet and looking at the

water. When they spoke of their life at N-----, and when Brigitte, almost

cheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall some incident of their

childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, and yet took pleasure in

it. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of his mother, of his plans and

his prospects. I gave him an opportunity to show himself in a favorable

light and forced his modesty to reveal his merit.

"You love your sister very much, do you not?" I asked. "When do you

expect her to marry?"

He blushed and replied that his expenses were rather heavy but that it

would probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health would

permit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provide

her dowry; that there was a family in the country, whose eldest son was

her friend; that they were almost agreed on it, and that fortune would

one day come, like rest, without thinking of it; that he had set aside

for his sister, a part of the money left by their father; that their

mother was opposed to it but that he would insist on it; that a young man

may live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of a young girl is fixed

on the day of her marriage. Thus, little by little, he expressed what was

in his heart, and I watched Brigitte listening to him. Then, when he

arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door and stood there;

pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

Upon examining our trunks, we found that there were still a few things

needed before we could start; Smith was asked to purchase them. He was

remarkably active and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When I

returned to my apartments, I found him on the floor, strapping a trunk.

Brigitte was at the piano we had rented by the week during our stay. She

was playing one of those old airs, into which she put so much expression

and which were so dear to us. I stopped in the hall; every note reached

my ear distinctly; never had she sung so sadly, so divinely.

Smith was listening with pleasure; he was on his knees holding the buckle

of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about the room at

the other goods he had packed and covered with a linen cloth. Satisfied

with his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot; Brigitte, her

hands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For the second time, I

saw tears fall from the young man's eyes; I was ready to shed tears

myself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out my hand to

him.

"Were you there?" asked Brigitte. She trembled and seemed surprised.

"Yes, I was there," I replied. "Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me hear

your sweet voice."

She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well as

Smith's; her voice faltered. With the last notes, she arose and came to

me and kissed me.

On another occasion, I had bought an album containing views of

Switzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigitte

found a site that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There was

one view that seemed to please her more than all the others; it was a

certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues; some

trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance, a village

consisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In the

foreground, a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, and

a farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his

iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directing her

attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them were the

Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits. Nothing

could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The valley

resembled a lake of verdure and the eye followed its contour with

delight.

"Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced some

figures on the picture.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it

resemble yours. The pretty hat would become you and can I not, if I am

skilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?"

The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the two

faces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. The faces

were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that the

likenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door opened

and I was called away by the servant.

When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the

picture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound reverie and was not

aware of my presence; I sat down near the fire and it was not until I

spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment, then

hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him strike

his forehead with his hand.

When I discovered these signs of grief, I said to myself: "What does it

mean?" Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know;

perhaps my good angel, perhaps my evil destiny.

CHAPTER IV

MY heart yearned to set out and yet I delayed; some secret influence

rooted me to the spot.

When Smith came, I knew no repose from the time he entered the room. How

is it that we frequently seem to enjoy unhappiness?

One day a word, a flush, a glance, made me shudder; another day, another

glance, another word, threw me into uncertainty. Why are they both so

sad? Why am I as motionless as a statue where I had formerly been

violent? Every evening I sat on my bed and said to myself: "Let me see;

let me think that over." Then I sprang to my feet crying: "Impossible!"

The next day, I did the same thing.

In Smith's presence, Brigitte treated me with more tenderness than when

we were alone. It happened one evening that some hard words escaped us;

when she heard his voice in the hall, she came and sat on my knees. As

for him, it seemed to me he was always making an effort to control

himself. His gestures were carefully regulated; he spoke slowly and

prudently, so that his occasional moments of forgetfulness seemed all the

more striking.

Was it curiosity that tormented me? I remember that one day I saw a man

drowning near Pont Royale. It was midsummer and we were rowing on the

river; some thirty boats were crowded together under the bridge when,

suddenly, one of the occupants of a boat near mine threw up his hands and

fell overboard. We immediately began diving for him, but in vain; some

hours later the body was found under a raft.

I shall never forget my experience as I was diving for that man. I opened

my eyes under the water and searched painfully here and there in the dark

corners about the pier; then I returned to the surface for breath, then

resumed my horrible search. I was filled with hope and terror; the

thought that I might feel myself seized by convulsive arms, allured me

and, at the same time, thrilled me with horror; when I was exhausted with

fatigue, I climbed back into my boat.

Unless a man is brutalized by debauchery, eager curiosity is one of his

marked traits. I have already remarked that I felt it on the occasion of

my first visit to Desgenais. I will explain my meaning.

The truth, that skeleton of appearances, ordains that every man,

whatsoever he be, shall come, in his day and hour, to touch the bones

that lie forever at the bottom of some chance experience. It is called

knowing the world, and experience is purchased at that price. It happens

that some recoil in terror before that test, others, feeble and

affrighted, vacillate like shadows. Some, the best perhaps, die at once.

The large number forget, and thus, all float on to death.

But there are some men, who, at the fell stroke of misfortune, neither

die nor forget; when it comes their turn to touch misfortune, otherwise

called truth, they approach it with a firm step and outstretched hand,

and horrible to say! they mistake love for the livid corpse they have

found at the bottom of the river. They seize it, feel it, clasp it in

their arms; behold them, drunk with the desire to know; they no longer

look with interest upon things, except to see them pass; they do nothing

except doubt and test; they ransack the world as though they were God's

spies; they sharpen their thoughts into arrows, and they give birth to a

monster.

The debauchees, more than all others, are exposed to that fury, and the

reason is very simple: ordinary life is the limpid surface; the

debauchees, the rapid current turning over and over, and, at times,

touching the bottom. Coming from a ball, for instance, where they have

danced with a modest girl, they seek the company of bad characters, and

spend the night in riotous feasting. The last words they addressed to a

beautiful and virtuous woman are still on their lips; they repeat them

and burst into laughter. Shall I say it? Do they not raise, for some

pieces of silver, the vesture of chastity, that robe so full of mystery,

that seems to respect the being it embellishes and surrounds without

touching? What idea can they have of the world? They are like comedians

in the greenroom. Who, more than they, is skilled in that research at the

bottom of things, in that groping, profound and impious? See how they

speak of everything; always in terms the most barren, the most crude and

abject; such words appear true to them; all the rest is only parade,

convention, prejudice. Let them tell a story, let them recount some

experience, they will always use the same dirty and material expression,

always the letter, always death! They do not say "That woman loved me;"

they say: "I have possessed that woman;" they do not say: "I love;" they

say: "I desire;" they never say: "If God wills;" they say: "If I will." I

do not know what they think of themselves and such monologues as these.

Hence, of a necessity, either idleness or curiosity; for while they

strive to find what there is of evil, they do not understand that others

still believe in the good. Therefore, they are either so nonchalant that

they stop their ears, or the noise of the rest of the world suddenly

startles them from sleep. The father allows his son to go where so many

others go, where Cato himself went; he says that youth is but a stage.

But when he returns, the youth looks upon his sister; and sees what has

taken place in him during an hour passed in the society of brutal

reality! He says to himself: "My sister is not like that creature I have

just left!" And from that day he is disturbed and uneasy.

Sinful curiosity is a vile malady born of all impure contact. It is the

prowling instinct of fantoms who raise the lids of tombs; it is an

inexplicable torture with which God punishes those who have sinned; they

wish to believe that all sin as they have done, and would be disappointed

perhaps to find that it was not so. But they inquire, they search, they

dispute; they hang their heads on one side, as does an architect who

adjusts a pillar, and thus strive to find what they desire to know. Given

proof of evil, they laugh at it; doubtful of evil, they swear that it

exists; the good, they refuse to recognize. "Who knows?" Behold the grand

formula, the first words that Satan spoke when he saw heaven closing

against him. Alas! how many evils are those words responsible for! How

many disasters and deaths, how many strokes of terrible scythes in the

ripening harvest of humanity! How many hearts, how many families where

there is naught but ruin, since that word was first heard! "Who knows!

Who knows!" Loathsome words! Rather than pronounce them, one should do as

the sheep who graze about the slaughter-house and know it not. That is

better than to be a strong spirit and read La Rochefoucauld.

What better illustration could I present than the one I have just given?

My mistress was ready to set out and I had but to say the word. Why did I

delay? What would have been the result if I had started at once on our

trip? Nothing but a moment of apprehension that would have been forgotten

after traveling three days. When with me, she had no thought but of me;

why should I care to solve the mystery that did not threaten my

happiness?

She would have consented and that would have been the end of it. A kiss

on her lips and all would be well; instead of that, see what I did.

One evening when Smith had dined with us, I retired at an early hour and

left them together. As I closed my door, I heard Brigitte order some tea.

In the morning I happened to approach her table, and, sitting beside the

teapot, I saw but one cup. No one had been in that room before me that

morning, so the servant could not have carried away anything that had

been used the night before. I searched everywhere for a second cup but

could find none.

"Did Smith stay late?" I asked of Brigitte.

"He left about midnight."

"Did you retire alone or did you call some one to assist you?"

"I retired alone; every one in the house was asleep."

I continued my search and my hands trembled. In what burlesque comedy is

there a jealous lover, so stupid as to inquire what has become of a cup?

Why seek to discover whether Smith and Madame Pierson had drunk from the

same cup? What a brilliant idea, that!

Nevertheless, I found the cup and I burst into laughter and threw it on

the floor with such violence that it broke into a thousand pieces. I

ground the pieces under my feet.

