THE RUGGED PATH OF LOVE
That evening I received from Madame Pierson a letter addressed to M. R.
D., at Strasburg. Three weeks later my mission had been accomplished and
I returned. During my absence I had thought of nothing but her, and I
despaired of ever forgetting her. Nevertheless I determined to restrain
my feelings in her presence; I had suffered too cruelly at the prospect
of losing her to run any further risks. My esteem for her rendered it
impossible for me to suspect her sincerity, and I did not see, in her
plan of getting me to leave the country, anything that resembled
hypocrisy. In a word, I was firmly convinced that at the first word of
love her door would be closed to me. Upon my return I found her thin and
changed. Her habitual smile seemed to languish on her discolored lips.
She told me that she had been suffering. We did not speak of the past.
She did not appear to wish to recall it, and I had no desire to refer to
it. We resumed our old relations of neighbors; yet there was something
of constraint between us, a sort of conventional familiarity. It was as
if we had agreed: "It was thus before, let it still be thus." She
granted me her confidence, a concession that was not without its charms
for me; but our conversation was colder, for the reason that our eyes
expressed as much as our tongues. In all that we said there was more to
be surmised than was actually spoken. We no longer endeavored to fathom
each other's minds; there was not the same interest attaching to each
word, to each sentiment; that curious analysis that characterized our
past intercourse; she treated me with kindness, but I distrusted even
that kindness; I walked with her in the garden, but no longer accompanied
her outside of the premises; we no longer wandered through the woods and
valleys; she opened the piano when we were alone; the sound of her voice
no longer awakened in my heart those transports of joy which are like
sobs that are inspired by hope. When I took leave of her, she gave me
her hand, but I was conscious of the fact that it was lifeless; there was
much effort in our familiar ease, many reflections in our lightest
remarks, much sadness at the bottom of it all. We felt that there was a
third party between us: it was my love for her. My actions never
betrayed it, but it appeared in my face. I lost my cheerfulness, my
energy, and the color of health that once shone in my cheeks. At the end
of one month I no longer resembled my old self. And yet in all our
conversations I insisted on my disgust with the world, on my aversion to
returning to it. I tried to make Madame Pierson feel that she had no
reason to reproach herself for allowing me to see her; I depicted my past
life in the most sombre colors, and gave her to understand that if she
should refuse to allow me to see her, she would condemn me to a
loneliness worse than death. I told her that I held society in
abhorrence and the story of my life, as I recited it, proved my
sincerity. So I affected a cheerfulness that I was far from feeling,
in order to show her that in permitting me to see her, she had saved me
from the most frightful misfortune; I thanked her almost every time I
went to see her, that I might return in the evening or the following
morning. "All my dreams of happiness," said I, "all my hopes, all my
ambitions, are enclosed in the little corner of the earth where you
dwell; outside of the air that you breathe there is no life for me."
She saw that I was suffering and could not help pitying me. My courage
was pathetic, and her every word and gesture shed a sort of tender light
over my devotion. She saw the struggle that was going on in me; my
obedience flattered her pride, while my pallor awakened her charitable
instinct. At times she appeared to be irritated, almost coquettish;
she would say in a tone that was almost rebellious: "I shall not be here
to-morrow, do not come on such and such a day." Then, as I was going
away sad, but resigned, she sweetened the cup of bitterness by adding: "
I am not sure of it, come whenever you please;" or her adieu was more
friendly than usual, her glance more tender.
"Rest assured that Providence has led me to you," I said. "If I had not
met you, I might have relapsed into the irregular life I was leading
before I knew you.
"God has sent you as an angel of light to draw me from the abyss. He has
confided a sacred mission to you; who knows, if I should lose you,
whither the sorrow that consumes me might lead me, because of the sad
experience I have been through, the terrible combat between my youth and
my ennui?"
That thought, sincere enough on my part, had great weight with a woman of
lofty devotion whose soul was as pious as it was ardent. It was probably
the only consideration that induced Madame Pierson to permit me to see
her.
I was preparing to visit her one day when some one knocked at my door,
and I saw Mercanson enter, that priest I had met in the garden on the
occasion of my first visit. He began to make excuses that were as
tiresome as himself for presuming to call on me without having made my
acquaintance; I told him that I knew him very well as the nephew of our
cure, and asked what I could do for him.
