MARIE'S DEATH
I have reached that plenitude of despair which is almost rest. I cannot
suffer additionally; this certainty that nothing can augment my tears is
a solace. My being has torn itself to such an extent that it has stopped
in pity. To-day, I can only wipe away my tears.
And yet I feel that I have need of Heaven to be cured. I have the
brutishness of pain, I have not the tranquil joy of health. If my wounds
cannot be enlarged, they cannot remain open, bleeding drop by drop, with
inexorable suffering.
Brothers, the hand which is to close them is a terrible hand, the hand
of death and truth.
Yesterday, when night came on, Marie's chamber was filled with gloom and
silence. A candle, half hidden behind a vase on the mantelpiece, lighted
a corner of the ceiling; the walls and the floor were in darkness; the
bed was white amid the transparent shadows. Marie, paler, more broken,
had closed her eyes. I knew that she could not last through the night.
Pâquerette was asleep in her arm-chair, her hands crossed in her lap,
smiling in a dream at some imaginary gluttony; her chin resting on her
corsage, she was snoring softly, and the sound of her breath mingled
with the weakened rattle in Marie's throat. I felt myself suffocating
between this dying young girl and this old woman gorged with food. I
hastened to the window. I opened it. The weather was clear.
I leaned my elbows upon the sill, and gazed at the square patch of
yellow light on the wall opposite. The stains came and went with
rapidity, fading away to re-appear of greater dimensions than before.
Never had the shadows been so nimble, so ironical; they seemed to be
indulging with delight in a jeering dance, in an inexplicable confusion
of shapes, wishing to entirely overthrow my reason. It was an
indescribable pell-mell, a mass of heads, necks and shoulders, which
rolled upon itself as if beaten and flattened by the strokes of a flail.
Then, suddenly, at the very instant when I was smiling bitterly, no
longer seeking to understand, supreme quietness settled down upon the
sombre and agile shadows; the stains gave a final leap, two profiles
were thrown upon the wall, enormous, full of energy, standing out with
sharpness and vigor. It seemed as if, weary of tormenting me, the
shadows had at last decided to reveal themselves; they were there,
black, powerful, full of superb truth and insolence. I recognized
Laurence and Jacques, out of all proportion, disdainful. The two
profiles approached each other slowly and united with a kiss.
I had not ceased to smile. I felt in myself a sort of tearing sensation,
followed by a sudden feeling of satisfaction. My heart, with an enormous
pulsation, had driven out all the love which was stifling it, and that
love had gone out through my veins, giving me a final burn. I felt that
sensation of anguish which the patient experiences beneath the hands of
the surgeon: I suffered in order that I might cease to suffer.
At last, the shadows had spoken, they had given me a certainty. I had
the truth written there, before me, upon the wall; I knew that which I
had sought to guess for so many long days; I stared fixedly at those two
black heads, which were kissing in the square patch of yellow light.
I was astonished at suffering so little. I had thought I should die on
learning the truth, and I felt only an extreme lassitude, a benumbing of
all my being. For a long while, I remained leaning upon my elbows,
staring at the two shadows which were agitating themselves in a curious
fashion, and I thought of the terrible episode which was finished by the
kisses of two dark stains upon an illuminated wall. The conversation
which I had had with Jacques then returned forcibly to my memory; in the
gulf which had opened within me I heard, repeated one by one, gravely
and slowly, the words of the practical man, and those words, which I
imagined I was listening to for the first time, astonished me strangely,
uttered in the presence of the kisses which the shadow of Jacques was
giving to the shadow of Laurence. Who was deceived in all this? Was
Pâquerette right, or was I staring at one of those inexplicable
caprices of the mind, which urge people to lie to themselves? Could it
be possible that Jacques was devoting himself to save me, going as far
as deceptive caresses? Singular devotedness, which could strike me in my
flesh, in my heart, and cure me of an evil by an evil more terrible
still!
Little by little, my thoughts grew troubled, I no longer possessed the
calmness of the first moment.
I could not comprehend those kisses, and, at last, I began to fear that
what I had seen was only a miserable trick.
The struggle between doubt and certainty was, for an instant,
re-established within me, sharper, more biting, than ever. I could not
imagine that Jacques loved Laurence; I believed more in him than I
believed in Pâquerette. Then, I said to myself that kisses have their
intoxication, and that he would learn to love this woman, if he did not
love her already, by applying his lips to her lips in that fashion.
Hence I suffered anew. My jealousy was reawakened, my anguish again took
me by the throat.
I should have retired from that window, I should not have abandoned
myself to the sight of those two shadows. What I suffered in a few
minutes cannot be told; it seemed to me that they had torn out my heart
and that I could not weep.
The truth was clear, inexorable: little did it matter whether Jacques
loved or did not love Laurence; Laurence hung upon his neck, gave
herself to him, and she was henceforward dead for me. There was the sole
reality, the dénouement at once desired and feared.