Brigitte looked at me without saying a word. During the two succeeding

days, she treated me with a coldness that had something of contempt in

it, and I saw that she treated Smith with more deference and kindness

than usual. She called him, Henry, and smiled on him sweetly.

"I feel that the air would do me good," she said after dinner; "shall we

go to the Opera, Octave? I would enjoy walking that far."

"No, I will stay here; go without me." She took Smith's arm and went out.

I remained alone all the evening; I had paper before me and I was trying

to collect my thoughts in order to write, but in vain.

As a lonely lover draws from his bosom a letter from his mistress, and

loses himself in delightful reverie, thus I shut myself up in solitude

and yielded to the sweet allurement of doubt. Before me, were the two

empty seats which Brigitte and Smith had just occupied; I scrutinized

them eagerly as though they could tell me something. I revolved in my

mind all the things I had heard and seen; from time to time, I went to

the door and cast my eyes over our trunks which had been piled against

the wall for a month; I opened them and examined the contents so

carefully packed away by those delicate little hands; I listened to the

sound of passing carriages; the slightest noise made me tremble. I spread

out on the table our map of Europe, and there in the very presence of all

my hopes, in that room where I had conceived and had so nearly realized

them, I abandoned myself to the most frightful presentiments.

But strange as it may seem, I felt neither anger nor jealousy, but a

terrible sense of sorrow and foreboding. I did not suspect, and yet, I

doubted. The mind of man is so strangely formed that, with what he sees,

and in spite of what he sees, he can conjure up a hundred objects of woe.

In truth, his brain resembles the dungeons of the Inquisition whose walls

are covered with so many instruments of torture, that one is dazed and

asks whether these horrible contrivances he sees before him are pincers

or playthings. Tell me, I say, what difference is there in saying to my

mistress: "All women deceive," or, "You deceive me?"

What passed through my mind was perhaps as subtle as the finest

sophistry; it was a sort of dialogue between the mind and the conscience.

"If I should lose Brigitte?" I said to the mind.--"She departs with you,"

said the conscience.--"If she deceives me?"--"How can she deceive you?

Has she not made out her will asking for prayers for you?"--"If Smith

loves her?"--"Fool! What does it matter so long as you know that she

loves you?"--"If she loves me, why is she sad?"--"That is her secret,

respect it."--"If I take her away with me, will she be happy?"--"Love her

and she will be."--"Why, when that man looks at her, does she seem to

fear to meet his glance?"--"Because she is a woman and he is

young."--"Why does that young man turn pale when she looks at

him?"--"Because he is a man and she is beautiful."--"Why, when I went to

see him, did he throw himself into my arms, and why did he weep and beat

his head with his hands?"--"Do not seek to know of what you must remain

ignorant."--"Why can I not know these things?"--"Because you are

miserable and weak, and all mystery is of God."--"But why is it that I

suffer? Why is it that my soul recoils in terror?"--"Think of your father

and do good."--"But why am I unable to do as he did? Why does evil

attract me to itself?"--"Get down on your knees and confess; if you

believe in evil it is because your ways have been evil."--"If my ways

were evil, was it my fault? Why did the good betray me?"--"Because you

are in the shadow, would you deny the existence of light? If there are

traitors, why are you one of them?"--"Because I am afraid of becoming the

dupe."--"Why do you spend your nights in watching? Why are you alone

now?"--"Because I think, I doubt and I fear."--"When will you offer your

prayer?"--"When I believe. Why have they lied to me?"--"Why do you lie,

coward! at this very moment? Why not die if you can not suffer?"

Thus, spoke and groaned within me two voices, voices that were defiant

and terrible; and then, a third voice cried out: "Alas! Alas! my

innocence! Alas! Alas! the days that were!"

CHAPTER V

WHAT a powerful lever is the human thought! It is our defense and our

safeguard, the most beautiful present that God has made us. It is ours

and it obeys us; we may shoot it forth into space, and, once outside of

this feeble head, it is gone, we can no longer control it.

While I was deferring the time of our departure from day to day, I was

gradually losing strength, and, although I did not perceive it, my vital

forces were slowly wasting away. When I sat at table, I experienced a

violent distaste for food; at night two pale faces, that of Brigitte and

of Smith, pursued me through frightful dreams. When they went to the

theater in the evening, I refused to go with them; then, I went alone and

concealed myself in the parquet and watched them. I pretended that I had

some business to attend to in a neighboring room and I sat there an hour

and listened to them. The idea occurred to me to seek a quarrel with

Smith and force him to fight with me; I turned my back on him while he

was talking; then he came to me with a look of surprise on his face,

holding out his hand. When I was alone in the night and every one slept,

I felt a strong desire to go to Brigitte's desk and take from it, her

papers. On one occasion, I was obliged to go out of the house in order to

resist the temptation. One day I felt like arming myself with a knife and

threatening to kill them if they did not tell me why they were so sad;

another day I turned all this fury against myself. With what shame do I

write it! And if any one should ask me why I acted thus, I could not

reply.

To see, to doubt, to search, to torture myself and make myself miserable,

to pass entire days with my ear to the keyhole and the night in a flood

of tears, to repeat over and over that I would die of sorrow, to feel

isolation and feebleness uprooting hope in my heart, to imagine that I

was spying when I was only listening to the feverish beating of my own

pulse; to con over stupid phrases, such as: "Life is a dream, there is

nothing stable here below;" to curse and blaspheme God through misery and

through caprice: that was my joy, the precious occupation for which I

renounced love, the air of heaven, and liberty!

Eternal God, liberty! Yes, there were certain moments when, in spite of

all, I still thought of it. In the midst of my madness, eccentricity, and

stupidity, there were within me certain impulses that at times brought me

to myself. It was a breath of air which struck my face as I came from my

dungeon; it was a page of a book I read when, in my bitter days, I

happened to read something besides those modern sycophants called

pamphleteers, and who, out of regard for the public health, ought to be

prevented from indulging in their crude philosophizing. Since I have

referred to these good moments, let me mention one of them, they were so

rare. One evening, I was reading the "Memoirs of Constant"; I came to the

following lines:

"Salsdorf, a Saxon surgeon attached to Prince Christian, had his leg

broken by a shell in the battle of Wagram. He lay almost lifeless on the

dusty field. Fifteen paces distant, Amedee of Kerbourg, aide-de-camp, I

have forgotten of whom, wounded in the breast by a bullet, falls to the

ground vomiting blood. Salsdorf sees that if that young man is not cared

for he will die of apoplexy; summoning all his powers, he painfully drags

himself to the side of the wounded man, bleeds him and saves his life.

Salsdorf himself died four days later from the effects of amputation."

When I read these words, I threw down my book, and melted into tears.

I do not regret those tears for they were such as I could shed only when

my heart was right; I do not speak merely of Salsdorf, and do not care

for that particular instance. I am sure, however, that I did not suspect

any one that day. Poor dreamer! Ought I to remember that I have been

other than I am? What good will it do me as I stretch out my arms in

anguish to heaven and wait for the shell that will deliver me forever.

Alas! that was only a gleam that flashed across the night of my life.

Like those dervish fanatics who find ecstasy in vertigo when thought,

turning on itself, exhausted by the stress of introspection, tired of

vain effort, recoils in fright; thus it would seem that man must be a

void and that by dint of delving within himself, he reaches the last turn

of a spiral. There, as on the summits of mountains and at the bottom of

mines, air fails and God forbids man to go farther. Then, struck with a

mortal chill, the heart, as though impaired by oblivion, seeks to escape

into a new birth; it demands life of that which environs it, it eagerly

drinks in the air; but it finds round about only its own chimeras which

have just animated its failing powers and which, self-created, surround

it like pitiless specters.

This can not last long. Tired of uncertainty, I resolved to resort to a

test that would discover the truth.

I ordered post horses for ten in the evening. We had hired a calash and I

gave direction that all should be ready at the hour indicated. At the

same time I asked that nothing be said to Madame Pierson. Smith came to

dinner; at the table I affected unusual cheerfulness, and without a word

about my plans, I turned the conversation to our journey. I would

renounce all idea of going away, I said, if I thought Brigitte did not

care to go; I was so well satisfied with Paris that I asked nothing

better than to remain as long as she pleased. I made much of all the

pleasures of the city; I spoke of the balls, the theaters, of the many

opportunities for diversion on every hand. In short, since we were happy,

I did not see why we should make a change; and I did not think of going

away at present.

I was expecting her to insist that we carry out our plan of going to

Geneva, and was not disappointed. However, she insisted but feebly; but,

after a few words, I pretended to yield, and then changing the subject, I

spoke of other things, as though it was all settled.

"And why will not Smith go with us?" I asked. "It is very true that he

has duties here, but can he not obtain leave of absence? Moreover, will

not the talents he possesses and which he is unwilling to use assure him

an honorable living anywhere? Let him come along with us; the carriage is

large and we offer him a place in it. A young man should see the world

and there is nothing so irksome for a man of his age as confinement in an

office and restriction to a narrow circle. Is it not true?" I asked,

turning to Brigitte. "Come, my dear, let your credit obtain from him what

he might refuse me; urge him to give us six weeks of his time. We will

travel together and, after a tour of Switzerland, he will return to his

duties with new life."

Brigitte joined her entreaties to mine, although she knew it was only a

joke on my part. Smith could not leave Paris without danger of losing his

position and replied that he regretted being obliged to deny himself the

pleasure of accompanying us. Nevertheless, I continued to press him, and,

ordering another bottle of wine, I repeated my invitation. After dinner,

I went out to assure myself that my orders were carried out; then I

returned in high spirits, and seating myself at the piano, I proposed

some music.

