Three more weeks had passed, and the never-ending picture had undergone
so many touches that it was a little less advanced than before. It is
the certain sign that an artistic creation will not result: work
destroys it instead of improving it, and it is a proof, too, that we do
not accomplish works worthy of the name, they are made in us, without
effort, without will, almost unknown to us. The sittings, too, became
more and more irregular. Camille began to rehearse the piece to follow
_La Duchesse Blue_, and sometimes from one excuse, sometimes another,
one day because she was fatigued, another because she was studying her
part, she found a way of putting off half her visits to the studio. When
she did sit it was under very different conditions to the first
sittings. Her _tête-à-tête_ with me had been a necessity to her at the
time of her sweet confidences and even at the time of her tender uneasy
complaints. A fear came to her now that her jealousy of her rival would
endow her with an acute character of suspicious inquiry.
Not once during the three weeks, the anxious expectancy of which I am
summarizing here, did she come alone to the studio. Sometimes her
mother, sometimes her cousin, sometimes a companion accompanied her. I
should have known nothing of her but for guessing at her troubles from
the very pronounced alteration in her face and her increasing
nervousness on the one hand, and for having, on the other hand, three
conversations with Jacques which were very brief but well calculated to
edify me as to the cause of the poor Blue Duchess’ terrible trouble.
“Don’t talk to me of her,” he said on the first occasion with angry
harshness; “I should be unjust, for she loves me after all. But what a
character she has! what a character!”
“Ah! so she still continues to play to you her comedy of the beautiful
soul unappreciated,” he jeered on the second occasion. “Come, don’t let
us talk about her any more.”
On the last occasion he said violently: “As you are so interested in
her, I am going to give you a commission. If she wants to reach the
stage when I shall not recognize her if I meet her, you can tell her she
is well on the way to it. If I did not need her for my new comedy I
should not do so now.”
On neither of these three occasions had I insisted on knowing more. His
harshness, irony and violence made me a prey to a very strange fear. I
apprehended with real anguish the moment when he would say in his own
way. “It is all over. Madam de Bonnivet is my mistress.” Under any
circumstances it is saddening to receive such confidences. At least I
have always felt it so. It is so repugnant to me as to almost become
painful. Is it a result of the prudery with which Jacques reproached me?
Is it a persistent prejudice, the remains of a conventional imposition
before the woman’s modesty, as he also pretended?
I don’t think I am either prude or dupe. I see rather, in this aversion
for certain confessions which no longer allow any doubt as to certain
faults, first of all an excess of jealousy—why not?—and then the drawing
back before brutal reality which is in me a malady. Actually it is
without a doubt a relic of respectable and pious youth, and the evidence
that a woman who has been well brought up, who is married, is a mother,
and holds a position, has degraded herself to the physical filth of a
gallant adventure is intolerable to me. In its way this apprehension was
the more illogical and foolish as my comrade’s indiscretion had edified
me as regards the flirting and coquetry of which Madam de Bonnivet was
capable. Between coquetry, even foolishly light, and precision of the
last detail there is an abyss. In conclusion, if ever Jacques came to
pronounce to me that cruel phrase: “It is all over. Madam de Bonnivet is
my mistress,” I should have to see Camille with that phrase in my
memory, and then the reply to her questions would become to me a real
penance. To know nothing, on the other hand, was to retain the right to
reply to the poor actress without lying to her.
This voluntary ignorance did not prevent me from realizing that the
whole of Camille’s drama of sentiment was acted on this single point: on
the degree of intimacy established between Molan and Queen Anne depended
the sad remnant of happiness, the last charity of love which the poor
child still enjoyed. So although I tried not to find out anything
definite as to the result of the intrigue between Jacques and Madam de
Bonnivet, I did nothing but think of it, multiplying the hypotheses for
and against the latter’s absolute downfall. Alas! they were almost all
for it. How was I to wait for the revelation which put an end to my
uncertainty in a startling and entirely unexpected way?
