Ver.07/27/01*END*
This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]
CONFESSION OF A CHILD OF THE CENTURY
(Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle)
By ALFRED DE MUSSET
BOOK 2.
PART III
CHAPTER I
DEATH, THE INEVITABLE
My father lived in the country some distance from Paris. When I arrived
I found a physician in the house, who said to me:
"You are too late; your father expressed a desire to see you before he
died."
I entered, and saw my father dead. "Sir," I said to the physician,
"please have everyone retire that I may be alone here; my father had
something to say to me, and he will say it."
In obedience to my order the servants left the room. I approached the
bed and raised the shroud which covered the face. But when my eyes fell
on that countenance, I stooped to kiss it and lost consciousness.
When I recovered, I heard some one say:
"If he requests it, you must refuse him on some pretext or other."
I understood that they wanted to get me away from the bed of death, and
so I feigned that I had heard nothing. When they saw that I was resting
quietly, they left me. I waited until the house was quiet, and then took
a candle and made my way to my father's room. I found there a young
priest seated near the bed.
"Sir," I said, "to dispute with an orphan the last vigil at a father's
side is a bold enterprise. I do not know what your orders may be. You
may remain in the adjoining room; if anything happens, I alone am
responsible."
He retired. A single candle on the table shone on the bed. I sat down
in the chair the priest had just left, and again uncovered those features
I was to see for the last time.
"What do you wish to say to me, father?" I asked. "What was your last
thought concerning your child?"
My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to day
the record of his life. That book lay on the table, and I saw that it
was open; I kneeled before it; on the page were these words and no more:
"Adieu, my son, I love you and I die."
I did not shed a tear, not a sob came from my lips; my throat was swollen
and my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving.
He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow and
anxiety. He did not refer to my future, to my youth and my follies.
His advice had often saved me from some evil course, and had influenced
my entire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue and
kindness. I supposed that before dying he wished to see me to try once
more to turn me from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly;
he felt that he could express all he had to say in one word, and he wrote
in his book that he loved me.