CHAPTER VII

THE VENUSBERG AGAIN

If I were a jeweler and had in stock a pearl necklace that I wished to

give a friend, it seems to me I should take great pleasure in placing it

about her neck with my own hands; but were I that friend, I would rather

die than snatch the necklace from the jeweler's hand. I have seen many

men hasten to give themselves to the woman they love, but I have always

done the contrary, not through calculation, but through natural instinct.

The woman who loves a little and resists does not love enough, and she

who loves enough and resists knows that she is not sincerely loved.

Madame Pierson gave evidence of more confidence in me, confessing that

she loved me when she had never shown it in her actions. The respect I

felt for her inspired me with such joy that her face looked to me like a

budding rose. At times she would abandon herself to an impulse of sudden

gayety, then she would suddenly check herself; treating me like a child,

and then look at me with eyes filled with tears; indulging in a thousand

pleasantries as a pretext for a more familiar word or caress, she would

suddenly leave me, go aside and abandon herself to revery. Was ever a

more beautiful sight? When she returned she would find me waiting for

her in the same spot where I had remained watching her.

"Oh! my friend!" I said, "Heaven itself rejoices to see how you are

loved."

Yet I could conceal neither the violence of my desires nor the pain I

endured struggling against them. One evening I told her that I had just

learned of the loss of an important case, which would involve a

considerable change in my affairs.

"How is it," she asked, "that you make this announcement and smile at the

same time?"

"There is a certain maxim of a Persian poet," I replied: "'He who is

loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow.'"

Madame Pierson made no reply; all that evening she was even more cheerful

than usual. When we played cards with her aunt and I lost she was

merciless in her scorn, saying that I knew nothing of the game, and she

bet against me with so much success that she won all I had in my purse.

When the old lady retired, she stepped out on the balcony and I followed

her in silence.

The night was beautiful; the moon was setting and the stars shone

brightly in a field of deep azure. Not a breath of wind stirred the

trees; the air was warm and freighted with the perfume of spring.

She was leaning on her elbow, her eyes in the heavens; I leaned over her

and watched her as she dreamed. Then I raised my own eyes; a voluptuous

melancholy seized us both. We breathed together the warm perfume wafted

to us from the garden; we followed, in its lingering course, the pale

light of the moon which glinted through the chestnut-trees. I thought of

a certain day when I had looked up at the broad expanse of heaven with

despair; I trembled at the recollection of that hour; life was so rich

now! I felt a hymn of praise welling up in my heart. Around the form of

my dear mistress I slipped my arm; she gently turned her head; her eyes

were bathed in tears. Her body yielded as does the rose, her open lips

fell on mine, and the universe was forgotten.

Eternal angel of happy nights, who shall interpret thy silence?

Mysterious vintage that flows from lips that meet as from a stainless

chalice! Intoxication of the senses! O, supremest joy! Yes, like God,

thou art immortal! Sublime exaltation of the creature, universal

communion of beings, thrice sacred pleasure, what have they sung who have

celebrated thy praise? They have called thee transitory, O thou who dost

create! And they have said that thy passing beams have illumined their

fugitive life. Words that are as feeble as the dying breath! Words of a

sensual brute who is astonished that he should live for an hour, and who

mistakes the rays of the eternal lamp for the spark which is struck from

the flint!

O love! thou principle of life! Precious flame over which all nature,

like a careful vestal, incessantly watches in the temple of God! Centre

of all, by whom all exists, the spirit of destruction would itself die,

blowing at thy flame! I am not astonished that thy name should be

blasphemed, for they do not know who thou art, they who think they have

seen thy face because they have opened their eyes; and when thou findest

thy true prophets, united on earth with a kiss, thou closest their eyes

lest they look upon the face of perfect joy.

But you, O rapturous delights, languishing smiles, and first caressing,

stammering utterance of love, you who can be seen, who are you? Are you

less in God's sight than all the rest, beautiful cherubim who soar in the

alcove and who bring to this world man awakened from the dream divine!

Ah! dear children of pleasure, how your mother loves you! It is you,

curious prattlers, who behold the first mysteries, touches, trembling yet

chaste, glances that are already insatiable, who begin to trace on the

heart, as a tentative sketch, the ineffaceable image of cherished beauty!