It was towards the close of a February afternoon. Camille had missed
three set appointments without sending me a word of apology. I had spent
several hours, not in my studio, but in a little room adjoining it which
I adorned with the title of library. I keep there a number of books
which a painter, caring for his art alone, ought not to have. Why is it
that a poet and a novelist, even the most plastic, can teach an artist
who must live by his eyes and the reproduction of forms? It is true I
was not engaged in reading but in dreaming, glasses in hand, before the
half-burnt fire. The lamp, which had been brought in by a servant, lit
up half the room. I abandoned myself to that nervous languor which
resolves itself into, at such an hour, in such a season and such a
light, a half unconscious semi-intoxication. Anything accidental in us
is removed at such times. We seem to touch the bottom of our fund of
sensibility, the nerve itself of the internal organ through which we
suffer and enjoy, and the pulp which composes our being.
I felt in the twilight that I loved Camille as I imagine one must love
after death, if anything of our poor heart survives in the great mute
darkness. I told myself that I ought to go and see her, that there was
in the excess of my discretion apparent indifference. I evoked her and
spoke to her, telling her what I had never told her, and what I should
not dare to tell her. It was at the moment, when this opium of my
dream-passion most deeply engulfed me, that I was snatched with a start
from my dream by the sudden arrival of her who was its chief character.
My servant, whom I had told that I could see no one, entered the room to
tell me, with an air of embarrassment, that Mademoiselle Favier was
asking for me, that he had answered her according to his instructions,
and that she had sat down in the anteroom, declaring that she would not
go without seeing me.
“Is she alone?” I asked.
“Quite alone,” he answered with the familiarity of a bachelor’s servant
who has been in the same situation for twenty years—he saw my father die
and I am quite familiar with him. “I must tell you though, sir, that she
seems to be in great trouble. She is as white as a sheet; her voice is
changed, broken, and choked. One would think she cannot talk. It is a
great shame, considering how young and pretty she is!”
“Ah, well, show her in,” I said, “but no one else, you understand.”
“Even if M. Molan comes to see you too, sir?” he inquired.
“Even if M. Molan calls,” I replied.
The good fellow smiled the smile of an accomplice, which on any other
occasion I should have interpreted as a proof that he had guessed the
ill-concealed secret of my feelings. I did not have time to reflect upon
his greater or less penetration. Camille was already in the studio, and
the image of despair was before me, a despair verging on madness. I said
to her as I made her sit down: “Whatever is the matter?” and sat down
myself. She signed to me to ask her no questions, as it was impossible
for her to reply. She put her hand upon her breast and closed her eyes,
as if internal anguish there in her breast was inflicting upon her
suffering greater than she could bear. For a moment I thought she was
about to expire, so frightful was the convulsive pallor of her face.
When her eyes opened I could see that no tear moistened her blue eyes,
eyes which were now quite sombre. The flame of the most savage passion
burned in them. Then in a raucous and almost bass voice, as if a hand
had clutched her throat, she said to me as she pressed her fingers on
her forehead in bewilderment—
“There is a God, as I have found you. If you had not been at home I
think I should have lost my reason. Give me your hand, I want to clasp
it, to feel that I am not dreaming, that you are there, a friend. My
sufferings are so great.”
“Yes, a friend,” I replied, trying to calm her, “a true friend ready to
help you, to listen to you, to advise you, and to prevent you, too, from
giving way to your fancies.”
“Do not speak like that,” she interrupted, freeing her hand as she drew
back with almost hateful aversion, “or else I shall think you are in the
plot to lie to me. No. This man deceives you as he has me. You believe
in him as I have done. He would be ashamed to show himself in his true
colours before the honourable man you are. Listen.” She seized my arm
again and came so near me that I could feel the feverish heat of her
rapid breath. “Do you know where I, Camille Favier, have come from; I,
the recognized mistress of Jacques? I have come from a chamber where
that wretch, Madam de Bonnivet, has given herself to him, where the bed
is still in disorder and warm from their two bodies. Oh, what a hideous
thing it is!”
“Impossible!” I murmured, overwhelmed with fright at the words I had
just listened to and the tone in which they were spoken. “You have been
the dupe of an anonymous letter or a fancied resemblance.”
“Listen again,” she went on almost tragically, and her fingers bit into
my flesh, so furious was their grasp. “For a week I have had no doubt as
to the relations between Jacques and this woman. Suddenly he had become
tender to me with that tenderness which a mistress never mistakes. He
was humouring me. There was a certain expression in his eyes when he
looked at me. I would have liked to snatch away that look to read what
was behind it. Then I found around his eyes that voluptuous hollow I
knew in him too well. I recognized in his whole being that exhausted
languor which he used to have in the days gone by when we loved
passionately, and he avoided our appointments. He always had an excuse
to change and postpone them. You see, I am talking to you as I feel. It
is brutal, but what I am telling you is true, as I have always told the
truth to him and to you. It was I, you understand, who asked for these
appointments, I who did the hunting, while he refused me and escaped
from me. Is any other proof of a lover’s deception necessary? But this
week I began again to doubt. I received a visit from this woman’s
husband. She had the audacity to send him to me! He came with Senneterre
to ask me to act at a grand affair they are having next Monday.”