"Let us pass the evening here," I said; "believe me it is better than

going to the theater; I can not take part myself, but I can listen. We

will make Smith play, if he tires of our company, and the time will pass

pleasantly."

Brigitte consented with good grace and began playing for us; Smith

accompanied her on the violoncello. The materials for a bowl of punch

were brought and the flame of burning rum soon cheered us with its light.

The piano was abandoned for the table; then we had cards; everything

passed off as I wished and we succeeded in diverting ourselves to my

heart's content.

I had my eyes fixed on the clock and waited impatiently for the hands to

mark the hour of ten. I was tormented with anxiety, but allowed them to

see nothing. Finally, the hour arrived; I heard the postilion's whip as

the horses entered the court. Brigitte was seated near me; I took her by

the hand and asked her if she was ready to depart. She looked at me with

surprise, doubtless wondering if I was not joking. I told her that, at

dinner, she had appeared so anxious to go that I had felt justified in

sending for the horses and that I went out for that purpose when I left

the table.

"Are you serious?" asked Brigitte; "do you wish to set out to-night?"

"Why not," I replied, "since we have agreed that we ought to leave Paris?"

"What! now? At this very moment?"

"Certainly; have we not been ready for a month? You see there is nothing

to do but load our trunks on the calash; as we have decided to go, ought

we not go at once? I believe it is better to go now and put off nothing

until to-morrow. You are in the humor to travel to-night and I hasten to

profit by it. Why wait longer and continue to put it off? I can not

endure this life. You wish to go, do you not? Very well, let us go and be

done with it."

Profound silence ensued. Brigitte stepped to the window and satisfied

herself that the calash was there. Moreover, the tone in which I spoke

would admit of no doubt, and, however hasty my action may have appeared

to her, it was due to her own expressed desire. She could not deny her

own words, nor find any pretext for further delay. Her decision was made

promptly; she asked a few questions, as though to assure herself that all

the preparations had been made; seeing that nothing had been omitted, she

began to search here and there. She found her hat and shawl, then

continued her search.

"I am ready," she said; "shall we go? We are really going?"

She took a light, went to my room, to her own, opened lockers and

closets. She asked for the key to her secretary which she said she had

lost. Where could that key be? She had it in her possession not an hour

ago.

"Come, come! I am ready," she repeated in extreme agitation; "let us go,

Octave, let us set out at once."

While speaking, she continued her search and then came and sat down near

us.

I was seated on the sofa watching Smith, who stood before me. He had not

changed countenance and seemed neither troubled nor surprised; but two

drops of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I heard an ivory counter

crackle between his fingers, the pieces falling to the floor. He held out

both hands to us.

"Bon voyage, my friends!" he said.

Again silence; I was still watching him, waiting for him to add a word.

"If there is some secret here," thought I, "when shall I learn it, if not

now? It must be on the lips of both of them. Let it but come out into the

light and I will seize it."

"My dear Octave," said Brigitte, "where are we to stop? You will write to

us, Henry, will you not? You will not forget my relatives and will do

what you can for me?" He replied, in a voice that trembled slightly, that

he would do all in his power to serve her.

"I can answer for nothing," he said, "and, judging from the letters you

have received, there is not much hope. But it will not be my fault if I

do not soon send you good news. Count on me, I am devoted to you."

After a few more kind words, he made ready to take his departure. I arose

and left the room before him; I wished to leave them together a moment

for the last time and, as soon as I had closed the door behind me, in a

perfect rage of jealousy, I pressed my ear to the keyhole.

"When shall I see you again?" he asked.

"Never," replied Brigitte; "adieu, Henry." She held out her hand. He bent

over it, pressed it to his lips and I had barely time to slip into a

corner as he passed out without seeing me.

Alone with Brigitte, my heart sank within me. She was waiting for me, her

shawl on her arm, and emotion plainly marked on her face. She had found

the key she had been looking for and her desk was open. I returned and

sat down near the fire. "Listen to me," I said without daring to look at

her; "I have been so culpable in my treatment of you that I ought to wait

and suffer without a word of complaint. The change which has taken place

in you has thrown me into such despair that I have not been able to

refrain from asking you the cause; but to-day I ask nothing more. Does it

cost you an effort to depart? Tell me, and if so, I am resigned."

"Let us go, let us go!" she replied.

"As you please, but be frank; whatever blow I may receive, I ought not to

ask whence it comes; I should submit without a murmur. But if I lose you,

do not speak to me of hope, for God knows I will not survive the loss."

She turned on me like a flash.

"Speak to me of your love," she said, "not of your grief."

"Very well, I love you more than life. Beside my love, my grief is but a

dream. Come with me to the end of the world, I will die or I will live

with you."

With these words, I advanced toward her; she turned pale and recoiled.

She made a vain effort to force a smile on her contracted lips, and

sitting down before her desk she said:

"One moment; I have some papers here I want to burn."

She showed me the letters from N-----, tore them up and threw them into

the fire; she then took out other papers which she reread and then spread

out on the table. They were bills of purchases she had made and some of

them were still unpaid. While examining them, she began to talk rapidly,

while her cheeks burned as though with fever. Then she asked my pardon

for her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival. She gave

evidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever. She clapped her

hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey; in short, she was all

love, or at least apparently all love. I can not tell how I suffered at

the sight of that factitious joy; there was, in that grief which crazed

her, something more sad than tears and more bitter than reproaches. I

would have preferred to have her cold and indifferent rather than thus

excited; it seemed to me a parody of our happiest moments. There were the

same words, the same woman, the same caresses; and that which, fifteen

days before, would have intoxicated me with love and happiness, repeated

thus, filled me with horror.

"Brigitte," I suddenly inquired, "what secret are you concealing from me?

If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are playing before me?"

"I!" said she almost offended. "What makes you think I am playing?"

"What makes me think so? Tell me, my dear, that you have death in your

soul and that you are suffering martyrdom. Behold my arms are ready to

receive you; lean your head on me and weep. Then I will take you away,

perhaps; but in truth, not thus."

"Let us go, let us go!" she again repeated.

"No, on my soul! No, not at present; no, not while there is between us a

lie or a mask. I like unhappiness better than such cheerfulness as

yours."

She was silent, astonished to see that I had not been deceived by her

words and manner and that I saw through them both.

"Why should we delude ourselves?" I continued. "Have I fallen so low in

your esteem that you can dissimulate before me? That unfortunate journey,

you think you are condemned to it, do you? Am I a tyrant, an absolute

master? Am I an executioner who drags you to punishment? How much do you

fear my wrath when you come before me with such mimicry? What terror

impels you to lie thus?"

"You are wrong," she replied; "I beg of you, not a word more."

"Why so little sincerity? If I am not your confidant, may I not, at

least, be your friend? If I am denied all knowledge of the source of your

tears, may I not, at least, see them flow? Have you not enough confidence

in me to believe that I will respect your sorrow? What have I done that I

should be ignorant of it? Might not the remedy lay right there?"

"No," she replied, "you are wrong; you will achieve your own unhappiness

as well as mine if you press me farther. Is it not enough that we are

going away?

"And do you expect me to drag you away against your will? Is it not

evident that you have consented reluctantly, and that you already begin

to repent? Great God! What is it you are concealing from me? What is the

use playing with words when your thoughts are as clear as that glass

before which you stand? Would I not be the meanest of men to accept at

your hands what is yielded with so much regret? And yet how can I refuse

it? What can I do if you refuse to speak?"

"No, I do not oppose you, you are mistaken; I love you, Octave; cease

tormenting me thus."

She threw so much tenderness into these words that I fell down on my

knees before her. Who could resist her glance and her voice?

"My God!" I cried, "you love me, Brigitte? My dear mistress, you love

me?"

"Yes, I love you; yes, I belong to you; do with me what you will. I will

follow you, let us go away together; come, Octave, the carriage is

waiting."

She pressed my hand in hers, and kissed my forehead.

"Yes, it must be," she murmured, "it must be."

"It _must_ be," I repeated to myself. I arose. On the table, there

remained only one piece of paper that Brigitte was examining. She picked

it up, then allowed it to drop to the floor.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Yes, that is all."

When I ordered the horses I had no idea that we would really go, I wished

merely to make a trial, but circumstances bid fair to force me to carry

my plans farther than I at first intended. I opened the door.

"It must be!" I said to myself. "It must be!" I repeated aloud.

"What do you mean by that, Brigitte? What is there in those words that I

do not understand? Explain yourself, or I will not go. Why must you love

me?"

She fell on the sofa and wrung her hands in grief.

"Ah! Unhappy man!" she cried, "you will never know how to love!"

"Yes, I think you are right, but, before God, I know how to suffer. You

must love me, must you not? Very well, then you must answer me. Were I to

lose you forever, were these walls to crumble over my head, I will not

leave this spot until I have solved the mystery that has been torturing

me for more than a month. Speak, or I will leave you. I may be a fool who

destroys his own happiness, I may be demanding something that is not for

me to possess, it may be that an explanation will separate us and raise

before me an insurmountable barrier, that it will render our tour, on

which I have set my heart, impossible; whatever it may cost you and me,

you shall speak or I will renounce everything."

"No, I will not speak."

"You will speak! Do you fondly imagine I am the dupe of your lies? When I

see you change between morning and evening until you differ more from

your natural self than does night from day, do you think I am deceived?