O royalty! O conquest! It is you who make lovers. And thou, true

diadem, serenity of happiness! The first true concept of man's life, and

first return of happiness in the many little things of life which are

seen only through the medium of joy, first steps made by nature in the

direction of the well-beloved! Who will paint you? What human word will

ever express thy slightest caress?

He who, in the freshness of youth, has taken leave of an adored mistress;

he who has walked through the streets without hearing the voices of those

who speak to him; he who has sat in a lonely spot, laughing and weeping

without knowing why; he who has placed his hands to his face in order to

breathe the perfume that still clings to them; he who has suddenly

forgotten what he had been doing on earth; he who has spoken to the trees

along the route and to the birds in their flight; finally, he who, in the

midst of men, has acted the madman, and then has fallen on his knees and

thanked God for it; let him die without complaint: he has known the joy

of love.

PART IV

CHAPTER I

THE THORNS OF LOVE

I have now to recount what happened to my love, and the change that took

place in me. What reason can I give for it? None, except as I repeat

the story and as I say: "It is the truth." For two days, neither more

nor less, I was Madame Pierson's lover. One fine night I set out and

traversed the road that led to her house. I was feeling so well in body

and soul that I leaped for joy and extended my arms to heaven. I found

her at the top of the stairway leaning on the railing, a lighted candle

beside her. She was waiting for me, and when she saw me ran to meet me.

She showed me how she had changed her coiffure which had displeased me,

and told me how she had passed the day arranging her hair to suit my

taste; how she had taken down a villainous black picture-frame that had

offended my eye; how she had renewed the flowers; she recounted all she

had done since she had known me, how she had seen me suffer and how she

had suffered herself; how she had thought of leaving the country, of

fleeing from her love; how she had employed every precaution against me;

how she had sought advice from her aunt, from Mercanson and from the

cure; how she had vowed to herself that she would die rather than yield,

and how all that had been dissipated by a single word of mine, a glance,

an incident; and with every confession a kiss.

She said that whatever I saw in her room that pleased my taste, whatever

bagatelle on her table attracted my attention, she would give me; that

whatever she did in the future, in the morning, in the evening, at any

hour, I should regulate as I pleased; that the judgments of the world did

not concern her; that if she had appeared to care for them, it was only

to send me away; but that she wished to be happy and close her ears, that

she was thirty years of age and had not long to be loved by me. "And you

will love me a long time? Are those fine words, with which you have

beguiled me, true?" And then loving reproaches because I had been late

in coming to her; that she had put on her slippers in order that I might

see her foot, but that she was no longer beautiful; that she could wish

she were; that she had been at fifteen. She went here and there, silly

with love, rosy with joy; and she did not know what to imagine, what to

say or do, in order to give herself and all that she had.

I was lying on the sofa; I felt, at every word she spoke, a bad hour of

my past life slipping away from me. I watched the star of love rising in

my sky, and it seemed to me I was like a tree filled with sap that shakes

off its dry leaves in order to attire itself in new foliage. She sat

down at the piano and told me she was going to play an air by Stradella.

More than all else I love sacred music, and that morceau which she had

sung for me a number of times gave me great pleasure.

"Yes," she said when she had finished, "but you are very much mistaken,

the air is mine, and I have made you believe it was Stradella's."

"It is yours?"

"Yes, and I told you it was by Stradella in order to see what you would

say of it. I never play my own music when I happen to compose any; but I

wanted to try it with you, and you see it has succeeded since you were

deceived."

What a monstrous machine is man! What could be more innocent? A bright

child might have adopted that ruse to surprise his teacher. She laughed

heartily the while, but I felt a strange coldness as if a dark cloud had

settled on me; my countenance changed:

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Are you ill?"

"It is nothing; play that air again."

While she was playing I walked up and down the room; I passed my hand

over my forehead as if to brush away the fog; I stamped my foot, shrugged

my shoulders at my own madness; finally I sat down on a cushion which had

fallen to the floor; she came to me. The more I struggled with the

spirit of darkness which had seized me, the thicker the night that

gathered around my head.

"Verily," I said, "you lie so well? What! that air is yours? Is it

possible you can lie so fluently?"

She looked at me with an air of astonishment.

"What is it?" she asked.