“I have an invitation to it,” I interrupted, suddenly recollecting that
I had received an invitation for it. “I was astonished at it, but I
understand now. It was an account of you.”
“Ah, well! you will not see me there,” she replied in a tone which froze
my heart, it was so ferocious, “and I have an idea that this function
will not take place.” Then with rising anger she said: “Now, see how
innocent I am still! When the fool of a husband asked me that, and I
said 'yes,’ seeing that Jacques displayed no emotion, it seemed to me
impossible that this woman could really be his mistress. I did not
believe it of her, nor did I believe that he was her lover. I knew she
was a famous coquette, and you remember how I judged him? But this was
on her part such insolent audacity, and on his shameful cowardice! No.
Had you come yourself, even this morning, to tell me that she was his
mistress, I should not have believed it.”
She was so agonized at what she was preparing to tell that she had to
stop again. Her hands, which had let go of me again, trembled and her
eyes closed from her excessive suffering.
“And now?” I said to her.
“Now?” She burst into a nervous laugh. “Now I know of what they are
capable, he in particular. She is a woman of the world who has lovers.
But for him to have done what he has done! Oh, the wretch, the wicked
monster! I am going mad as I talk to you. But listen, listen,” she
repeated in a frenzy, as if she feared I should interrupt her story.
“To-day at two o’clock there was to have been a rehearsal of the new
comedy by Dorsenne at the theatre. He is altering an act and the
rehearsal was countermanded. I did not hear of it till I got to the
theatre. For that reason I found myself about two o’clock in the Rue de
la Chausée d’Antin with the afternoon before me. I had one or two calls
to make in the neighbourhood. I started, and then some clumsy person
trod on my skirt, tearing a flounce almost off. Look.” She showed me
that a large piece of the bottom of her skirt was torn. “It happened at
the top of the Rue de Clichy near the Rue Nouvelle.”
She had looked at me as she pronounced and emphasized these last few
words, as if they ought to awaken in me an association of ideas. She saw
that I made no sign. A look of astonishment passed over her face and she
continued—
“Does that name tell you nothing? I thought that Jacques, who confides
in you, would have told you that as well. Well”—she dropped her voice
still lower, “that is where we have our place of meeting. When he became
my lover, I should so much have liked to have belonged to him at his own
place, among the objects in the midst of which he lived, so that at
every minute, every second, these mute witnesses of our happiness would
recall me to his memory! He did not wish it to be so. I understand the
reason to-day; he was already thinking of the rupture. At that time I
believed everything he told me, and did everything he asked me to do. He
assured me that the rooms in the Rue Nouvelle had been fitted up by him
for me alone, and that he had put there the old furniture from the room
in which he wrote his early books: the room he lived in before moving to
the Place Delaborde. How stupid I was! How stupid I was! But it is
abominable to lie to a poor girl who has only her heart, who surrenders
it entirely as well as her person and would despise herself for any
distrust as if it were a crime! Ah! it is very easy to deceive any one
who surrenders herself like that.”
“But are you sure he deceived you?” I asked.
“Am I sure of it? You too—-” she replied in tones of passionate irony.
“Besides, I defy you to defend him when you hear the whole story. I was,
as I have just told you, near the Rue Nouvelle with my dress torn. I
must add, too, that in my foolishness I had left all sorts of little
things belonging to me in the rooms there, even needles and silk. It had
been one of my dreams, too, that this place might become a beloved
refuge for both of us, where Jacques would work at some beautiful
love-drama, written near me and for me, while I should be there to
employ myself—as his wife! It occurred to me to go there and mend my
torn flounce. I want you to believe me when I swear to you that there
was no idea of spying mixed up in my plan.”
“I know it,” I replied to her, and to spare her the details of a
confidence which I saw caused her great physical suffering, I asked her:
“And you found the room in disorder as you told me?”
