THE PAVILION
The pavilion where I was to meet Hélène was situated in the depths of
the forest; to get there I had to traverse long, dismal paths, all
choked up with dead leaves. The morning mist was so heavy and thick that
I could hardly see ten steps before me, though it was nine o'clock. My
meditations of the night before had confirmed me in my doubt and my
decision. Having once admitted that Hélène's conduct was the result of
base cupidity, it became, unhappily, only too easy to misinterpret all
her actions. Thus the involuntary avowal that had escaped her lips, that
chaste cry of love which had long been withheld and hidden in her tender
heart, became in my eyes nothing more than a shameless enticement.
What shall I say? That, as I walked along to the pavilion, my ideas were
a frightful mixture of selfishness, wounded pride, and cruel
resolutions, also of bitter regret to have dispelled so fair an
illusion, to have lost all hope of consoling myself some day by the
remembrance of a pure and disinterested first love. What is horrible and
ridiculous to admit is, that never for a moment did the thought that I
might be mistaken ever enter my mind; that, having admitted the
possibility of evil, I should also be willing to admit the chances of
good; that, after all, taking no account of Hélène's character and the
nobility of her mind, there were a thousand circumstances, a thousand
reasons, which would prove beyond a doubt that her love was pure and
without a selfish thought; and, then, my fortune being part of my
condition, was not Hélène obliged to take me as she found me, and,
finding me rich, love me, rich though I was?
But, no, my one idea was so fixed in my mind, and possessed me with such
brutal ferocity, that I never attempted to find a single excuse in
favour of the woman I so cruelly suspected.
Long years have passed since then, and now that I review my past
conduct, I have the consolation of knowing that it was not to avoid the
fulfilment of my duty that I forced myself into this blind faith in
evil; for I knew that the stories in circulation had an appearance of
truth to the eyes of the world, though they were utterly false in every
respect. I knew that I owed it to Hélène to make the reparation my
first impulse had shown me was the right one. She was my relative, she
had been like a daughter to my father. I knew her excellent qualities,
and I had been convinced that I would become the happiest man in the
world, should I become her husband.
But my conduct towards her was not dictated by one of those sordid
instincts which we are ashamed to admit but whose tool we allow
ourselves to become. Later in life I should not have been able to
deliberately deceive myself, but then I was so young, so confident in my
incredulity, and I remember perfectly that what caused me the most
smarting mortification was not the fact that I had been duped, but the
unspeakable regret that I had not been able to inspire Hélène with a
real affection.
At last I arrived at the pavilion. When I entered I found Hélène
waiting for me seated near the door; she was wrapped in a black cloak,
and trembling with cold. When she saw me she rose, and, holding out her
hands to me, said, in a tone of the deepest sadness: "Ah, you have come
at last! How much we have suffered these last two days!"
Then, no doubt struck by the stern and unkind expression of my features,
she added, "Good God! What is the matter, Arthur? You frighten me."
Thereupon, with that mocking and silly cruelty fit for children, or
happy, selfish people, who have never suffered, I put on a gay and
careless manner, and, kissing her hand, replied: "What, I frighten you!
That is not the effect I hoped to have on you in such a charming
rendezvous!"
The ironical way in which I uttered these words was so different from my
habitual way of addressing Hélène that she opened her great eyes in
astonishment, knowing not what I meant. Then, after a moment of silence,
she added, "Arthur, my mother has told me all."
"Ah, indeed!" I answered, with indifference. Then, closing the collar of
her mantle, I added: "Take care, the fog is very damp and penetrating;
you might catch cold."
The poor child thought she must be dreaming.
"What!" said she, joining her hands in stupefaction, "you don't see that
it is all horrible, infamous?"
"What does it all matter, since it is all a lie?" I answered, without
changing countenance.
"What does it matter? Does it make no difference to you that the woman
who is to bear your name should be dishonoured before she becomes your
wife?"
At these words, which seemed to me the height of effrontery and the
flagrant proof of the truth of my suspicions, I was seized with an
uncontrollable desire for revenge, all my scruples vanished, and to-day
I bless the hazard that retained on my lips the horrible words that came
into my mind. Fortunately for me, I was disposed to be ironical, and I
contained myself.
"Hélène," said I, "our conversation should be grave and serious; be so
good as to listen to me. You who are candour, loyalty, and
disinterestedness personified," said I, with an accent of disgusting
insolence,--which she never even noticed, so far above all suspicion was
she conscious of being,--"I beg of you, answer me with perfect loyalty;
our whole future is in the balance."