Unspeakable anxiety was depicted on her face. Surely she could not

believe me fool enough to reproach her for such a harmless bit of

pleasantry; she did not see anything serious in that sadness which I

felt; but the more trifling the cause, the greater the surprise. At

first she thought I, too, must be joking; but when she saw me growing

paler every moment as if about to faint, she stood with open lips and

bent body, looking like a statue.

"God of Heaven!" she cried, "is it possible?"

You smile, perhaps, reader, at this page; I who write it still shudder as

I think of it. Misfortunes have their symptoms as well as diseases, and

there is nothing so terrible at sea as a little black point on the

horizon.

However, my dear Brigitte drew a little round table into the centre of

the room and brought out some supper. She had prepared it herself, and I

did not drink a drop that was not first borne to her lips. The blue

light of day, piercing through the curtains, illumined her charming face

and tender eyes; she was tired and allowed her head to fall on my

shoulder with a thousand terms of endearment.

I could not struggle against such charming abandon, and my heart expanded

with joy; I believed I had rid myself of the bad dream that had just

tormented me, and I begged her pardon for giving way to a sudden impulse

which I myself did not understand.

"My friend," I said, from the bottom of my heart, "I am very sorry that I

unjustly reproached you for a piece of innocent badinage; but if you love

me, never lie to me, even in the smallest matter, for a lie is an

abomination to me and I can not endure it."

I told her I would remain until she was asleep. I saw her close her

beautiful eyes and heard her murmur something in her sleep as I bent over

and kissed her adieu. Then I went away with a tranquil heart, promising

myself that I would henceforth enjoy my happiness and allow nothing to

disturb it.

But the next day Brigitte said to me, as if quite by chance:

"I have a large book in which I have written my thoughts, everything that

has occurred to my mind, and I want you to see what I said of you the

first day I met you."

We read together what concerned me, to which we added a hundred foolish

comments, after which I began to turn the leaves in a mechanical way. A

phrase written in capital letters caught my eye on one of the pages I was

turning; I distinctly saw some words that were insignificant enough, and

I was about to read the rest when Brigitte stopped me and said:

"Do not read that."

I threw the book on the table.

"Why, certainly not," I said, "I did not think what I was doing."

"Do you still take things seriously?" she asked, smiling, doubtless

seeing my malady coming on again; "take the book, I want you to read it."

The book lay on the table within easy reach and I did not take my eyes

from it. I seemed to hear a voice whispering in my ear, and I thought I

saw, grimacing before me, with his glacial smile and dry face, Desgenais.

"What are you doing here, Desgenais?" I asked as if I really saw him.

He looked as he did that evening, when he leaned over my table and

unfolded to me his catechism of vice.

I kept my eyes on the book and I felt vaguely stirring in my memory some

forgotten words of the past. The spirit of doubt hanging over my head

had injected into my veins a drop of poison; the vapor mounted to my head

and I staggered like a drunken man. What secret was Brigitte concealing

from me? I knew very well that I had only to bend over and open the

book; but at what place? How could I recognize the leaf on which my eye

had chanced to fall?

My pride, moreover, would not permit me to take the book; was it indeed

pride? "O God!" I said to myself with a frightful sense of sadness,

"is the past a spectre? and can it come out of its tomb? Ah! wretch

that I am, can I never love?"

All my ideas of contempt for women, all the phrases of mocking fatuity

which I had repeated as a schoolboy his lesson, suddenly came to my mind;

and strange to say, while formerly I did not believe in making a parade

of them, now it seemed that they were real, or at least that they had

been.

I had known Madame Pierson four months, but I knew nothing of her past

life and had never questioned her about it. I had yielded to my love for

her with confidence and without reservation. I found a sort of pleasure

in taking her just as she was, for just what she seemed, while suspicion

and jealousy are so foreign to my nature that I was more surprised at

feeling them toward Brigitte than she was in discovering them in me.

Never in my first love nor in the affairs of daily life have I been

distrustful, but on the contrary bold and frank, suspecting nothing.

I had to see my mistress betray me before my eyes before I would believe

that she could deceive me. Desgenais himself, while preaching to me

after his manner, joked me about the ease with which I could be duped.