He turned uneasily from one side to the other with an air of constraint,
searching for phrases and fingering everything on the table before him as
if at a loss what to say. Finally he informed me that Madame Pierson was
ill and that she had sent word to me by him that she would not be able to
see me that day.
"Is she ill? Why, I left her late yesterday afternoon, and she was very
well at that time!"
He bowed.
"But," I continued, "if she is ill why send word to me by a third person?
She does not live so far away that a useless call would harm me."
The same response from Mercanson. I could not understand what this
peculiar manner signified, much less why she had entrusted her mission to
him.
"Very well," I said, "I shall see her to-morrow and she will explain what
this means."
His hesitation continued.
"Madame Pierson has also told me--that I should inform you--in fact, I am
requested to--"
"Well, what is it?" I cried, impatiently.
"Sir, you are becoming violent! I think Madame Pierson is seriously ill;
she will not be able to see you this week."
Another bow, and he retired.
It was clear that his visit concealed some mystery: either Madame Pierson
did not wish to see me, and I could not explain why; or Mercanson had
interfered on his own responsibility.
I waited until the following day and then presented myself at her door;
the servant who met me said that her mistress was indeed very ill and
could not see me; she refused to accept the money I offered her, and
would not answer my questions.
As I was passing through the village on my return, I saw Mercanson;
he was surrounded by a number of schoolchildren, his uncle's pupils.
I stopped him in the midst of his harangue and asked if I could have a
word with him.
He followed me aside; but now it was my turn to hesitate, for I was at a
loss how to proceed to draw his secret from him.
"Sir," I finally said, "will you kindly inform me if what you told me
yesterday was the truth, or was there some motive behind it? Moreover,
as there is not a physician in the neighborhood who can be called in,
in case of necessity, it is important that I should know whether her
condition is serious."
He protested that Madame Pierson was ill, but that he knew nothing more,
except that she had sent for him and asked him to notify me as he had
done. While talking we had walked down the road some distance and had
now reached a deserted spot. Seeing that neither strategy nor entreaty
would serve my purpose, I suddenly turned and seized him by the arms.
"What does this mean, Monsieur? You intend to resort to violence?" he
cried.
"No, but I intend to make you tell me what you know."
"Monsieur, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought to
know."
"You have told me what you think I ought to know, but not what you know.
Madame Pierson is not sick; I am sure of it."
"How do you know?"
"The servant told me so. Why has she closed her door against me, and why
did she send you to tell me of it?"
Mercanson saw a peasant passing.
"Pierre!" he cried, calling him by name, "wait a moment, I wish to speak
with you."
The peasant approached; that was all he wanted, thinking I would not dare
use violence in the presence of a third person. I released him, but so
roughly that he staggered back and fell against a tree. He clenched his
fist and turned away without a word.
For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three times a day I called at
Madame Pierson's and each time was refused admittance. I received one
letter from her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in the
village, and begged me to call less frequently. Not a word about
Mercanson or her illness.
This precaution on her part was so unnatural, and contrasted so strongly
with her former proud indifference in matters of this kind, that at first
I could hardly believe it. Not knowing what else to say, I replied that
there was no desire in my heart but obedience to her wishes. But in
spite of me, the words I used did not conceal the bitterness I felt.
I purposely delayed going to see her even when permitted to do so, and no
longer sent to inquire about her condition, as I wished to have her know
that I did not believe in her illness. I did not know why she kept me at
a distance; but I was so miserably unhappy that, at times, I thought
seriously of putting an end to a life that had become insupportable.
I was accustomed to spend entire days in the woods, and one day I
happened to encounter her there.
I hardly had the courage to ask for an explanation; she did not reply
frankly, and I did not recur to the subject; I could only count the days
I was obliged to pass without seeing her, and live in the hope of a
visit. All the time I was sorely tempted to throw myself at her feet,
and tell her of my despair. I knew that she would not be insensible to
it, and that she would at least express her pity; but her severity and
the abrupt manner of her departure recalled me to my senses; I trembled
lest I should lose her, and I would rather die than expose myself to that
danger.
Thus denied the solace of confessing my sorrow, my health began to give
way. My feet lagged on the way to her house; I felt that I was
exhausting the source of tears, and each visit cost me added sorrow;
I was torn with the thought that I ought not to see her.