“It was more terrible,” she said, and then had to remain silent for a
second to gain strength to continue: “The way in which these apartments
had been selected ought long ago to have told me that Jacques used them
for others as well as me. They are in a large double house, the rooms
face the street and are far enough from the porter’s lodge for any one
to ascend the staircase without being seen. What would be the use of all
these precautions if I were the only person to go there? Am I not free?
Am I afraid of any one but mother seeing me enter? Then there was the
porter’s glances, his indefinable expression of politeness and irony,
and his servility to Jacques, all of which would have proved to any one
else that the rooms had been for years in his occupation. I can see it
so clearly while I am talking to you! I cannot realize how I was so long
deceived! But I am losing myself, ideas keep rushing into my head. I had
got as far as the Rue Nouvelle with my dress torn. I had no key. Jacques
had never given it to me in spite of my requests. What another sign,
too! I knew that the porter kept one key so that he and his wife might
look after the place. An inside bolt allowed, when once a person was
inside, of the door being fastened against any intruder, so that very
often Jacques did not trouble to take the second key which was kept in
one of his drawers, and you may imagine I went to the porter’s lodge as
little as possible. I preferred, when I followed Jacques there, to go
straight upstairs and ring. Without these details what happened to me
would be unintelligible to you though it is so simple. This time I went
to the lodge for the key. There was no one there. The porter and his
wife were probably busy elsewhere, and the last person who went out had
neglected to shut the door. I saw our key in its usual place and took it
without the least scruple, and making as I did so a little motion of joy
at avoiding the porter. I must repeat—I swear it to you—that I was
absolutely ignorant of the incident I was about to encounter. I entered
the rooms with a certain feeling of melancholy, as you may imagine! It
was a fortnight since I had been there with Jacques. The windows were
closed. The little drawing-room with its tasteful tapestry and furniture
was still the same, and so was the bedroom with its red furniture. I
found out, on looking in a drawer where I had put my work-basket with my
odds and ends, that it was no longer there, and I was somewhat
astonished. But there was still a dressing-room and a little room which
we sometimes used as a dining-room. I thought that perhaps the porter,
when cleaning, had moved the things into the little room and forgotten
to replace them. I looked there, found the work-basket, and began to
mend my skirt. I took it off to do it more quickly. Suddenly I seemed to
hear the opening of doors. I had taken the key out of the lock without
shooting the bolt. My first thought was that Jacques was the unexpected
visitor. Had he not told me, and I had believed him, as usual, that he
sometimes came there to work out of remembrance of me and to assure
himself more solitude? I had not time to give myself up to the sweet
emotion this thought awakened in my heart. I could recognize two voices,
his and the other woman’s.”
“The voice of Madam de Bonnivet?” I asked as she remained silent after
the last few words, which were hardly audible. I was as much moved by
her story as she was herself. She bent her head to signify “yes” and
maintained her silence, so I dare not insist. The tragedy of the
situation, the facts of which she had placed before me so simply,
crushed me. She went on—
“I cannot describe to you what passed in me when I heard this woman,
who, thinking herself alone with her lover, was laughing loudly and
talking familiarly to him. I felt a sharp pain, as if the keen point of
a knife had wounded me in the inmost part of my being, and I began to
tremble in the whole of my body on the chair upon which I was sitting.
But even now at the thought, look at my hands! I desired to get up, to
go to them, and to drive them away, but I could not. I could not even
cry out. It seemed to me as if my life suddenly stood still in me. I
heard and listened. It was a pain greater than death, and I really
thought I should die where I sat! But here I am, and do you know the
reason? In that small room where I stayed like that without moving,
after the first moment of fearful pain had passed, I was overcome by
disgust, by inexpressible repugnance and horror which was absolutely
nauseating. Without a doubt if I had distinctly heard the words of this
man and woman the need of immediate vengeance would have been too strong
for me; but the indistinct, confused murmur, consisting of words I could
hear and words I could not hear, combined with the picture of what I
guessed was taking place on the other side of the wall, besides the
unutterable suffering it caused me, gave me an impression of something
very dirty, very ignoble, very disgusting, and very abject. There was
one phrase in particular, and such a phrase which made me feel that I
despised Jacques more than I loved him, and at the same time—how strange
the heart is!—I could only grasp the idea that if I entered the room he
would think that I came there to spy upon him. That pride in my feelings
ended by dominating everything else. I remained motionless in this small
room for perhaps an hour. Then they departed and I went into the room
they had just left. The bed was in disorder, but the pillows and
bedclothes were the same. Ah,” she groaned, uttering a cry which rent my
heart, and pressing her fingers into her eyes as if to crush the
eyeballs and with them a horrible vision of other infamous details which
she would not, could not mention then she cried: “Save me from myself,
Vincent. My friend, my only friend, do not leave me; I believe my head
will burst and I shall go mad! Oh, that bed! that bed! our bed!”