The story of my life was an incontestable proof that I was credulous

rather than suspicious; and when the words in that book suddenly struck

me, it seemed to me I felt a new being within me, a sort of unknown self;

my reason revolted against the feeling, and I did not dare ask whither

all this was leading me.

But the suffering I had endured, the memory of the perfidy that I had

witnessed, the frightful cure I had imposed on myself, the opinions of my

friends, the corrupt life I had led, the sad truths I had learned, as

well as those that I had unconsciously surmised during my sad experience,

ending in debauchery, contempt of love, abuse of everything, that is what

I had in my heart although I did not suspect it; and at the moment when

life and hope were again being born within me, all these furies that were

being atrophied by time seized me by the throat and cried that they were

yet alive.

I bent over and opened the book, then immediately closed it and threw it

on the table. Brigitte was looking at me; in her beautiful eyes was

neither wounded pride nor anger; nothing but tender solicitude, as if I

were ill.

"Do you think I have secrets?" she asked, embracing me.

"No," I replied, "I know nothing except that you are beautiful and that I

would die loving you."

When I returned home to dinner I said to Larive:

"Who is Madame Pierson?"

He looked at me in astonishment.

"You have lived here many years," I continued; "you ought to know better

than I. What do they say of her here? What do they think of her in the

village? What kind of life did she lead before I knew her? Whom did she

receive as her friends?"

"In faith, sir, I have never seen her do otherwise than she does every

day, that is to say, walk in the valley, play picquet with her aunt, and

visit the poor. The peasants call her Brigitte la Rose; I have never

heard a word against her except that she goes through the woods alone at

all hours of the day and night; but that is when engaged in charitable

work. She is the ministering angel in the valley. As for those she

receives, there are only the cure and Monsieur de Dalens during

vacation."

"Who is this Monsieur de Dalens?"

"He owns the chateau at the foot of the mountain on the other side; he

only comes here for the chase."

"Is he young?"

"Yes."

"Is he related to Madame Pierson?"

"No, he was a friend of her husband."

"Has her husband been dead long?"

"Five years on All-Saints' day. He was a worthy man."

"And has this Monsieur de Dalens paid court?"

"To the widow? In faith--to tell the truth--" he stopped, embarrassed.

"Well, will you answer me?"

"Some say so and some do not--I know nothing and have seen nothing."

"And you just told me that they do not talk about her in the country?"

"That is all they have said, and I supposed you knew that."

"In a word, yes or no?"

"Yes, sir, I think so, at least."

I arose from the table and walked down the road; Mercanson was there.

I expected he would try to avoid me; on the contrary he approached me.

"Sir," he said, "you exhibited signs of anger which it does not become a

man of my character to resent. I wish to express my regret that I was

charged to communicate a message which appeared so unwelcome."

I returned his compliment, supposing he would leave me at once; but he

walked along at my side.

"Dalens! Dalens!" I repeated between my teeth, "who will tell me about

Dalens?" For Larive had told me nothing except what a valet might learn.

From whom had he learned it? From some servant or peasant. I must have

some witness who had seen Dalens with Madame Pierson and who knew all

about their relations. I could not get that Dalens out of my head, and

not being able to talk to any one else, I asked Mercanson about him.

If Mercanson was not a bad man, he was either a fool or very shrewd, I

have never known which. It is certain that he had reason to hate me and

that he treated me as meanly as possible. Madame Pierson, who had the

greatest friendship for the cure, had almost come to think equally well

of the nephew. He was proud of it, and consequently jealous. It is not

love alone that inspires jealousy; a favor, a kind word, a smile from a

beautiful mouth, may arouse some people to jealous rage.

Mercanson appeared to be astonished. I was somewhat astonished myself;

but who knows his own mind?

At his first words I saw that the priest understood what I wanted to know

and had decided not to satisfy me.

"How does it happen that you have known Madame Pierson so long and so

intimately (I think so, at least) and have not met Monsieur de Dalens?