With that instinctive divination which rarely is mistaken, Hélène
guessed at my treachery, for she cried out in anguish: "Stop, Arthur,
something extraordinary is passing in your mind. I have never seen you
with such an icy, defiant look; you alarm me! In heaven's name, what
have I done to you?"
"You have done me no harm; but since you mean to bear my name, since you
expect to be my wife,--and I am infinitely obliged to you for the
confidence you have in the future, it does honour to both of us," I
continued, with a smile which terrified her,--"you must reply to my
questions."
"Good God, with what a look you say that, Arthur! I don't understand;
what does it all mean? What must I answer?"
"Hélène, when for the first time you began to interest yourself in my
presence, or my future, when you began to love me, what was your object,
your motive?"
"My object, my motive? I tell you again that I don't understand you,"
said she, shaking her head; then overcome with astonishment: "Stop,
Arthur, you are torturing me; in the name of your mother, explain
yourself clearly. What do you want of me? What is the meaning of all
these questions?"
"Very well, then! I will follow your example, and speak with equal
frankness, liberality, and clearness; like you I give free rein to my
sudden impulses, without the least _arrière-pensée_, without the
slightest calculation; and as there is no doubt about your becoming my
wife, and when that delightful hour arrives we will wish to be in each
other's confidence, I will tell you how and why I have loved you, but
before doing so I mean to exact from you a similar confession. It will
be a mutual exchange of generous and tender sentiments which will be a
consolation to my poor troubled heart, do you not think so?" I said all
this with a cold, cruel, and ironical manner which wounded the poor
child to the quick, and distressed her greatly, though she could not
understand the withering allusions with which I blighted her pure and
unselfish love.
Now that I can calmly reflect on this scene, I shudder to think how much
Hélène must have suffered in hearing me speak to her thus for the
first time. I can see her yet, standing pale, cold, and trembling with
anxiety in the middle of that pavilion, with its rustic furniture and
its open windows where the thick fog was drifting in; I blush with shame
when I remember that it was to an acknowledged enemy, defiant and
determined to interpret everything to his own justification, she was
summoned to reveal all those chaste and tender feelings which had
preceded her avowal,--those treasures unknown to the lover which
disclose the joys, alarms, and pains that he has unwittingly caused.
At last, Hélène, overcoming her agitation, said:
"Arthur, I cannot conceive of what is passing in your mind; you wish me
to tell you how and why I have loved you. Ah!" said she, her eyes filled
with tears, "it is very simple. _Mon Dieu!_ When I was still a very
little child, I heard my mother constantly speaking about you, of the
solitary life your father made you live, without any of the amusements
suited to your age, without any young friends, occupied almost all the
time with serious study, and deprived of almost every joy and pleasure
of youth. The first impressions of you were that you were very unhappy
and much to be pitied, and I pitied you because, in knowing how much I
possessed, I thought of all that you missed: I had young companions whom
I loved; my mother, always tender and good, entered into all our
childish pleasures. So that sometimes, without knowing wherefore, I felt
ashamed of myself for being so happy while you were living a life that
seemed to me so forlorn and isolated.
"I think that was the beginning of my dislike of playing with the other
children, their games displeased me because I knew you to be deprived of
companionship; in a word, Arthur, it is because you seemed to me so much
to be pitied that I was so much interested in you. Later, when you
started off on your first voyage, the dangers you encountered, and which
I, no doubt, exaggerated, made me tremble for your life and redoubled my
affection. That was the time Sophie told you of, when at the convent
school I was childish enough to celebrate your birthday, and when every
day I would pray to God for your safety. Still later, when your poor
mother died, it seemed as though that fearful loss was to bind you to me
all the nearer, for then I believed you were entirely alone, unhappy,
and deprived of the only person you could confide in. It was then that
we came to live here, to dwell with your father. My mother had often
told me that, though excessively good to us, your father was cold and
severe. In fact, he seemed to be so grave, so sad, and you were always
so timid and so uneasy in his presence, so gloomy after the
conversations you had with him every morning, that I pitied you more
bitterly than ever, and my love for you increased as I thought of all
the trials you had to suffer.
"However, as much as I dreaded your father I could not prevent myself
from loving him; he suffered so much! And besides, in showing myself
always attentive and thoughtful to him, I meant to prove my love to you.