When you give me, as a cause, some letters that are not worth the trouble

of reading, do you imagine that I am to be put off with the first pretext

that comes to hand because you do not choose to seek another? Is your

face made of plaster that it is difficult to see what is passing in your

heart? What is your opinion of me? I do not deceive myself as much as you

suppose, and take care lest, in default of words, your silence discloses

what you so obstinately conceal."

"What do you imagine I am concealing?"

What do I imagine? You ask me that! Is it to brave me you ask such a

question? Do you think to make me desperate and thus get rid of me? Yes,

I admit it, offended pride is capable of driving me to extremes. If I

should explain myself freely, you would have at your service all feminine

hypocrisy; you hope that I will accuse you, so that you can reply that

such a woman as you does not stoop to justify herself. How skilfully the

most guilty and treacherous of your sex contrive to use proud disdain as

a shield! Your great weapon is silence; I did not learn that yesterday.

You wish to be insulted and you hold your tongue until it comes to that;

come, come, struggle against my heart; where yours beats, you will find

it; but do not struggle against my head, it is harder than iron, and it

has served me as long as yours!"

"Poor boy!" murmured Brigitte; "you do not want to go?"

"No, I shall not go except with my mistress and you are not that now. I

have struggled, I have suffered, I have eaten my own heart long enough.

It is time for day to break, I have loved long enough in the night. Yes

or no, will you answer me?"

"No."

"As you please; I will wait."

I sat down on the other side of the room determined not to rise until I

had learned what I wished to know. She appeared to be reflecting and

walked back and forth before me.

I followed her with an eager eye, while her silence gradually increased

my anger. I was unwilling to have her perceive it and was undecided what

to do. I opened the window.

"You may drive off," I called to those below, "and I will see that you

are paid. I shall not start to-night."

"Poor boy!" repeated Brigitte. I quietly closed the window and sat down

as though I had not heard her; but I was so furious with rage that I

could hardly restrain myself. That cold silence, that negative force,

exasperated me to the last point. Had I been really deceived and

convinced of the guilt of the woman I loved, I could not have suffered

more. As I had condemned myself to remain in Paris, I reflected that I

must compel Brigitte to speak at any price. In vain, I tried to think of

some means of forcing her to enlighten me; for such power, I would have

given all I possessed. What could I do or say? She sat there calm and

unruffled looking at me with sadness. I heard the sound of the horses'

hoofs on the pavement as the carriage drew out of the court. I had merely

to turn my hand to call them back, but it seemed to me that there was

something irrevocable about their departure. I slipped the bolt on the

door; something whispered in my ear: "You are face to face with the woman

who must give you life or death."

While thus buried in thought, I tried to invent some expedient that would

lead to the truth, I recalled one of Diderot's romances in which a woman,

jealous of her lover, resorted to a novel plan, for the purpose of

clearing away her doubts. She told him that she no longer loved him and

that she wished to leave him. The Marquis des Arcis, the name of the

lover, falls into the trap, and confesses that he, himself, has tired of

the liaison. That piece of strategy, which I had read at too early an

age, had struck me as being very skilful and the recollection of it at

this moment made me smile. "Who knows?" said I to myself, "if I should

try this with Brigitte, she might be deceived and tell me her secret."

My anger had become furious when the idea of resorting to such trickery

occurred to me. Was it so difficult to make a woman speak in spite of

herself? This woman was my mistress; I must be very weak if I could not

gain my point. I turned over on the sofa with an air of indifference.

"Very well, my dear," said I gaily, "this is not a time for confidences

then?"

She looked at me in astonishment.

"And yet," I continued, "we must some day come to the truth. Now I

believe it would be well to begin at once; that will make you confiding,

and there is nothing like an understanding between friends."

Doubtless, my face betrayed me as I spoke these words; Brigitte did not

appear to understand and kept on walking up and down.

"Do you know," I resumed, "that we have been together now six months. The

life we are leading together is not one to be laughed at. You are young,

I also; if this kind of life should become distasteful to you, are you

the woman to tell me of it? In truth, if it were so, I would confess it

to you frankly. And why not? Is it a crime to love? If not, it is not a

crime to love less or to cease to love at all. Would it be astonishing

if, at our age, we should feel the need of change?"

She stopped me.

"At our age!" said she. "Are you addressing me? What comedy are you now

playing yourself?"

Blood mounted to my face. I seized her hand. "Sit down here," I said,

"and listen to me."

"What is the use? It is not you who speak."

I felt ashamed of my own strategy and abandoned it.

"Listen to me," I repeated, "and come, I beg of you, sit down near me. If

you wish to remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have to say."

"I am listening, what have you to say to me?"

"If some one should say to me: 'You are a coward!' I, who am twenty-two

years of age and have fought on the field of honor, would throw the taunt

back in the teeth of my accuser. Have I not within me the consciousness

of what I am? It would be necessary for me to meet my accuser on the

field, and play my life against his; why? In order to prove that I am not

a coward; otherwise, the world would believe it. That single word demands

that reply every time it is spoken, and it matters not by whom."

"It is true; what is your meaning?"

"Women do not fight; but as society is constituted there is no being, of

whatever sex, who ought to submit to the indignity involved in an

aspersion on all his or her past life, be that life regulated as by a

pendulum. Reflect; who escapes that law? There are some, I admit; but

what happens? If it is a man, dishonor; if it is a woman, what?

Forgiveness. Every one who lives ought to give some evidence of life,

some proof of existence. There is, then, for woman as well as for man, a

time when an attack must be resented. If she is brave, she rises,

announces that she is present, and sits down again. A stroke of the sword

is not for her. She must not only avenge herself, but she must make her

own weapons. Some one suspects her; who? An outsider? She may hold him in

contempt. Her lover whom she loves? If so, it is her life that is in

question, and she may not despise him."

"Her only recourse is silence."

"You are wrong, the lover who suspects her casts an aspersion on her

entire life, I know it; her plea is her tears, her past life, her

devotion and her patience. What will happen if she remains silent? Her

lover will lose her by her own act and time will justify her. Is not that

your thought?"

"Perhaps; silence before all."

"Perhaps, you say? Assuredly I will lose you if you do not speak; my

resolution is made: I am going away alone."

"But, Octave--"

"But," I cried, "time will justify you! Let us put an end to it; yes or

no?"

"Yes, I hope so."

"You hope so! Will you answer me definitely? This is, doubtless, the last

time you will have the opportunity. You tell me that you love me, and I

believe it. I suspect you; is it your intention to allow me to go away

and rely on time to justify you?"

"Of what do you suspect me?"

"I do not choose to say, for I see that it would be useless. But, after

all, misery for misery, at your leisure; I am as well pleased. You

deceive me, you love another; that is your secret and mine."

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Smith."

She placed her hand on her lips and turned aside. I could say no more; we

were both pensive, our eyes fixed on the floor.

"Listen to me," she began with an effort. "I have suffered much, I call

to heaven to bear me witness that I would give my life for you. So long

as the faintest gleam of hope remains, I am ready to suffer anything;

but, although I may rouse your anger in saying to you that I am a woman,

I am, nevertheless, a woman, my friend. We can not go beyond the limits

of human endurance. Beyond a certain point I will not answer for the

consequences. All I can do at this moment is to get down on my knees

before you and beseech you not to go away."

She knelt down as she spoke. I arose.

"Fool that I am!" I muttered bitterly, "fool to try to get the truth from

a woman! He who undertakes such a task will earn naught but derision and

will deserve it! Truth! Only he who sorts with chamber-maids knows it,

only he who steals to their pillow and listens to the unconscious

utterance of a dream, hears it. He alone knows it, who makes a woman of

himself and initiates himself into the secrets of her cult of

inconstancy! But the man who asks for it openly, he who opens a loyal

hand to receive that frightful alms, he will never obtain it! They are on

guard with him; for reply, he receives a shrug of the shoulders, and, if

he rouses himself in his impatience, they rise in righteous indignation

like an outraged vestal, while there falls from their lips the great

feminine oracle that suspicion destroys love, and they refuse to pardon

an accusation which they are unable to meet. Ah! just God! How weary I

am! When will all this cease?"

"Whenever you please," said she coldly, "I am as tired of it as you."

"At this very moment; I leave you forever, and may time justify you!

Time! Time! O what a cold lover! remember this adieu. Time! and thy

beauty, and thy love, and thy happiness, where will they be? Is it thus,

without regret, you allow me to go? Ah! the day when the jealous lover

will know that he has been unjust, the day when he shall see proofs, he

will understand what a heart he has wounded, is it not so? He will bewail

his shame, he will know neither joy nor sleep; he will live only in the

memory of the time when he might have been happy. But, on that day, his

proud mistress will turn pale as she sees herself avenged; she will say

to herself: 'If I had only done it sooner!' And believe me, if she loves

him, pride will not console her."

I tried to be calm but I was no longer master of myself, and I began to

pace the floor as she had done. There are certain glances that resemble

the clashing of drawn swords; such glances, Brigitte and I exchanged at

that moment. I looked at her as the prisoner looks at the door of his

dungeon. In order to break the seal on her lips and force her to speak, I

would give my life and hers.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you wish me to tell you?"

"What you have in your heart. Are you cruel enough to make me repeat it?"