But, doubtless, you have some reason unknown to me for inquiring about

him to-day. All I can say is that as far as I know, he is an honest man,

kind and charitable; he was, like you, very intimate with Madame Pierson;

he is fond of hunting and entertains handsomely. He and Madame Pierson

were accustomed to devote much of their time to music. He punctually

attended to his works of charity and, when--in the country, accompanied

that lady on her rounds, just as you do. His family enjoys an excellent

reputation at Paris; I used to find him with Madame Pierson whenever I

called; his manners were excellent. As for the rest, I speak truly and

frankly, as becomes me when it concerns persons of his merit. I believe

that he only comes here for the chase; he was a friend of her husband; he

is said to be rich and very generous; but I know nothing about it except

that--"

With what tortured phrases was this dull tormentor teasing me. I was

ashamed to listen to him, yet not daring to ask a single question or

interrupt his vile insinuations. I was alone on the promenade; the

poisoned arrow of suspicion had entered my heart. I did not know whether

I felt more of anger or of sorrow. The confidence with which I had

abandoned myself to my love for Brigitte had been so sweet and so natural

that I could not bring myself to believe that so much happiness had been

built upon an illusion. That sentiment of credulity which had attracted

me to her seemed a proof that she was worthy. Was it possible that these

four months of happiness were but a dream?

But after all, I thought, that woman has yielded too easily. Was there

not deception in that pretended anxiety to have me leave the country?

Is she not just like all the rest? Yes, that is the way they all do;

they attempt to escape in order to experience the happiness of being

pursued: it is the feminine instinct. Was it not she who confessed her

love by her own act, at the very moment I had decided that she would

never be mine? Did she not accept my arm the first day I met her? If

Dalens has been her lover, he probably is still; there is a certain sort

of liaison that has neither beginning nor end; when chance ordains a

meeting, it is resumed; when parted, it is forgotten.

If that man comes here this summer, she will probably see him without

breaking with me. Who is this aunt, what mysterious life is this that

has charity for its cloak, this liberty that cares nothing for opinion?

May they not be adventurers, these two women with their little house,

their prudence, and their caution, which enable them to impose on people

so easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I have fallen into an affair of

gallantry when I thought I was engaged in a romance. But what can I do?

There is no one here who can help me except the priest, who does not care

to tell me what he knows, and his uncle, who will say still less. Who

will save me? How can I learn the truth?

Thus spoke jealousy; thus, forgetting so many tears and all that I had

suffered, I had come at the end of two days to a point where I was

tormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte had yielded too easily.

Thus, like all who doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason to dispute

with facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love.

While absorbed in these reflections I was slowly approaching Madame

Pierson's.

I found the gate open, and as I entered the garden I saw a light in the

kitchen. I thought of questioning the servant, I stepped to the window.

A feeling of horror rooted me to the spot. The servant was an old woman,

thin and wrinkled and bent, a common deformity in people who have worked

in the fields. I found her shaking a cooking. utensil over a filthy

sink. A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about her were

pots, kettles, and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffed at,

from time to time, as though ashamed; a warm, nauseating odor emanated

from the reeking walls. When the old woman caught sight of me, she

smiled in a confidential way; she had seen me take leave of her mistress.

I shuddered as I thought what I had come to seek in a spot so well suited

to my ignoble purpose. I fled from that old woman as from jealousy

personified, and as if the stench of her cooking had come from my heart.

Brigitte was at the window watering her well-beloved flowers; a child of

one of her neighbors was lying in a cradle at her side, and she was

gently rocking the cradle with her disengaged hand; the child's mouth was

full of bonbons, and in gurgling eloquence it was addressing an

incomprehensible apostrophe to its nurse. I sat down near her and kissed

the child on its fat cheeks, as if to imbibe some of its innocence.

Brigitte accorded me a timid greeting; she could see her troubled image

in my eyes. For my part I avoided her glance; the more I admired her

beauty and her air of candor, the more I was convinced that such a woman

was either an angel or a monster of perfidy; I forced myself to recall

each one of Mercanson's words, and I confronted, so to speak, the man's

insinuations with her presence and her face. "She is very beautiful," I

said to myself, "and very dangerous if she knows how, to deceive; but I

will fathom her and I will sound her heart; and she shall know who I am."

"My dear," I said after a long silence, "I have just given a piece of

advice to a friend who consulted me. He is an honest young man, and he

writes me that a woman he loves has another lover. He asks me what he

ought to do."

"What reply did you make?"

"Two questions: Is she pretty? Do you love her? If you love her, forget

her; if she is pretty and you do not love her, keep her for your

pleasure; there will always be time to quit her, if it is merely a matter

of beauty, and one is worth as much as another."