Amid the horrible torture which racked my being, I felt everything
crumble away within me; I realized that I was now without faith, without
love; I went back to Marie's bed and knelt beside it, sobbing.
Marie awoke, she saw my tears. She made a superhuman effort, and,
quivering with fever, sat up in bed. I saw her bend down, leaning her
head upon my shoulder, I felt her wasted and burning arm encircle my
neck. Her eyes, luminous amid the darkness, full to overflowing with the
brightness of death, questioned me with fright and compassion.
I would have liked to pray. I had need of clasping my hands, of
imploring a kind and compassionate Divinity. I felt myself weak and
deserted; in my childish fear I wanted to give myself to a good God, who
would take pity on me. While Jacques was tearing Laurence from me and
while the guilty couple, below me, were indulging in loving kisses, I
had an overwhelming desire to make my profession of faith and love, to
protest on my knees, to love elsewhere, in the light, before all the
world. But my lips were ignorant of prayer, I despairingly stretched out
my arms, in space, towards the mute sky.
I encountered Marie's hand, and pressed it gently. Her dilated eyes were
still questioning me.
"Oh! let us pray, my child," said I to her, "let us pray together."
She seemed not to understand me.
"What is the matter with you?" murmured she, in a faint and caressing
voice.
And her feeble hand sought to wipe away my tears. Then, I looked at her
and my torn heart melted with pity. She was dying. She was already
beyond life, whiter, grander; her glassy eyes were filled with a soft
and serene ecstasy; her tranquil countenance was as if wrapped in
slumber, her thin lips no longer emitted the rattle. I realized that she
was about to die in my arms, at this solemn hour when my tenderness was
also dying, and her agony, mingled with that of my love, filled my soul
with compassion so deep that I again stretched out my hands into space
with a more biting anxiety, searching for some one.
I lifted myself up, and, in a low, broken voice, repeated:
"Let us pray, my child, let us pray together."
Marie smiled.
"Pray, Claude?" said she. "Why do you wish me to pray?"
"To console us, Marie, to obtain pardon for us."
"I have no pardon to ask for, I have no sorrow to be softened. See, I am
smiling, I am happy; my heart reproaches me with nothing."
She was silent for a moment, putting aside her locks from her forehead;
then she resumed, in a weaker tone:
"I know not how to pray, because I have never had to ask for pardon. The
woman who brought me up assured me that the wicked alone went to church
to obtain absolution for their crimes. I am a child who never did evil;
never have I had need of God. Whenever I wept, my tears flowed copiously
down my cheeks and the wind dried them. Do you wish me to pray for you,
Claude?" added she, after another period of silence. "You shall clasp my
hands and make me repeat the words which they teach to the children in
the villages. I will ask God not to make you weep any more!"
Trembling, touched, I prayed for Marie, I prayed for myself. I found in
the depths of my being words of supplication and adoration, and I
uttered them one by one without moving my lips. I supplicated Heaven to
be merciful, to make death easy, to put this child to sleep in her
ecstasy, in her ignorance. And, while I prayed, Marie, without seeing
that I was addressing God, clung to my neck with greater force, bending
over my face.
"Listen, Claude," said she; "I will get up to-morrow, I will put on a
white dress and we will leave this house. You will find a little chamber
in which we will shut ourselves up all alone. I plainly see that Jacques
loves me no more, because I am too weak, too white. You have a kind
heart; you will take good care of me and I will live with more
happiness, more gayety, than ever before. I am a trifle weary, I have
need of a kind brother. Will you be that brother, Claude?"
These words, uttered with languishing tenderness, were horrible in the
mouth of the dying girl. She preserved her innocent shamelessness even
in the arms of death; she offered herself upon her dying bed as a sister
and a sweetheart of ten years of age. I supported her poor body as if
its flesh had been sacred, I listened to her ardent and low voice with a
holy compassion.
I thought, no longer being able to pray. What then is evil? Was I not in
the presence of absolute good? Surely, God created everything sinless,
everything perfect. Evil is one of our inventions, one of the wounds
with which we are covered by reason of our own iniquity. This child who
was dying was no more disturbed, in life, by the kisses she had given
her admirers than a little girl is disturbed by the caresses which she
gives her doll. And Laurence, sad and desolate Laurence, showed such
degradation that her shamelessness was no more than the tacit acceptance
of a purely material act. Where shall we find the evil in all this, and
who would dare to punish Laurence and Marie, the one for her
brutishness, the other for her ignorance? The heart had fallen asleep,
or had not yet been awakened. It could not be the accomplice of the
flesh, which itself remained innocent in its silence. If I had had to
condemn these two women, I would have had more tears than severity, I
would have desired for them death, supreme peace.
They ought to sleep very soundly in their tombs, these poor creatures
who have lived amid tumult and feverish gayety. Perhaps, nevertheless,
their hearts will love at last in death, suffering frightfully at the
thought of a life passed in loving without love; they would struggle
now, but they are nailed in their coffin. Marie was departing, white and
pure, astonished, quivering, realizing, perhaps, that she was dying
before having known life. I wished that she could take with her Laurence
who had no more to learn, having exhausted every pleasure. They would
both descend into the unknown with the same step, equally soiled,
equally innocent, daughters of God bruised by men.