"Finally, Arthur, when you had the misfortune of losing him, seeing you
quite alone in the world, I fancied that from thenceforth my fate was
allied to yours, that the destiny of my life had always been and should
always be to love you, to make you happy, that henceforth my heart was
to become your only refuge. You had never told me that you loved me, but
I thought that you did, that it must be so, that such a thing was
inevitable, seeing that my vocation was the consecration of my life to
your service; so each day I confidently awaited an avowal on your part,
and when, despairing of ever hearing that avowal, I exclaimed
unintentionally, 'Ah, you will never love any one! You will never be
happy!' it was because I had an involuntary presentiment that you would
be unhappy all your life, if you would not love me,--love me who loved
you so dearly, who believed myself necessary to your happiness! Since
then you have declared to me that you love me. I have been happy,--happy
beyond expression; but that has been no surprise to me.
"Yesterday my mother caused me the greatest pain by repeating to me all
those frightful calumnies. Not seeing you all day, I believed that you
were as much distressed as I, that you shared my grief in this matter.
This is all I have to tell you, Arthur, this is how I came to love you,
the way I love you now; but be merciful and cease to torment me thus,
become what you have always been to me! Why are you so changed? I
beseech you to tell me--what have I done?"
While Hélène was telling me all this with such naïve and truthful
simplicity, I had never taken my eyes off her; instead of being touched
by her tender recital, I had been watching her with all the cruel and
wary suspicion of a hostile and prejudiced judge; however, when she
raised her beautiful eyes, so gentle and moist under their long lashes,
she looked into mine with such candid assurance and so much serenity,
that I must have been blind indeed, not to have read in them the noblest
and deepest love.
But, alas! when one is possessed by stubborn doubt, everything that
tends to destroy that doubt irritates you beyond measure, and appears to
be dictated by perfidy and falsehood; you persist all the more in your
conviction, because you believe you would be tricked if you gave it up.
The most undeniable truths become adroit lies, and the noblest and most
sudden inspirations become so many snares deliberately set for you. It
was thus with me, so I continued to play the unworthy part I had imposed
on myself.
"That is all very perfectly and cleverly thought out," I replied. "The
causes and effects follow each other in the most perfect and logical
succession; the fable is very plausible, and a stupider man than I would
believe the whole story."
"The fable! What fable?" said Hélène, who could not conceive my
suspicions.
But without answering her, I continued:
"Since you can reason so wisely, how was it that you never reflected
that, in permitting me to show you such assiduous preference, it was
possible for you to be gravely compromised?"
"I never thought of it, I never reflected, because I loved you; besides,
how could I think that anything we did was wrong, when I was certain of
your affection?"
"Then from the very beginning you meant to marry me?"
Hélène scarcely seemed to hear me, and said:
"What did you say, Arthur?"
"I said this," said I, impatiently, "that you felt perfectly sure that I
meant to marry you?"
"But," replied Hélène, more and more surprised, "I don't understand
the meaning of the questions you ask me, Arthur. Think of what you are
telling me! Heavens! after our vows of love! Have I ever had any doubts
of you--of--?"
Then interrupting herself, she cried out:
"Ah, don't vilify yourself like that!"
Her perfect assurance, or rather the blind confidence she had in my
loyalty, so shocked my stupid pride that I had the horrible courage to
add ('tis true that I spoke slowly and that my lips became dry as I
uttered the words):
"And in those fine projects of our union, which will probably never
amount to anything more than projects, did you never think of my
fortune?"
When I had once uttered these hateful words, I would have given my whole
life to recall them, for so long as I had only thought them, I had not
perceived the whole of their ignoble significance; but when I heard
myself answer in this way the ingenuous, noble, and touching avowal just
made by Hélène, who when yet a child had only loved me because she
thought me unhappy,--when I realised the incurable wound I had given
this generous girl who was so proud, so shy, and so sensitive, I was
seized with horrible and vain remorse.
Alas! I had plenty of time to realise the horror of my position, for
Hélène was a long time in understanding my words, and still longer in
recovering from her stupefaction when she had at last understood them.
But when I saw depicted on her beautiful face those expressions of
grief, of indignation, and of utter contempt which gave it a majestic
and even a threatening look, I felt in my heart such violent emotion
that, joining my hands together, I fell on my knees before Hélène, and
cried out:
"Pardon! Pardon!"
But she, still seated there with cheeks aflame and sparkling eyes,
leaned towards me; then, taking my two hands, she shook them violently
as she fixed on me a look of implacable disdain which I shall never
forget, then she said, slowly:
"I had designs on your fortune,--I--Hélène!"
She gave to those two words, "I--Hélène!" such an accent of scorn and
wounded pride, that, overcome with shame, I bowed my head before her and
broke into sobbing.
Then she, without adding another word, arose quickly and went out from
the pavilion with firm and steady step.
I remained where I was, utterly annihilated. It seemed to me that from
henceforth my life was irreparably devoted to evil and misfortune.
In spite of which I was resolved to see Hélène once more.