Hearing me speak thus, Brigitte put down the child she was holding and

sat down at the other end of the room. There was no light in the room;

the moon, which was shining on the spot where she had been standing,

threw a shadow over the sofa on which she was now seated. The words I

had uttered were so heartless, so cruel, that I was dazed myself, and my

heart was filled with bitterness. The child in its cradle began to cry.

Then all three of us were silent while a cloud passed over the moon.

A servant entered the room with a light and carried the child away. I

arose, Brigitte also; but she suddenly placed her hand on her heart and

fell to the floor.

I hastened to her side; she had not lost consciousness and begged me not

to call any one. She explained that she was subject to violent

palpitation of the heart and had been troubled by fainting spells from

her youth; that there was no danger and no remedy. I kneeled beside her;

she sweetly opened her arms; I raised her head and placed it on my

shoulder.

"Ah! my friend," she said, "I pity you."

"Listen to me," I whispered in her ear, "I am a wretched fool, but I can

keep nothing on my heart. Who is this Monsieur de Dalens who lives on

the mountain and comes to see you?"

She appeared astonished to hear me mention that name.

"Dalens?" she replied. "He was my husband's friend."

She looked at me as if to inquire: "Why do you ask?" It seemed to me

that her face wore a grieved expression. I bit my lips. "If she wants

to deceive me," I thought, "I was foolish to question her."

Brigitte rose with difficulty; she took her fan and began to walk up and

down the room.

She was breathing hard; I had wounded her. She was absorbed in thought

and we exchanged two or three glances that were almost cold. She stepped

to her desk, opened it, drew out a package of letters tied together with

a ribbon, and threw it at my feet without a word.

But I was looking neither at her nor her letters; I had just thrown a

stone into the abyss and was listening to the echoes. For the first time

offended pride was depicted on Brigitte's face. There was no longer

either anxiety or pity in her eyes, and, just as I had come to feel

myself other than I had ever been, so I saw in her a woman I did not

know.

"Read that," she said, finally. I stepped up to her and took her hand.

"Read that, read that!" she repeated in freezing tones.

I took the letters. At that moment I felt so persuaded of her innocence

that I was seized with remorse.

"You remind me," she said, "that I owe you the story of my life; sit down

and you shall learn it. You will open these drawers, and you will read

all that I have written and all that has been written to me."

She sat down and motioned me to a chair. I saw that she found it

difficult to speak. She was pale as death, her voice constrained, her

throat swollen.

"Brigitte! Brigitte!" I cried, "in the name of heaven, do not speak!

God is my witness I was not born such as you see me; during my life I

have been neither suspicious nor distrustful. I have been undone, my

heart has been seared by the treachery of others. A frightful experience

has led me to the very brink of the precipice, and for a year I have seen

nothing but evil here below. God is my witness that, up to this day, I

did not believe myself capable of playing the ignoble role I have

assumed, the meanest role of all, that of a jealous lover. God is my

witness that I love you and that you are the only one in the world who

can cure me of the past.

"I have had to do, up to this time, with women who deceived me, or who

were unworthy of love. I have led the life of a libertine; I bear on my

heart certain marks that will never be effaced. Is it my fault if

calumny, and base suggestion, to-day planted in a heart whose fibres were

still trembling with pain and ready to assimilate all that resembles

sorrow, have driven me to despair? I have just heard the name of a man I

have never met, of whose existence I was ignorant; I have been given to

understand that there has been between you and him a certain intimacy,

which proves nothing. I do not intend to question you; I have suffered

from it, I have confessed to you, and I have done you an irreparable

wrong. But rather than consent to what you propose, I will throw it all

in the fire. Ah! my friend, do not degrade me; do not attempt to justify

yourself, do not punish me for suffering. How could I, in the bottom of

my heart, suspect you of deceiving me?. No, you are beautiful and you

are true; a single glance;: of yours, Brigitte, tells me more than words

could utter;; and I am content. If you knew what horrors, what monstrous

deceit, the man who stands before you has seen! If you knew how he has

been treated, how they have mocked at all that is good, how they have

taken pains to teach him all that leads to doubt, to jealousy, to

despair!

