THE TWENTY-EIGHTH OF DECEMBER
"... L'une meurt, l'autre vit, mais la
morte parfois se venge d'être morte."
Anonymous.
At the corner of the fire-place, in the cool chamber, they were talking
affectingly, for it was the hour when their closed lips, with a tacit
agreement, were opening the door to their imprisoned souls. Sidoine had
courted Coquerette for two months. He did not speak to her of earth
and sky, nor of the charming destiny of lovers who fly away on wings,
in the estival purple of evenings, towards the luminous heights; he
spoke to her of new dresses and the Auteuil races, of the Opera, of
the Salon, of the street, of the Boulogne wood, and of the _Revue des
Deux-Mondes_: she understood him and found him witty.
Sidoine amused himself in loving listlessly. Having greatly suffered
during a whole year, he felt the need of diversion, of playing
light-heartedly and of kissing, with a smile, a blond head and two blue
eyes.
Coquerette also amused herself. She had a husband, amiable but
_bourgeois_, a member of a club of the second order and of several
councils. He often played baccarat: cards were lenient with his purse
and the Bourse with his pocketbook. She did not understand him, but she
respected him greatly and in the matrimonial hour did not pout at him
more than two out of three times.
A husband is a father, a brother; he kisses your lips instead of
kissing your brow; he sleeps with you, because it is customary, or
because the apartments are too small; and he pays you an intimate visit
because you are within easy reach, and you must have a child, or two,
when business is good.
A lover is a child, something you have yourself created, he belongs to
you, you can play with him, fondle him, rock him, kiss him, beat him,
console him, caress him, punish him, scold him, deprive him of dessert,
make him hold pins when you dress, send him to bed at eight o'clock.
You become a little girl again, you have a doll: ah! it is altogether
different.
Coquerette did not have a child, she wished to play, and Sidoine asked
for nothing better.
The moment, however, was grave: they were going to pass to the other
side of the river, and it was necessary to jump into the water and swim
to the other bank, shoulder against shoulder. Afterwards they bask in
the sun on the green lawn and, recovered from emotions, they enjoy fine
moments, gathering pleasing flowers; and with what delight they return
to bathe in the river so terrible not long ago, now so gentle, so mild,
so tenderly murmuring.
He took Coquerette's hands and began to kiss her fingers one after
the other with a gracefulness which charmed her; she grew tender at
such delicacy of sentiment, the poor darling! It did not take a much
stronger wind to disperse the last birds still chattering among the
branches; she suddenly felt her heart grow light, for never had her
spouse had the idea of such an exquisite caress, "and since he never
thought of it, I really must love another. Can one reasonably demand
that a woman deprive herself of such delights? If my husband is
incapable, that is not my fault!"
Sidoine continued, having found this means of dispensing with speech
and counting equally on finding, thanks to a few minutes of this
practice, the means of dispensing with thought.
He recommenced with the little finger and Coquerette had the enraptured
eyes of Psyche under the first kiss of love.
Sidoine kissed the little finger on the second phalanx, for he had
distributed the round of his kisses on the nails, at first, then on the
first joint.
He kissed the little finger and at the same instant there returned to
his lips, and this time almost terrifying, these syllables that had
already been inwardly pronounced:
"The magnificence!"
Coquerette thought he said: "I love you, little finger of Coquerette,"
and she was content.
Sidoine kissed the second joint of the ring-finger of Coquerette, and
this other word issued from his lips:
"Funereal!"
Coquerette thought he said: "I love you, annular finger of Coquerette,"
and she was content.
Sidoine kissed the joint of the middle finger of Coquerette, and he
said nothing.
Coquerette thought the gentle familiar lizard was climbing along her
hand, along her wrist, along her bare arm: "Gracious! how far will he
go? I am going to keep my eyes closed, I will see very well."
But the caress stopped, startled; Sidoine stood up, pale; he gazed at
the bed as one gazes at an unexpected and melancholy spectacle.
"The magnificence is funereal, and my heart is terrified."
The words had joined and from the magic union was born the real unity
contained in their elements.
It really was a funereal magnificence:
Three wax-tapers were lighted at the heads of the bed and in their
gleam the white figure seemed to be smiling at angels, like little
children in their cradles. A great black crucifix appeared under her
crossed hands; flowers were scattered, roses on her breast, lilies on
her body and violets at her feet.
"No, she is not dead!" cried Sidoine, kneeling near his mistress.
"Speak, you are not dead? Open your eyes, if you recognize me? What
have you done? Why these lights, why all these flowers, you are going
to give her a headache."
It was just a year, the twenty-eighth of December last, since he had
come to her home: it was the same funereal magnificence and he had
uttered the same words, shed the same tears.
He took the hand of the dead woman and raised it to his lips, but the
affright of a sudden shock threw him to the ground: she was cold.
Coquerette, her large blue eyes wide opened, had followed with
amazement the phases of the terrifying vision. She knew Sidoine's
history and understood that a stroke of love madness had touched her
friend at the-very hour of the poignant anniversary.
The little frivolous and laughing woman felt a strange thrill. She rose
palpitating, threw herself upon Sidoine, as a lioness on her prey, and
bit him on the cheek.
Sidoine opened his eyes:
"Ah! you are mine, mine only, mine," cried Coquerette kissing,
bewildered, the impression of her teeth, "I have marked you with my
sign, you belong to me. I love you, Sidoine, I love you even to death.
Ah! I have never felt anything like it!"
She lifted him up, made him sit down, placed herself at his feet.
"She is dead," said Sidoine, still giddy, but recovered, "she is dead,
but I will love her eternally."
"And me? And me?"
Sidoine did not reply.
"And me? And me?"
Sidoine gently kissed her brow.
"And me? And me?"
"She is dead!" said Sidoine.
"I will die," said Coquerette.
"For what reason?" asked Sidoine.
"So as to be loved," said Coquerette.