On her part there was neither the same tone nor the same ease as of old;
she spoke of going away on a tour; she pretended to confess to me her
longing to get away, leaving me more dead than alive after her cruel
words. If surprised by a natural impulse of sympathy, she immediately
checked herself and relapsed into her accustomed coldness. Upon one
occasion I could not restrain my tears. I saw her turn pale. As I was
going, she said to me at the door:
"To-morrow I am going to Sainte-Luce (a neighboring village), and it is
too far to go on foot. Be here with your horse early in the morning,
if you have nothing to do, and go with me."
I was on hand promptly, as may readily be imagined. I had slept over
that word with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house, I
experienced a feeling of deep dejection. In restoring me to the
privilege I had formerly enjoyed of accompanying her on her missions
about the country, she had clearly been guilty of a cruel caprice if she
did not love me. She knew how I was suffering; why abuse my courage
unless she had changed her mind?
This reflection had a strange influence on me. When she mounted her
horse my heart beat violently as I took her foot; I do not know whether
it was from desire or anger. "If she is touched," I said to myself, "why
this reserve? If she is a coquette, why so much liberty?"
Such are men. At my first word she saw that a change had taken place in
me. I did not speak to her, but kept to the other side of the road.
When we reached the valley she appeared at ease, and only turned her head
from time to time to see if I was following her; but when we came to the
forest and our horses' hoofs resounded against the rocks that lined the
road, I saw that she was trembling. She stopped as though to wait for
me, as I was some distance in the rear; when I had overtaken her she set
out at a gallop. We soon reached the foot of the mountain and were
compelled to slacken our pace. I then made my way to her side; our heads
were bowed; the time had come, I took her hand.
"Brigitte," I said, "are you weary of my complaints? Since I have been
reinstated in your favor, since I have been allowed to see you every day
and every evening, I have asked myself if I have been importunate.
During the last two months, while strength and hope have been failing me,
have I said a word of that fatal love which is consuming me? Raise your
head and answer me. Do you not see that I suffer and that my nights are
given to weeping? Have you not met in the forest an unfortunate wretch
sitting in solitary dejection with his hands pressed to his forehead?
Have you not seen tears on these bushes? Look at me, look at these
mountains; do you realize that I love you? They know it, they are my
witnesses; these rocks and these trees know my secret. Why lead me
before them? Am I not wretched enough? Do I fail in courage? Have I
obeyed you? To what tests, what tortures am I subjected, and for what
crime? If you do not love me, what are you doing here?"
"Let us return," she said, "let us retrace our steps."
I seized her horse's bridle.
"No," I replied, "for I have spoken. If we return, I lose you, I realize
it; I know in advance what you will say. You have been pleased to try my
patience, you have set my sorrow at defiance, perhaps that you might have
the right to drive me from your presence; you have become tired of that
sorrowful lover who suffered without complaint and who drank with
resignation the bitter chalice of your disdain! You knew that, alone
with you in the presence of these trees, in the midst of this solitude
where my love had its birth, I could not be silent! You wish to be
offended. Very well, Madame, I lose you! I have wept and I have
suffered, I have too long nourished in my heart a pitiless love that
devours me. You have been cruel!"
As she was about to leap from her saddle, I seized her in my arms and
pressed my lips to hers. She turned pale, her eyes closed, her bridle
slipped from her hand and she fell to the ground.
"God be praised!" I cried, "she loves me!" She had returned my kiss.
I leaped to the ground and hastened to her side. She was extended on the
ground. I raised her, she opened her eyes, and shuddered with terror;
she pushed my arm aside, and burst into tears.
I stood near the roadside; I looked at her as she leaned against a tree,
as beautiful as the day, her long hair falling over her shoulders, her
hands twitching and trembling, her cheeks suffused with crimson, whereon
shone pearly tears.
"Do not come near me!" she cried, "not a step!"
"Oh, my love!" I said, "fear nothing; if I have offended you, you know
how to punish me. I was angry and I gave way to my grief; treat me as
you choose; you may go away now, you may send me away! I know that you
love me, Brigitte, and you are safer here than a king in his palace."
As I spoke these words, Madame Pierson fixed her humid eyes on mine; I
saw the happiness of my life come to me in the flash of those orbs. I
crossed the road and knelt before her. How little he loves who can
recall the words he uses when he confesses that love!