"And you, you," she cried, "are you not a hundred times more cruel? Ah!

fool, as you say, who would know the truth! Fool that I would be if I

expected you to believe it! You would know my secret, and my secret is

that I love you. Fool that I am! you will seek another. That pallor of

which you are the cause, you accuse it, you question it. Like a fool, I

have tried to suffer in silence, to consecrate to you my resignation; I

have tried to conceal my tears; you have played the spy, and you have

counted them as witnesses against me. Fool that I am! I have thought of

crossing seas, of exiling myself from France with you, of dying far from

all who have loved me, leaning for sole support on a heart that doubts

me. Fool that I am! I thought that truth had a glance, an accent, that

could not be mistaken, that would be respected! Ah! when I think of it,

tears choke me. Why, if it must ever be thus, induce me to take a step

that will forever destroy my peace? My head is confused, I do not know

where I am!"

She leaned on me weeping.

"Fool! Fool!" she repeated, in a heart-rending voice.

"And what is it you ask?" she continued. "What can I do to meet those

suspicions that are ever born anew, that alter with your moods? I must

justify myself, you say! For what? For loving, for dying, for despairing?

And if I assume a forced cheerfulness, even that cheerfulness offends

you. I sacrifice everything to follow you and you have not gone a league

before you look back. Always, everywhere, whatever I may do, insults and

angers! Ah! dear child, if you knew what a mortal chill comes over me,

what suffering I endure in seeing my simplest words thus taken up and

hurled back at me with suspicion and sarcasm! By that course, you deprive

yourself of the only happiness there is in the world--perfect love. You

kill all delicate and lofty sentiment in the hearts of those who love

you; soon you will believe in nothing except the material and the gross;

of love, there will remain for you only that which is visible and can be

touched with the finger. You are young, Octave, and you have still a long

life before you; you will have other mistresses. Yes, as you say, pride

is a little thing and it is not to it I look for consolation; but God

wills that one of your tears shall one day pay me for those which I now

shed for you!"

She arose.

"Must it be said? Must you know that for six months I have not sought

repose without repeating to myself that it was all in vain, that you

would never be cured; that I have never risen in the morning without

saying that another effort must be made; that after every word you have

spoken I have felt that I ought to leave you, and that you have not given

me a caress that I would rather die than endure; that, day by day, minute

by minute, hesitating between hope and fear, I have vainly tried to

conquer either my love or my grief; that, when I opened my heart to you,

you pierced it with a mocking glance, and that, when I closed it, it

seemed to me I felt within it a treasure that none but you could

dispense? Shall I speak of all the frailty and all the mysteries which

seem puerile to those who do not respect them? Shall I tell you that when

you left me in anger I shut myself up to read your first letters; that

there is a favorite waltz that I never played in vain when I felt too

keenly the suffering caused by your presence? Ah! wretch that I am! How

dearly all these unnumbered tears, all these follies so sweet to the

feeble, are purchased! Weep now; not even this punishment, this sorrow,

will avail you."

I tried to interrupt her.

"Allow me to continue," she said, "the time has come when I must speak.

Let us see, why do you doubt me? For six months, in thought, in body, and

in soul, I have belonged to no one but you. Of what do you dare suspect

me? Do you wish to set out for Switzerland? I am ready, as you see. Do

you think you have a rival? Send him a letter that I will sign and you

will direct. What are we doing? Where are we going? Let us decide. Are we

not always together? Very well, then why would you leave me? I can not be

near you and separated from you at the same moment. It is necessary to

have confidence in those we love. Love is either good or bad: if good, we

must believe in it; if evil, we must cure ourselves of it. All this, you

see, is a game we are playing; but our hearts and our lives are the

stakes, and it is horrible! Do you wish to die? That would, perhaps, be

better. Who am I that you should doubt me?"

She stopped before the glass.

"Who am I?" she repeated, "who am I? Think of it. Look at this face of

mine."

"Doubt thee!" she cried, addressing her own image; "poor, pale face, thou

art suspected! poor thin cheeks, poor tired eyes, thou and thy tears are

in disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering; let those kisses

that have wasted thee, close thy lids! Descend into the cold earth, poor

trembling body that can no longer support its own weight. When thou art

there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believes in death. O

sorrowful specter! On the banks of what stream wilt thou wander and

groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a long journey and thou

hast one foot in the grave! Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried

to love. Ah! what wealth of love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what

dreams thou hast had, what poisons thou hast drunk! What evil hast thou

committed that there should be placed in thy breast a fever that

consumes? What fury animates that blind creature who pushes thee into the

grave with his foot, while his lips speak to thee of love? What will

become of thee if thou livest! Is it not time? Is it not enough? What

proof canst thou give that will satisfy when thou, poor living proof, art

not believed? To what torture canst thou submit that thou hast not

already endured? By what torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appease

insatiable love? Thou wilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing to

excite laughter; thou wilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the

finger of scorn. Thou wilt lose all shame and even that appearance of

virtue which has been so dear to thee; and the man, for whom thou hast

disgraced thyself, will be the first to punish thee. He will reproach

thee for living for him alone, for braving the world for him, and while

thy own friends are whispering about thee, he will listen to assure

himself that no word of pity is spoken; he will accuse thee of deceiving

him if another hand even then presses thine, and if, in the desert of thy

life, thou findest some one who can spare thee a word of pity in passing.

O God! dost thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed on my

head? Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand that hung

it on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, to dust! O my

valley! O my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace! O my lindens, my little

white goat, my dear peasants who loved me so much! You remember when I

was happy, proud, and respected? Who threw in my path that stranger who

took me away from all this? Who gave him the right to enter my life? Ah!

wretch! why didst thou turn the first day he followed you? Why didst thou

receive him as a brother? Why didst thou open thy door, and why didst

thou hold out thy hand? Octave, Octave, why have you loved me if all is

to end thus!"

She was about to faint as I led her to a chair where she sank down and

her head fell on my shoulder. The terrible effort she had made in

speaking to me so bitterly had broken her down. Instead of an outraged

woman, I found now only a suffering child. Her eyes closed and she was

motionless.

When she regained consciousness, she complained of extreme languor, and

begged to be left alone that she might rest. She could hardly walk; I

carried her gently to her room and placed her on the bed. There was no

mark of suffering on her face: she was resting from her sorrow as from

great fatigue and seemed not even to remember it. Her feeble and delicate

body yielded without a struggle; the strain had been too great. She held

my hand in hers; I kissed her; our lips met in loving union, and after

the cruel scene through which she had passed, she slept smiling on my

heart as on the first day.

CHAPTER VI

BRIGITTE slept. Silent, motionless, I sat near her. As a farmer, when the

storm has passed, counts the sheaves that remain in his devastated field,

thus I began to estimate the evil I had done.

The more I thought of it, the more irreparable I felt it to be. Certain

sorrows, by their very excess, warn us of their limits, and the more

shame and remorse I experienced, the more I felt that, after such a

scene, nothing remained for us to do but to say adieu. Whatever courage

Brigitte had shown, she had drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of her sad

love: unless I wished to see her die, I must give her repose. She had

often addressed cruel reproaches to me and had, perhaps, on certain other

occasions shown more anger than in this scene; but what she had said this

time was not dictated by offended pride; it was the truth, which, hidden

closely in her heart, had broken it in escaping. Our present relations,

and the fact that I had refused to go away with her, destroyed all hope;

she desired to pardon me but she had not the power. This slumber even,

this deathlike sleep of one who could suffer no more, was conclusive

evidence; this sudden silence, the tenderness she had shown in the final

moments, that pale face, and that kiss, confirmed me in the belief that

all was over, and that I had broken, forever, whatever bond had united

us. As surely as she slept now, as soon as I gave her cause for further

suffering, she would sleep in eternal rest. The clock struck and I felt

that the last hour had carried away my life with hers.

Unwilling to call any one, I lighted Brigitte's lamp; I watched its

feeble flame and my thoughts seemed to flicker in the darkness like its

uncertain rays.

Whatever I had said or done, the idea of losing Brigitte had never

occurred to me up to this time. A hundred times I wished to leave her,

but who has loved, and is ready to say just what is in his heart? That

was in times of despair or of anger. So long as I knew that she loved me,

I was sure of loving her; stern necessity had just arisen between us for

the first time. I experienced a dull languor and could distinguish

nothing clearly. What my mind understood, my soul recoiled from

accepting. "Come," I said to myself, "I have desired it, and I have done

it; there is not the slightest hope that we can live together; I am

unwilling to kill this woman, so I have no alternative but to leave her.

It is all over; I shall go away to-morrow."

And all the while I was thinking neither of my responsibility, nor of the

past, nor future; I thought neither of Smith nor his connection with the

affair; I could not say who had led me there, or what I had done during

the last hour. I looked at the walls of the room and thought that all I

had to do was to wait until to-morrow and decide what carriage I would

take.

I remained for a long time in this strange calm. Just as the man who

receives a thrust from a poignard feels, at first only the cold steel;

when he has gone some distance on his way he becomes weak, his eyes start

from their sockets and he asks what has happened. But drop by drop the

blood flows, the ground under his feet becomes red; death comes; the man,

at his approach, shudders with horror and falls as though struck by a

thunderbolt. Thus, apparently calm, I awaited the coming of misfortune; I

repeated in a low voice what Brigitte had said, and I placed near her all

that I supposed she would need for the night; I looked at her, and then

went to the window and pressed my forehead against the pane, peering out

at a somber and lowering sky; then I returned to the bedside. That I was

going away to-morrow was the only thought in my mind and, little by

little, the word "depart" became intelligible to me. "Ah! God!" I

suddenly cried, "my poor mistress, I am going to lose you and I have not

known how to love you!"