I was supporting Marie's head, which was weighed down with agony.
"Where is Jacques?" she asked.
"Jacques," I replied, "is with Laurence. They have abandoned us; we are
alone."
"Alone! Has Laurence left you, Claude?"
"Yes. She has left me. We are alone."
She gently rubbed her hands one against the other.
"Oh! it is good, oh! it is good to be alone," murmured she; "we can live
under the same roof. They have done well to arrange matters in this way.
We owe them our thanks. May they be happy on their side; we will be
happy on ours."
Then, she assumed a tone of confidence, and said, in a low and joyous
voice:
"You never knew it, but I did not like Laurence. She was bad to you; she
made you shed tears which I would willingly have dried. At night, I
could not sleep; I was rude even to Jacques; I wished to ascend to your
chamber to watch over you, in order that she might not harm you. You
will never leave me again, will you, Claude? I will be a good little
woman, and will take up as small a space as possible."
Marie maintained silence for a short time, smiling at her thoughts. She
was growing weaker and weaker, she was becoming inert. I supported her
form, I felt the life quitting her flesh with every word she uttered.
She had now but a few minutes to live. Her smile faded away, she seemed
to be stricken with fear.
"You are deceiving me, Claude," she suddenly resumed: "Laurence is not
in Jacques' chamber. You are trying to please me. Have you ever seen him
kiss her?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Over there, opposite, upon the wall."
Marie clasped her hands.
"I wish to see," said she, pressing against me.
She had a hollow and supplicating voice; she caressed me, humbly and
gently.
I took her in my arms and lifted her from the bed. She was very light,
all palpitating; she abandoned herself to my grasp. I carried her
cautiously, scarcely feeling her weight, fearing to hurt her. My hands
touched with a holy respect this poor, dishevelled creature, who clung
to my neck, belonging already to death.
When, with outstretched arms I held her before the window, Marie, whose
head was thrown back, looked at the sky. The heavens were of a deep
blue, sown with stars; the calm air was full of warm, slow quivers. The
eyes of the dying girl were fixed upon the stars, she breathed the
lukewarm air. Her visage, until then resigned, had a painful
contraction, like a revolt of the expiring flesh in the presence of the
breath of life. She was absorbed in her contemplation, her glance
wandered about in the sombre space, she seemed to be dreaming her last
dream.
I heard her murmur and bent down. She said:
"I do not see them, they are not kissing."
And she gently agitated her poor hands in the air, as if to tear away
the veil which was stretched before her sight.
Then, I lifted up her head. The shadows, in the square patch of yellow
light, were still kissing. They were blacker, more energetic, and their
sharpness made them frightful. Marie saw them.
A glad smile showed itself upon her lips. With childish joy, with a
youthful voice, she approached my ear, caressing me with her hand.
"Oh! I see them, I see them," she said. "They are kissing. They have
enormous heads, all black. I am afraid. Tell them that we are together,
that they must come no more to torment us. One night they kissed each
other thus; we also kissed on our side, and it was from that moment that
I no longer liked Laurence. Do you remember that night? Come closer that
I may kiss you. It will be our second kiss, that of our betrothal."
Marie tremblingly placed her mouth against mine. I felt pass between my
lips a breath accompanied by a slight cry. The body which I held in my
arms had a convulsion, then relaxed.
I glanced at Marie's eyes. They were wide open, but I searched vainly
for the blue glimmer which had burned in them on that night of which she
had just spoken.
Marie was dead, dead in my arms.
I carried back the corpse and laid it upon the bed, carefully covering
the body which until then I had held against my bosom. I sat down upon
the edge of the bed, I leaned the head of the child upon one of my arms,
holding her hands, looking at her face which yet seemed to live and
smile. She was taller in death, more serene, purer.
Great tears, flowing down my cheeks, fell amid the hair of the dead
girl, which covered my knees.
I know not how long I remained thus, amid the silence and the darkness.
Suddenly, Pâquerette awoke, she saw the corpse. She arose, all in a
tremble, and ran to get the candle behind the vase upon the mantelpiece;
then, when she had held the flame before Marie's lips and had realized
that all was, indeed, over, she gave vent to noisy despair. This old
woman recoiled with fright from death which she felt beside her; she
cried out with grief as she thought that she also must soon die. She had
never believed in the sickness of this poor girl, who seemed to her too
young to have departed so quickly; before the rapid and terrible
dénouement she trembled with terror. Her cries must have been heard in
the street.
A sound of footsteps came from the stairway. Some neighbor was
ascending, attracted by Pâquerette's exclamations.
The door opened; Laurence and Jacques appeared upon the threshold.
Oh! brothers, I cannot continue the frightful narrative to-day. My hand
trembles, my eyes are filled with gloom. To-morrow, you shall know all.