"Alas! alas! my dear mistress, if you knew whom you love! Do not

reproach me, but rather pity me; I must forget that other beings than you

exist. Who can know through what frightful trials, through what pitiless

suffering I have passed! I did not expect this, I did not anticipate

this moment. Since you have become mine, I realize what I have done;

I have felt, in kissing you, that my lips were not, like yours,

unsullied. In the name of heaven, help me live! God made me a better

man than the one you see before you."

Brigitte held out her hands and caressed me tenderly. She begged me to

tell her all that had led to this sad scene. I spoke of what I had

learned from Larive, but did not dare confess that I had interviewed

Mercanson. She insisted that I listen to her explanation. M. de Dalens

had loved her; but he was a man of frivolous disposition, dissipated and

inconstant; she had given him to understand that, not wishing to remarry,

she could only request that he drop the role of suitor, and he had

yielded to her wishes with good grace; but his visits had become more

rare since that time, until now they had ceased altogether. She drew

from the bundle a certain letter which she showed me, the date of which

was recent; I could not help blushing as I found in it the confirmation

of all she had said; she assured me that she pardoned me, and exacted a

promise that in the future I would promptly tell her of any cause I might

have to suspect her. Our treaty was sealed with a kiss, and when I left

her we had both forgotten that M. de Dalens ever existed.

CHAPTER II

UNCERTAINTY

A kind of stagnant inertia, tempered with bitter joy, is characteristic

of debauchery. It is the sequence of a life of caprice, where nothing is

regulated according to the needs of the body, but everything according to

the fantasy of the mind, and one must be always ready to obey the behests

of the other. Youth and will can resist excess; but nature silently

avenges herself, and the day when she decides to repair her forces, the

will struggles to retard her work and abuses her anew.

Finding about him then all the objects that were able to tempt him the

evening before, the man who is incapable of enjoying them looks down at

them with a smile of disgust. At the same time the objects which excite

his desire are never attained with sang-froid; all that the debauches

loves, he seizes; his life is a fever; his organs, in order to search the

depths of joy, are forced to avail themselves of the stimulant of

fermented liquors and sleepless nights; in the days of ennui and of

idleness he feels more keenly than other men the disparity between his

impotence and his temptations, and, in order to resist the latter, pride

must come to his aid and make him believe that he disdains them. It is

thus he spits on all the feasts and pleasures of his life, and so,

between an ardent thirst and a profound satiety, a feeling of tranquil

vanity leads him to his death.

Although I was no longer a debauches, it came to pass that my body

suddenly remembered that it had been. It is easy to understand why I had

not felt the effects of it sooner. While mourning my father's death

every other thought was crowded from my mind. Then a passionate love

succeeded; while I was alone, ennui had nothing to struggle for. Sad or

gay, fair or foul, what matters it to him who is alone?

As zinc, rarely found unmixed, drawn from the vein where it lies

sleeping, attracts to itself a ray of light when placed near green

leather, thus Brigitte's kisses gradually awakened in my heart what had

been buried there. At her side I perceived what I really was.

There were days when I felt such a strange sensation in the mornings that

it is impossible for me to define it. I awakened without a motive,

feeling like a man who has spent the night in eating and drinking to the

point of exhaustion. All external sensations caused me insupportable

fatigue, all well-known objects of daily life repelled and annoyed me;

if I spoke it was in ridicule of what others thought or of what I thought

myself. Then, extended on the bed, as if incapable of any motion,

I dismissed any thought of undertaking whatever had been agreed upon the

evening before; I recalled all the tender and loving things I had said to

my mistress during my better moments, and was not satisfied until I had

spoiled and poisoned those memories of happy days. "Can you not forget

all that?" Brigitte would sadly inquire, "if there are two different men

in you, can you not, when the bad rouses himself, forget the good?"

The patience with which Brigitte opposed these vagaries only served to

excite my sinister gayety. Strange that the man who suffers wishes to

make her whom he loves suffer! To lose control of one's self, is that

not the worst of evils? Is there anything more cruel for a woman than to

hear a man turn to derision all that is sacred and mysterious? Yet she

did not flee from me; she remained at my side, while in my savage humor I

insulted love and allowed insane ravings to escape from lips that were

still moist with her kisses.