I trembled at these words as though it had been another who had

pronounced them; they resounded through all my being as resounds the

string of the harp that has been plucked to the point of breaking. In an

instant two years of suffering traversed my heart, and after them, as

their consequence and as their last expression, the present seized me.

How shall I describe such woe? By a single word, perhaps, for those who

have loved. I had taken Brigitte's hand, and, in a dream, doubtless, she

had pronounced my name.

I arose, and went to my room; a torrent of tears flowed from my eyes. I

held out my arms as though to seize the past which was escaping me. "Is

it possible," I repeated, "that I am going to lose you? I can love no one

but you. What! you are going away? And forever? What! you, my life, my

adored mistress, you flee from me; I shall never see you again? Never!

never!" I said aloud; and, addressing myself to the sleeping Brigitte as

though she could hear me, I added: "Never, never; do not think of it; I

will never consent to it. And why so much pride? Are there no means of

atoning for the offense I have committed? I beg of you let us seek some

expiation. Have you not pardoned me a thousand times? But you love me,

you will not be able to go, for courage will fail you. What shall we do?"

A horrible madness seized me; I began to run here and there in search of

some instrument of death. At last I fell on my knees and beat my head

against the bed. Brigitte stirred and I remained quiet, fearing I would

waken her.

"Let her sleep until to-morrow," I said to myself; "you have all night to

watch her."

I resumed my place; I was so frightened at the idea of waking Brigitte,

that I scarcely dared breathe. Gradually I became more calm and less

bitter tears began to course gently down my cheeks. Tenderness succeeded

fury. I leaned over Brigitte and looked at her as though, for the last

time, my good angel was urging me to grave on my soul the lines of that

dear face!

How pale she was! Her large eyes, surrounded by a bluish circle, were

moist with tears; her form, once so lithe, was bent as though under a

burden; her cheek, wasted and leaden, rested on a hand that was spare and

feeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thorns which

is the diadem of resignation. I thought of the cottage. How young she was

six months ago! How cheerful, how free, how careless! What had I done

with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old

romance that I had long since forgotten:

Altra volta gieri biele,

Blanch' e rossa com' un flore,

Ma ora no. Non son piu biele

Consumatis dal' amore.

My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began to walk

the floor. "Yes," I continued, "look at her; think of those who are

consumed by a grief that is not shared with another. The evils you

endure, others have suffered, and nothing is singular or peculiar to you.

Think of those who have no mother, no relatives, no friends; of those who

seek and do not find, of those who love in vain, of those who die and are

forgotten. Before thee, there on that bed, lies a being that nature,

perchance, formed for thee. From the highest circles of intelligence to

the deepest and most impenetrable mysteries of matter and of form, that

soul and that body are thy brothers; for six months thy mouth has not

spoken, thy heart has not throbbed, without a responsive word and

heart-beat from her; and that woman whom God has sent thee as He sends

the rose to the field, is about to glide from thy heart. While rejoicing

in each other's presence, and the angels of eternal love were singing

before you, you were farther apart than two exiles at either end of the

earth. Look at her, but be silent. Thou hast still one night to see her,

if thy sobs do not awaken her."

Little by little, my thoughts mounted and became more somber until I

recoiled in terror.

"To do evil! Such was the role imposed upon me by Providence! I, to do

evil! I, to whom my conscience, even in the midst of my wildest follies,

said that I was good! I, whom a pitiless destiny was dragging swiftly

toward the abyss and whom a secret horror unceasingly warned of the awful

fate to come! I, who, if I had shed blood with these hands, could yet

repeat that my heart was not guilty; that I was deceived, that it was not

I who did it, but my destiny, my evil genius, some unknown being who

dwelt within me, but who was not born there! I, do evil! For six months I

had been engaged in that task, not a day had passed that I had not worked

at that impious occupation, and I had at that moment the proof before my

eyes. The man who had loved Brigitte, who had offended her, then insulted

her, then abandoned her, only to take her back again, trembling with

fear, beset with suspicion, finally thrown on that bed of sorrow, where

she now lay extended, was I!"

I beat my breast, and, although looking at her, I could not believe it. I

touched her as though to assure myself that it was not a dream. My face,

as I saw it in the glass, regarded me with astonishment. Who was that

creature who appeared before me bearing my features? Who was that

pitiless man who blasphemed with my mouth and tortured with my hands? Was

it he whom my mother called Octave? Was it he who, at fifteen, leaning

over the crystal waters of a fountain, had a heart not less pure than

they? I closed my eyes and thought of my childhood days. As a ray of

light pierces a cloud, a gleam from the past pierced my heart.

"No," I mused, "I did not do that. These things are but an absurd dream."

I recalled the time when I was ignorant of life, when I was taking my

first steps in experience. I remembered an old beggar who used to sit on

a stone bench before the farm gate, to whom I was sometimes sent with the

remains of our morning meal. Holding out his feeble, wrinkled hands he

would bless me as he smiled upon me. I felt the morning wind blowing on

my brow and a freshness as of the rose descending from heaven into my

soul. Then I opened my eyes and, by the light of the lamp, saw the

reality before me.

"And you do not believe yourself guilty?" I demanded with horror. "O

novice of yesterday, how corrupt to-day! Because you weep, you fondly

imagine yourself innocent? What you consider the evidence of your

conscience is only remorse; and what murderer does not experience it? If

your virtue cries out, is it not because it feels the approach of death?

O wretch! those far off voices that you hear groaning in your heart, do

you think they are sobs? They are, perhaps, only the cry of the sea-mew,

that funereal bird of the tempest, whose presence portends shipwreck. Who

has ever told the story of the childhood of those who have died stained

with human blood? They, also, have been good in their day; they sometimes

bury their faces in their hands and think of those happy days. You do

evil, and you repent? Nero did the same when he killed his mother. Who

has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt?

"And even if it were true that a part of your soul is not devoted to evil

forever, what will you do with the other part that is not yours? You will

touch with your left hand the wounds that you inflict with your right;

you will make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes; you

will strike, and, like Brutus, you will engrave on your sword the prattle

of Plato! Into the heart of the being who opens her arms to you, you will

plunge that blood-stained but repentant arm; you will follow to the

cemetery the victim of your passion, and you will plant on her grave the

sterile flower of your pity; you will say to those who see you: 'What

would you expect? I have learned how to kill, and observe that I already

weep; learn that God made me better than you see me.' You will speak of

your youth and you will persuade yourself that Heaven ought to pardon

you, that your misfortunes are involuntary and you will implore sleepless

nights to grant you a little repose.

"But who knows? You are still young. The more you trust in your heart,

the farther astray you will be lead by your pride. To-day you stand

before the first ruin you are going to leave on your route. If Brigitte

dies to-morrow you will weep on her tomb; where will you go when you

leave her? You will go away for three months perhaps, and you will travel

in Italy; you will wrap your cloak about you, like a splenetic

Englishman, and you will say some beautiful morning, sitting in your inn

with your glasses before you, that it is time to forget in order to live

again. You who weep too late, take care lest you weep more than one day.

Who knows? When the present, which makes you shudder, shall have become

the past, an old story, a confused memory, may it not happen some night

of debauchery that you will overturn your chair and recount, with a smile

on your lips, what you witnessed with tears in your eyes? It is thus that

one drinks away shame. You have begun by being good, you will become

weak, and you will become a monster.

"My poor friend," said I, from the bottom of my heart, "I have a word of

advice for you, and it is this: I believe that you must die. While there

is still some virtue left, profit by it in order that you may not become

altogether bad; while a woman you love lies there dying on that bed, and

while you have a horror of yourself, strike the decisive blow; she still

lives; that is enough; do not attend her funeral obsequies for fear that

on the morrow you will not be consoled; turn the poignard against your

own heart while that heart yet loves the God who made it. Is it your

youth that makes you pause? And would you spare those youthful locks?

Never allow them to whiten if they are not white to-night.

"And then what would you do in the world? If you go away, where will you

go? What can you hope for if you remain? Ah! in looking at that woman you

seem to have a treasure buried in your heart. It is not merely that you

lose her, it is less what has been than what might have been. When the

hands of the clock indicated such and such an hour, you might have been

happy. If you suffer, why do you not open your heart? If you love, why do

you not say so? Why do you die of hunger clasping a priceless treasure in

your hands? You have closed the door, you miser; you debate with yourself

behind locks and bolts. Shake them, for it was your hand that forged

them. O fool! who have desired, and have possessed your desire, you have

not thought of God! You play with happiness as a child plays with a

rattle, and you do not reflect how rare and fragile a thing you hold in

your hands; you treat it with disdain, you smile at it and you continue

to amuse yourself with it, forgetting how many prayers it has cost your

good angel to preserve for you that shadow of daylight! Ah! if there is

in heaven one who watches over you, what is he doing at this moment? He

is seated before an organ; his wings are half folded, his hands extended

over the ivory keys; he begins an eternal hymn; the hymn of love and

immortal rest, but his wings droop, his head falls over the keys; the

angel of death has touched him on the shoulder, he disappears into

immensity!

"And you, at the age of twenty-two when a noble and exalted passion, when

the strength of youth might perhaps have made something of you! When

after so many sorrows and bitter disappointments, a youth so dissipated,

you saw a better time shining in the future; when your life, consecrated

to the object of your adoration, gave promise of new strength, at that

moment the abyss yawns before you! You no longer experience vague

desires, but real regrets; your heart is no longer hungry, it is broken!

