A HORRIBLE PROPOSITION
Marie changed her chamber yesterday; she now lodges upon the same
landing as I, in an apartment separated from mine by a simple partition.
The poor child is dying; she gives vent to a light and hollow cough,
with a sort of rattling in her throat after each attack of coughing.
Jacques, whose studious quietude was disturbed by this cough, decided
that the invalid would be more at her ease alone in a separate chamber.
He has engaged Pâquerette to watch over and take care of her.
Last night, I heard for long hours Marie's cough and the rattling in her
throat. Laurence slept on tranquilly. The sound of each half stifled fit
which passed through the partition filled me with indescribable sadness.
This morning, on arising, I went to see the dying girl. She was in bed,
white, resigned, still smiling. Her head, raised upon two pillows, had a
sort of gentle languor; her thin and almost transparent arms were
stretched out on the sheet beside her poor body, the sharp and
lamentable outlines of which could be seen beneath the covers.
The chamber was dark and cold. It resembles mine, but is better
furnished, less dirty. A large window opens upon the high wall, which
looms up gloomily a few mètres from the front of the house.
Marie was alone, motionless, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling
with that pensive and heart-rending air of invalids who already see
beyond life. Pâquerette had just gone down-stairs to get her breakfast.
On a small table, placed near an arm-chair, were an army of bottles, a
single glass and the remains of food. The thought came to me that
Pâquerette took more care of herself than of the dying girl.
I kissed Marie's forehead; I seated myself upon the edge of the bed,
taking and holding one of her hands. She turned her head slowly and
smiled upon me, telling me that she was not in pain, that she was
resting herself. Her voice, a trifle hoarse, was reduced to a feeble and
caressing murmur. Her forehead inclined, she looked at me with her
feverish and enlarged eyes; astonishment and tenderness were mingled in
her full glances. My heart was wrung with pity at the sight of this poor
creature. I felt that I was on the point of bursting into tears.
Pâquerette returned, loaded with new bottles and fresh food. She opened
the window, complaining of the bad air; she established herself
comfortably in the arm-chair, before the table; then, she began to eat
noisily, talking as she chewed, questioning Marie about her adorers,
about her past life. She seemed to ignore that the poor girl was sick;
she treated her like a lazy creature who loves to lie in bed and be
pitied. I looked with disgust at this woman, wrapped up in herself,
licking her greasy fingers, chuckling, bantering the dying girl with her
mouth full, and casting at me sullen and cynical glances, those
desperate glances which certain old women yet have in their reddened
eyes.
Pâquerette, ceasing to eat, partially turned her arm-chair; then,
crossing her hands upon her skirts, she looked at us, at Marie and
myself, first at one and afterwards at the other, laughing a wicked
laugh.
"Ah! my dear," said she to the sick girl, pointing at me her bony
finger, "isn't he a handsome young fellow! His heart is widowed and has
need of new love affairs!"
Marie smiled sadly, closing her eyes, withdrawing her hand which mine
had kept.
"You are deceived," I answered Pâquerette, after a moment's silence;
"my heart is not widowed. I love Laurence."
Marie lifted her eyelids, and restored to me her fingers, which I found
more agitated, hotter, than before.
"Laurence! Laurence!" sneered the old woman; "she is making a fool of
you! You are like all the rest of the men. They love those who betray
and abandon them. Look for another sweetheart, my poor Monsieur, look
for another sweetheart!"
I did not hear distinctly, according ordinarily no attention whatever to
the chatter of this old woman. And yet, though I know not why, I felt a
vague uneasiness. An unknown warmth filled my being with a painful
quiver.
"Listen, my children," added Pâquerette, taking her ease: "I am a kind
hearted woman, and it displeases me to see you made game of. You are
very nice, both of you, gentle as lambs, good as bread. It has been my
dream to see you married, and I well know that two better little
creatures were never brought together. So, Monsieur, accept Madame.
Every day, I meet Laurence and Jacques caressing each other on the
stairway!"
I glanced at Marie. She was calm; the beating of her pulse had not
increased. She seemed to be dreaming with her eyes fixed on me, and,
perhaps, she saw me in her dream. The kisses which Jacques might have
given to Laurence did not disturb the tranquil friendship which she felt
for him.