She got up as she said these words, rushed towards me and buried her
head against my shoulder, seizing me with her hands in an agony of
supreme grief. Her face contracted and turned up in a spasm of agony,
and I had only just time to catch her. She fell unconscious into my
arms.
Without doubt this unconsciousness saved her, with the help of the
torrent of tears which she shed when she recovered her senses. I saw her
reawaken to life and realize her misery. Her confidences and the period
of unconsciousness which followed them had moved me so deeply that I
could find nothing to say except those commonplace words used to comfort
a suffering person; and there is such difficulty in making use even of
those when one takes into account the legitimate reasons the person has
for suffering. Camille did not allow me to exhaust myself for long in
these useless consolations.
“I know that you love me,” she said with an attempt at a broken-hearted
smile, which even now when I think of it makes me ill, “and I know, too,
that you sincerely pity me. But you must let me weep, you know. With
these tears it seems to me that my folly departs. I would like only one
promise from you, a real man’s promise, your word of honour that you say
'yes’ to the request I am going to make you.”
“You believe in my friendship,” I said to her. “You know that I will
obey all your designs, whatever they may be.”
“That is not sufficient,” she said at my evasive reply, behind which,
seeing her so excited, I had sheltered a last remnant of prudence. What
was she going to ask me? And she insisted: “It is your word of honour I
want.”
“You have it,” I told her, overcome by the sad supplication in her dear
blue eyes from which the tears still flowed.
“Thank you,” she said as she pressed my hand, and she added: “I want to
be sure that you will not say anything to Jacques of what I have told
you?”
“I give you my word of honour,” I replied; “but you yourself will not be
able to tell him.”
“I?” she replied, shaking her head with grim pride. “I shall tell him
nothing. I do not wish him to suspect me of spying upon him. I will
quarrel with him without giving a reason. I shall have courage against
my love now from disgust. I shall only have to recall what I have seen
and heard.”
After her departure my heart-broken pity for her changed into increasing
uneasiness. Was I to keep my word to the poor girl and not warn Molan? I
knew too well the value of lovers’ oaths to believe that, after
assisting in concealment at this rendezvous between her lover and her
rival, she would keep to her resolution of a silent rupture without
vengeance. It is in vain for a woman to try and bear in her heart that
sentimental pride, of which she had given proof in a very unlikely
fashion by remaining in her hiding-place; she is still a woman, and
sooner or later the pressure of her instinct will overcome her reason
and dignity. If a fresh attack of grief overwhelmed the outraged
mistress, would she not, when a prey to the delirium of jealousy, write
the truth to her rival’s husband? The look came to my mind which
Bonnivet had given at his table the woman who bore his name and who was
now the mistress of Jacques. How was it that this coquette, so obviously
gaunt, so profoundly ironical, and so little impulsive, had given
herself thus?
Curiosity to learn the details of this culpable adventure did not enter
into the temptation which seized me directly Camille had gone to go and
see my friend. At least I could warn him against danger and a surprise
likely to be tragic. I, however, resisted this desire, which was almost
a need, of warning him through a point of honour which I have never yet
failed to keep. That is the result of being the son of a Puritan. My
father’s words always came into my mind at times like this: “A promise
is not to be interpreted but to be kept.”
I have this principle in my blood and marrow. I cannot recall
circumstances when to keep a promise has cost me such an effort.
To remain faithful to my oath, I forbade myself going to see Jacques. He
came to see me on the day following the day I had received his mistress’
confidences which were so hard for me to keep. He had the previous
evening been to the theatre to see Camille. He had not been able to talk
to her because of her mother’s presence. This presence, which was
obviously at the daughter’s desire, had astonished him a little; then he
thought he noticed in the latter’s eyes and also in her acting something
strange, a sort of unhealthy excitement. As often happens when a person
has not a clear conscience, this something had sufficed to make him
uneasy. He therefore, had come to the studio with the vague hope of
meeting Camille and the certain object of making me talk. His epigrams
upon my part as eternal confidant were well justified. It is true that a
very simple pretext offered an explanation of his visit.