And you hesitate? What do you expect? Since she no longer cares for your

life, it counts for nothing! Since she abandons you, abandon yourself!

Let those who have loved you in your youth weep for you! They are not

many. If you would live, you must not only forget love but you must deny

that it exists; not only deny what there has been of good in you, but

kill all that may be good in the future; for what will you do if you

remember? Life for you would be one ceaseless regret. No, no, you must

choose between your soul and your body; you must kill one or the other.

The memory of the good drives you to the evil; make a corpse of yourself

unless you wish to become your own specter. O child, child! die while you

can! May tears be shed over thy grave!"

I threw myself on the foot of the bed in such a frightful state of

despair, that my reason fled and I no longer knew where I was or what I

was doing. Brigitte sighed.

My senses stirred within me. Was it grief or despair? I do not know.

Suddenly a horrible idea occurred to me.

"What!" I muttered, "leave that for another! Die, descend into the

ground, while that bosom heaves with the air of heaven? Just God! another

hand than mine on that fine, transparent skin! Another mouth on those

lips, another love in that heart! Brigitte happy, loving, adored, and I

in a corner of the cemetery, crumbling into dust in a ditch! How long

will it take her to forget me if I cease to exist to-morrow? How many

tears will she shed? None, perhaps! Not a friend who speaks to her but

will say that my death was a good thing. Who will not hasten to console

her, who will not urge her to forget me! If she weeps, they will seek to

distract her attention from her loss; if memory haunts her, they will

take her away; if her love for me survives me, they will seek to cure her

as though she had been poisoned; and she herself, who will perhaps at

first say that she desires to follow me, will a month later turn aside to

avoid the weeping-willow planted over my grave! How could it be

otherwise? Who as beautiful as she wastes life in idle regrets? If she

should think of dying of grief that beautiful bosom would urge her to

live, and her glass would persuade her; and the day when her exhausted

tears give place to the first smile, who will not congratulate her on her

recovery? When, after eight days of silence, she consents to hear my name

pronounced in her presence, then she will speak of it herself as though

to say: 'Console me;' then little by little she will no longer refuse to

think of the past but will speak of it, and she will open her window some

beautiful spring morning when the birds are singing in the garden; she

will become pensive and say: 'I have loved!' Who will be there at her

side? Who will dare to tell her that she must continue to love? Ah! then

I will be no more! You will listen to him, faithless one! You will blush

as does the budding rose and the blood of youth will mount to your face.

While saying that your heart is sealed, you will allow it to escape

through that fresh aureole of beauty, each ray of which allures a kiss.

How much they desire to be loved who say they love no more! And why

should that astonish you? You are a woman; that body, that spotless

bosom, you know what they are worth; when you conceal them under your

dress you do not believe, as do the virgins, that all are alike, and you

know the price of your modesty. How can the woman who has been praised

resolve to be praised no more? Does she think she is living when she

remains in the shadow and there is silence round about her beauty? Her

beauty itself is the admiring glance of her lover. No, no, there can be

no doubt of it; who has loved, can not live without love; who has seen

death, clings to life. Brigitte loves me and will perhaps die of love; I

will kill myself and another will have her."

"Another, another!" I repeated, bending over her until my head touched

her shoulder. "Is she not a widow? Has she not already seen death? Have

not these little hands prepared the dead for burial? Her tears for the

second will not flow as long as those shed for the first. Ah! God forgive

me! While she sleeps why should I not kill her? If I should awaken her

now and tell her that her hour had come and that we were going to die

with a last kiss, she would consent. What does it matter? Is it certain

that all does not end with that?"

I found a knife on the table and I picked it up.

"Fear, cowardice, superstition! What do they know about it who talk of

something else beyond? It is for the ignorant, common people that a

future life has been invented, but who really believes in it? What

watcher in the cemetery has seen Death leave his tomb and hold

consultation with a priest? In olden times there were fantoms; they are

interdicted by the police in civilized cities and no cries are now heard

issuing from the earth except from those buried in haste. Who has

silenced death if it has ever spoken? Because funeral processions are no

longer permitted to encumber our streets, does the celestial spirit

languish? To die, that is the final purpose, the end. God has established

it, man discusses it; but over every door is written: 'Do what thou wilt,

thou shalt die.' What will be said if I kill Brigitte? Neither of us will

hear. In to-morrow's journal would appear the intelligence that Octave de

T----- had killed his mistress, and the day after no one would speak of

it. Who would follow us to the grave? No one who, upon returning to his

home, could not enjoy a hearty dinner; and when we were extended side by

side in our narrow bed, the world could walk over our graves without

disturbing us. Is it not true, my well-beloved, is it not true that it

would be well with us? It is a soft bed, that bed of earth; no suffering

can reach us there; the occupants of the neighboring tombs will not

gossip about us; our bones will embrace in peace and without pride, for

death is solace, and that which binds does not also separate. Why should

annihilation frighten thee, poor body, destined to corruption? Every hour

that strikes drags thee on to thy doom, every step breaks the round on

which thou hast just rested; thou art nourished by the dead; the air of

heaven weighs upon and crushes thee, the earth on which thou treadest

attacks thee by the soles of thy feet. Down with thee! Why art thou

affrighted? Dost thou tremble at a word? Merely say: 'We will not live.'

Is not life a burden that we long to lay down? Why hesitate when it is

merely a question of a little sooner or a little later? Matter is

indestructible, and the physicists, we are told, grind to infinity the

smallest speck of dust without being able to annihilate it. If matter is

the property of chance, what harm can it do to change its form since it

can not cease to be matter? Why should God care what form I have received

and with what livery I invest my grief? Suffering lives in my brain; it

belongs to me, I kill it; but my bones do not belong to me and I return

them to Him who lent them to me: may some poet make a cup of my skull

from which to drink his new wine What reproach can I incur and what harm

can that reproach do me? What stern judge will tell me that I have done

wrong? What does he know about it? Was he such as I? If every creature

has his task to perform and if it is a crime to shirk it, what culprits

are the babes who die on the nurse's breast! Why should they be spared?

Who will be instructed by the lessons which are taught after death? Must

heaven be a desert in order that man may be punished for having lived? Is

it not enough to have lived? I do not know who asked that question,

unless it was Voltaire on his death-bed; it is a cry of despair worthy of

a helpless old atheist. But to what purpose? Why so many struggles? Who

is there above us who delights in so much agony? Who amuses himself and

whiles away an idle hour watching this spectacle of creation, always

renewed and always dying, seeing the work of man's hands rising, the

grass growing; looking upon the planting of the seed and the fall of the

thunderbolt; beholding man walking about upon his earth until he meets

the beckoning finger of death; counting tears and watching them dry upon

the cheek of pain; noting the pure profile of love and the wrinkled face

of age; seeing hands stretched up to him in supplication, bodies

prostrate before him, and not a blade of wheat more in the harvest! Who

is it then who has made so much for the pleasure of knowing that it all

amounts to nothing! The earth is dying; Herschell says it is of cold; who

holds in his hand the drop of condensed vapor and watches it as it dries

up, as an angler watches a grain of sand in his hand? That mighty law of

attraction that suspends the world in space, torments it and consumes it

in endless desire; every planet carries its load of misery and groans on

its axle; they call to each other across the abyss and each wonders which

will stop first. God controls them; they accomplish assiduously and

eternally their appointed and useless task; they whirl about, they

suffer, they burn, they become extinct and they light up with new flame;

they descend and they reascend, they follow and yet they avoid each

other, they interlace like rings; they carry on their surface thousands

of beings who are ceaselessly renewed; the beings move about, cross each

other's paths, clasp each other for an hour, and then fall and others

rise in their place; where life fails, life hastens to the spot; where

air is wanting, air rushes; no disorder, everything is regulated, marked

out, written down in lines of gold and parables of fire, everything keeps

step with the celestial music along the pitiless paths of life; and all

for nothing! And we, poor nameless dreams, pale and sorrowful

apparitions, helpless ephemera, we who are animated by the breath of a

second, in order that death may exist, we exhaust ourselves with fatigue

in order to prove that we are living for a purpose, and that something

indefinable is stirring within us. We hesitate to turn against our

breasts a little piece of steel, or blow out our brains with a little

instrument no larger than our hand; it seems to us that chaos would

return again; we have written and revised the laws both human and divine

and we are afraid of our catechisms; we suffer thirty years without

murmuring and imagine that we are struggling; finally suffering becomes

the stronger, we send a pinch of powder into the sanctuary of

intelligence, and a flower pierces the soil above our grave."

As I finished these words I directed the knife I held in my hand against

Brigitte's bosom. I was no longer master of myself, and in my delirious

condition I know not what might have happened; I threw back the

bedclothing to uncover the heart, when I discovered on her white bosom a

little ebony crucifix.

I recoiled, seized with sudden fear; my hand relaxed, my weapon fell to

the floor. It was Brigitte's aunt who had given her that little crucifix

on her death-bed. I did not remember ever having seen it before;

doubtless, at the moment of setting out she had suspended it about her

neck as a preserving charm against the dangers of the journey. Suddenly I

joined my, hands and knelt on the floor.

"O, Lord my God," I said in trembling tones, "Lord, my God, thou art

there!"