As for me, I felt the insupportable warmth mount to my breast and stifle
me. I knew not what was the sudden numbness which gave me a dull, deep
pain, penetrating even to my soul. I thought neither of Laurence nor
Jacques; I listened to Pâquerette and the suffocation augmented,
stopping up my throat.
Pâquerette slowly rubbed her withered hands; her gray eyes, sunken
beneath her flabby eyelids, shone strangely in her yellow visage. She
resumed, in a voice more cracked than ever:
"You stare at each other like a couple of stupid innocents! Have you not
understood, Claude? Jacques has taken Laurence from you; take Marie. Ah!
the little one smiles: she asks nothing better. In the way I suggest, no
one will be left disconsolate, no one will have any reproaches to make.
That's the fashion in which everything should be arranged in this life!"
Marie impatiently lifted her hand, making her a sign to stop. The old
woman's sharp voice imparted a quiver to her emaciated flesh. Then, her
countenance assumed an expression of melancholy peace, an air of calm
ecstasy; she gazed at me thoughtfully, and said to me, in a penetrating
tone, a tone which I had never known her voice to possess:
"Will you, Claude? I will love you so much!"
And she sat upright.
A fit of coughing threw her back upon the bed, her body horribly shaken,
all panting with pain. With arms open and twisted, with head thrown
backward, she was suffocating. Her partially uncovered breast, that poor
breast which suffering had made so infantile, so pure, rose and fell
frightfully as if torn by a furious tempest. Then, the terrible cough
passed away, and the girl stretched herself out, pale, her cheeks
violet, as if overwhelmed with fatigue and insensibility.
I had remained seated upon the edge of the bed, shaken myself by the
torture of the dying girl. I had not dared to stir, nailed to my place
by pity and fright. What I had before me was so profoundly horrible and
so infinitely touching, so lamentable and so repulsive, that I know not
how to explain the holy fear which held me where I was, grieved, full of
disgust and compassion. I was tempted to beat Pâquerette, to drive her
away; I felt inclined to embrace Marie as a brother would embrace his
sister, to give her my blood to restore life and freshness to her
expiring flesh.
So I had reached this point: a miserable old woman, whose career had
been one long dissipation, offered me the opportunity to exchange my
heart for another heart, to give up my sweetheart to one of my friends
and thus secure his of him; she showed me all the advantages of this
bargain, she laughed at the excellent joke. And the sweetheart whom she
wished to give me already belonged to death. Marie was dying, and Marie
extended her arms to me. Poor innocent! her strange purity hid from her
all the horror of her kiss. She offered her lips like a child, not
understanding that I would rather have died than touch her mouth, I, who
loved Laurence so much! Her pale flesh, burned by fever, had been
purified by suffering; but she was already dead, so to speak,
sanctified, and so pure that I would have deemed it sacrilegious to
reawaken in her a final quiver of earthly delight.
Pâquerette curiously watched Marie's crisis. That woman does not
believe in the sufferings of others.
"Something she ate choked her," she said, forgetting that the sick girl
had swallowed no solid food for two weeks.
At these words, a blind rage took possession of me. I felt like slapping
that yellow, sneering face, and, as the wretched creature opened her
lips again:
"Be quiet, will you!" I cried out to her, in a ringing and indignant
voice.
The old woman drew back her arm-chair in terror. She stared at me, full
of fear and indecision; then, seeing that I was in earnest, she made a
gesture such as a drunken man might make and stammered, in a drawling
tone:
"Then, if joking is prohibited, why don't you say so in plain words? As
for me, I always have a joke upon my lips, and so much the worse for
those who weep say I! You don't want Marie; very well, let us say no
more about it."
And she pushed the arm-chair before the table; then, she poured out a
glass of wine, which she sipped slowly.
I bent over Marie, whom suffering had put to sleep. There was a low
rattle in her throat. I kissed her on the forehead like a brother.
As I was about going away, Pâquerette turned towards me.
"Monsieur Claude," she cried, "you are not amiable, but, nevertheless, I
will give you a piece of good advice. If you love Laurence, keep a sharp
eye upon her!"