“I have had an invitation sent you for Madam de Bonnivet’s evening
party,” he stated after our greetings; “you will go, won’t you? Shall we
dine together that evening? Has Camille told you that she is acting
there?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and I thought the idea was in somewhat doubtful
taste.”
“It was not my idea,” he said with a laugh; “I am a little afraid of
complications, and I avoid useless ones as much as possible. There are
already too many unavoidable ones. Senneterre and Bonnivet arranged the
party, one advising the other. They want to know the truth of my
courting Queen Anne. Seeing that Camille is my mistress, they think that
if Madam de Bonnivet is really her rival, the two women must detest each
other. You follow their reasoning? In that case Madam de Bonnivet would
refuse to have Camille there and Camille would refuse to go. I should
also decline the invitation to avoid any meeting between the two women.
But I accepted and so did Camille. Madam de Bonnivet placed no obstacle
in the way. I should like you to have seen the stupor, and then the joy,
first of Senneterre and then of Bonnivet. Ah! they are observers,
analysts, and psychologists, like Larcher or Dorsenne.” After this irony
he added: “I have not seen Camille for some days. How is the portrait
progressing?”
“You can judge for yourself,” I hastened to say, only too happy to seize
this pretext to avoid his questions, and I turned to show him the tall
canvas upon which was drawn the slender silhouette of the Blue Duchess
offering her flower—offering her flower to him who hardly looked at her.
Has he ever given five minutes’ attention to the artistic efforts of a
comrade? That day at least he had as an excuse his little inquiry to
make, and thus his critical situation between his two mistresses
rendered urgent. I was not offended when he continued, without the least
gleam of interest lighting up the glance, almost a wandering one, which
he fixed upon the picture.
“Is she still jealous of Madam de Bonnivet?” he asked.
“We have hardly mentioned that subject,” I replied with a blush at my
impudent untruth.
“Well, so much the better,” he went on without insisting. “She would
choose her time very badly. I must tell you that Queen Anne and I have
recognized that we have made a misdeal and have given up the game. Yes,
we are in a state of armed peace. We have measured our weapons and
concluded an armistice. It was written that I should not seduce her and
that she should not seduce me. We are good friends now, and I think we
shall remain so. I like it better that way, it is more comfortable.”
He looked at me, as he delivered this speech in a hesitating way, with a
keen perspicacity before which I did not flinch. If my face expressed
astonishment, it was at his assurance in the comedy. He no doubt
attributed it to my surprise at his fresh relations with her whom he
continued to call Queen Anne, and whom I knew deserved to be brutally
called Anne the Courtesan. I realize to-day that in observing this
strange discretion about his triumph he did not yield to a simple
prudent calculation. Without a doubt he was prudent, but he also counted
on my thinking him sincere, and putting more energy into destroying my
model’s ever-recurring suspicions. There was, too, in this discretion
succeeding the cynicism of his former confidences a singular turn in his
self-conceit, which is more obvious now at a distance of time.
I have often noticed in the person whom women call in their slang “the
man who talks” this anomaly. It is quite apparent. He tells you one by
one, embellishing them where necessary, the least important
preliminaries of an adventure with a person whose most trifling
imprudence ought to be sacred to him. Then when he sees that you are
quite convinced that he is going to become that woman’s lover, he
defends himself at the last stage with a defence which compromises her
as much as a positive avowal. This final silence prevents him from
judging himself too severely. The same vanity which made him talkative
before makes him silent afterwards. Vanity or remorse, calculation or a
last remnant of honour, whatever was the cause of this sudden
interruption in Jacques’ confidences, it is certain that on this
occasion he did not depart from his correct attitude of discretion. It
made my discretion seem the less meritorious. But suddenly events were
precipitated with the frightful rapidity of catastrophies in which
discussions and half-confidences have no place. I should like to narrate
this _dénouement_, not such as I saw it, but such as it was told to me.
God! if I could reproduce for this story the natural and violent
eloquence with which little Favier used to retrace these tragic scenes,
this clumsy narrative would live and become tinted with passion’s warm
tinge. Why did I not at once put it on paper in the form of notes, these
burning avowals which so long pursued me?
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