Let those who do not believe in Christ read this page; I no longer

disbelieved in him. Neither as a child, nor at school, nor as a man, have

I frequented churches; my religion, if I had any, had neither rite nor

symbol, and I believed in a God without form, without a cult, and without

revelation. Poisoned, from youth, by all the writings of the last

century, I had sucked, at an early hour, the sterile milk of impiety.

Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed my mouth against prayer,

while my affrighted soul took refuge in the hope of nothingness. I was as

though drunken or insensate when I saw that effigy of Christ on

Brigitte's bosom; while not believing in him myself I recoiled, knowing

that she believed in him. It was not vain terror that arrested my hand.

Who saw me? I was alone and it was night. Was it prejudice? What

prevented me from hurling out of my sight that little piece of black

wood? I could have thrown it into the fire, but it was my weapon I threw

there. Ah! what an experience that was, and still is, for my soul! What

miserable wretches are men who mock at that which can save a human being!

What matters the name, the form, the belief? Is not all that is good

sacred? How dare any one touch God?

As at a glance from the sun the snows descend the mountains and the

glaciers that threatened heaven melt into streams in the valley, so there

descended into my heart a stream that overflowed its banks. Repentance is

a pure incense; it exhaled from all my suffering. Although I had almost

committed a crime when my hand was arrested, I felt that my heart was

innocent. In an instant calm, self-possession, reason returned; I again

approached the bed; I leaned over my idol and kissed the crucifix.

"Sleep in peace," I said to her, "God watches over you! While your lips

were parting in a smile, you were in greater danger than you have ever

known before. But the hand that threatened you will harm no one; I swear

by the faith you profess, I will not kill either you or myself! I am a

fool, a madman, a child who thinks himself a man. God be praised! You are

young and beautiful. You live and you will forget me. You will recover

from the evil I have done you, if you can forgive me. Sleep in peace

until day, Brigitte, and then decide our fate; whatever sentence you

pronounce, I will submit without complaint. And thou, Lord, who hast

saved me, grant me pardon. I was born in an impious century, and I have

many crimes to expiate. Thou Son of God, whom men forget, I have not been

taught to love Thee. I have never worshiped in Thy temples, but I thank

heaven that where I find Thee, I tremble and bow in reverence. I have at

least kissed with my lips a heart that is full of Thee. Protect that

heart so long as life lasts; dwell within it, Thou Holy One; a poor

unfortunate has been brave enough to defy death at the sight of Thy

suffering and Thy death; though impious, Thou hast saved him from evil;

if he had believed, Thou wouldst have consoled him. Pardon those who have

made him incredulous since Thou hast made him repentant; pardon those who

blaspheme! When they were in despair they did not see Thee! Human joys

are a mockery; they are scornful and pitiless; O Lord! the happy of this

world think they have no need of Thee! Pardon them. Although their pride

may outrage Thee, they will be, sooner or later, baptized in tears; grant

that they may cease to believe in any other shelter from the tempest,

than Thy love, and spare them the severe lessons of unhappiness. Our

wisdom and skepticism are in our hands but children's toys; forgive us

for dreaming that we can defy Thee, Thou who smilest at Golgotha. The

worst result of all our vain misery is that it tempts us to forget Thee.

But Thou knowest that it is all but a shadow, which a glance from Thee

can dissipate. Hast not Thou Thyself been a man? It was sorrow that made

Thee God; sorrow is an instrument of torture by which Thou hast mounted

to the very throne of God, Thy Father, and it is sorrow that leads us to

Thee as it led Thee to Thy Father; we come to Thee with our crown of

thorns and kneel before Thy mercy-seat; we touch Thy bleeding feet with

our bloodstained hands, and Thou hast suffered martyrdom for being loved

by the unfortunate."

The first rays of dawn began to appear: man and nature were rousing

themselves from sleep and the air was filled with the confusion of

distant sounds. Weak and exhausted I was about to leave Brigitte, and

seek a little repose. As I was passing out of the room, a dress thrown on

a chair slipped to the floor near me, and in its folds I spied a piece of

paper. I picked it up; it was a letter, and I recognized Brigitte's hand.

The envelope was not sealed. I opened it and read as follows:

23 December, 18--

"When you receive this letter I shall be far away from you, and shall

perhaps never see you again. My destiny is bound up with that of a man

for whom I have sacrificed everything; he can not live without me and I

am going to try to die for him. I love you; adieu, and pity us."

I turned the letter over when I had read it, and saw that it was

addressed to "M. Henri Smith, N-----, _poste restante_."

CHAPTER VII

ON the morrow, a clear December day, a young man and a woman who rested

on his arm, passed through the garden of the Palais-Royal. They entered a

jeweler's store where they chose two similar rings which they smilingly

exchanged. After a short walk they took breakfast at the

Freres-Provencaux, in one of those little rooms which are, all things

considered, one of the most beautiful spots in the world. There, when the

garcon had left them, they sat near the windows, hand in hand. The young

man was in traveling dress; to see the joy which shone on his face, one

would have taken him for a young husband showing his young wife the

beauties and pleasures of Parisian life. His happiness was calm and

subdued, as true happiness always is. The experienced would have

recognized in him the youth who merges into manhood. From time to time he

looked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered in his

eyes, but he heeded them not, and smiled as he wept. The woman was pale

and thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man. On her face were traces

of sorrow which she could not conceal, although evidently touched by the

exalted joy of her companion. When he smiled, she smiled too, but never

alone; when he spoke, she replied and she ate what he served her; but

there was about her a silence which was only broken at his instance. In

her languor could be clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, that

lethargy of the weaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only in

the other and responds to him as does the echo. The young man was

conscious of it and seemed proud of it and grateful for it; but it could

be seen even by his pride that his happiness was new to him. When the

woman became sad and her eyes fell, he cheered her with his glance; but

he could not always succeed, and seemed troubled himself. That mingling

of strength and weakness, of joy and sorrow, of anxiety and serenity

could not have been understood by an indifferent spectator; at times they

appeared the most happy of living creatures, and the next moment the most

unhappy; but although ignorant of their secret, one would have felt that

they were suffering together, and, whatever their mysterious trouble, it

could be seen that they had placed on their sorrow a seal more powerful

than love itself--friendship. While their hands were clasped their

glances were chaste; although they were alone, they spoke in low tones.

As though overcome by their feelings they sat face to face, although

their lips did not touch. They looked at each other tenderly and

solemnly. When the clock struck one, the woman heaved a sigh and said:

"Octave, are you sure of yourself?"

"Yes, my friend, I am resolved. I will suffer much, a long time, perhaps

forever; but we will cure ourselves, you with time, I with God."

"Octave, Octave," repeated the woman, "are you sure you are not deceiving

yourself?"

"I do not believe we can forget each other; but I believe that we can

forgive and that is what I desire even at the price of separation."

"Why could we not meet again? Why not some day--you are so young!"

Then she added with a smile: "We could see each other without danger."

"No, my friend, for you must know that I could never see you again

without loving you. May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of you! Smith

is brave, good and honest, but however much you may love him, you see

very well that you still love me, for if I should decide to remain, or to

take you away with me, you would consent."

"It is true," replied the woman.

"True! true!" repeated the young man, looking into her eyes with all his

soul. "Is it true that if I wished it you would go with me?"

Then he continued softly: "That is the reason I must never see you again.

There are certain loves in life that overturn the head, the senses, the

mind, the heart; there is among them all but one that does not disturb,

that penetrates, and that dies only with the being in which it has taken

root."

"But you will write to me?"

"Yes, at first, for what I have to suffer is so keen that the absence of

the habitual object of my love would kill me. When I was unknown to you,

I gradually approached closer and closer to you until--but let us not go

into the past. Little by little my letters will become less frequent

until they cease altogether. I will thus descend the hill that I have

been climbing for the past year. When one stands before a fresh grave,

over which are engraved two cherished names, one experiences a mysterious

sense of grief, which causes tears to trickle down one's cheeks; it is

thus that I wish to remember having once lived."

At these words the woman threw herself on the couch and burst into tears.

The young man wept with her, but he did not move and seemed anxious to

appear unconscious of her emotion. When her tears ceased to flow, he

approached her, took her hand in his and kissed it.

"Believe me," said he, "to be loved by you, whatever the name of the

place I occupy in your heart, will give me strength and courage. Rest

assured, Brigitte, no one will ever understand you better than I; another

will love you more worthily, no one will love you more truly. Another

will be considerate of those feelings that I offend, he will surround you

with his love; you will have a better lover, you will not have a better

brother. Give me your hand and let the world laugh at a word that it does

not understand: Let us be friends; and adieu forever. Before we became

such intimate friends there was something within that told us that we

were destined to mingle our lives. Let that part of us which is still

joined in God's sight never know that we have parted upon earth; let not

the paltry chance of a moment undo the union of our eternal happiness!"

He held the woman's hand; she arose, tears streaming from her eyes, and,

stepping up to the mirror with a strange smile on her face, she cut from

her head a long tress of hair; then she looked at herself, thus

disfigured and deprived of a part of her beautiful crown, and gave it to

her lover.

The clock struck again; it was time to go; when they passed out they

seemed as joyful as when they entered.

"What a glorious sun," said the young man.

"And a beautiful day," said Brigitte, "the memory of which shall never

fade."

They hastened away and disappeared in the crowd. A moment later a

carriage passed over a little hill beyond Fontainebleau. The young man

was the only occupant; he looked for the last time upon his native town

as it disappeared in the distance and thanked God that, of the three

beings who had suffered through his fault, there remained but one of them

still unhappy.