On such days, contrary to my usual inclination, I liked to talk of Paris

and speak of my life of debauchery as the most commendable thing in the

world. "You are nothing but a saint," I would laughingly observe; "you

do not understand what I say. There is nothing like those careless ones

who make love without believing in it." Was that not the same as saying

that I did not believe in it?

"Very well," Brigitte replied, "teach me how to please you always. I am

perhaps as pretty as those mistresses whom you mourn; if I have not their

skill to divert you, I beg that you will instruct me. Act as if you did

not love me, and let me love you without saying anything about it. If I

am devoted to religion, I am also devoted to love. What can I do to make

you believe it?"

Then she would stand before the mirror arraying herself as if for a

soiree, affecting a coquetry that she was far from feeling, trying to

adopt my tone, laughing and skipping about the room. "Am I to your

taste?" she would ask. "Which one of your mistresses do I resemble? Am

I beautiful, enough to make you forget that any one can believe in love?

Have I a sufficiently careless air to suit you?" Then, in the midst of

that factitious joy, she would turn her back and I could see her shudder

until the flowers she had placed in her hair trembled. I threw myself at

her feet.

"Stop!" I cried, "you resemble only too closely that which you try to

imitate, that which my mouth has been so vile as to conjure up before

you. Lay aside those flowers and that dress. Let us wash away such

mimicry with a sincere tear; do not remind me that I am but a prodigal

son; I remember the past too well."

But even this repentance was cruel, as it proved to her that the phantoms

in my heart were full of reality. In yielding to an impulse of horror I

merely gave her to understand that her resignation and her desire to

please me only served to call up an impure image.

And it was true; I reached her side transported with joy, swearing that I

would regret my past life; on my knees I protested my respect for her;

then a gesture, a word, a trick of turning as she approached me, recalled

to my mind the fact that such and such a woman had made that gesture, had

used that word, had that same trick of turning.

Poor devoted soul! What didst thou suffer in seeing me turn pale before

thee, in seeing my arms fall as though lifeless at my side! When the

kiss died on my lips, and the full glance of love, that pure ray of God's

light, fled from my eyes like an arrow turned by the wind! Ah!

Brigitte! what diamonds trickled from thine eyes! What treasures of

charity didst thou exhaust with patient hand! How pitiful thy love!

For a long time good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly;

I showed myself alternately cruel and scornful, tender and devoted,

insensible and haughty, repentant and submissive. The face of Desgenais,

which had at first appeared to me as though to warn me whither I was

drifting, was now constantly before me. On my days of doubt and

coldness, I conversed, so to speak, with him; often when I had offended

Brigitte by some cruel mockery I said to myself "If he were in my place

he would do as I do!"

And then at other times, when putting on my hat to visit Brigitte, I

would look in my glass and say: "What is there so terrible about it,

anyway? I have, after all, a pretty mistress; she has given herself to

a libertine, let her take me for what I am." I reached her side with a

smile on my lips, I sank into a chair with an air of deliberate

insolence; then I saw Brigitte approach, her large eyes filled with

tenderness and anxiety; I seized her little hands in mine and lost myself

in an infinite dream.

How name a thing that is nameless? Was I good or bad? Was I distrustful

or a fool? It is useless to reflect on it; it happened thus.

One of our neighbors was a young woman whose name was Madame Daniel. She

possessed some beauty, and still more coquetry; she was poor, but tried

to pass for rich; she would come to see us after dinner and always played

a heavy game against us, although her losses embarrassed her; she sang,

but had no voice. In the solitude of that unknown village, where an

unkind fate had buried her, she was consumed with an uncontrollable

passion for pleasure. She talked of nothing but Paris, which she visited

two or three times a year. She pretended to keep up with the fashions,

and my dear Brigitte assisted her as best she could, while smiling with

pity. Her husband was employed by the government; once a year he would

take her to the house of the chief of his department, where, attired in

her best, the little woman danced to her heart's content. She would

return with shining eyes and tired body; she would come to us to tell of

her prowess, and her success in assaulting the masculine heart. The rest

of the time she read novels, never taking the trouble to look after her

household affairs, which were not always in the best condition.

Whenever I saw her, I laughed at her, finding nothing so ridiculous as

the high life she thought she was leading. I would interrupt her

description of a ball to inquire about her husband and her father-in-law,

both of whom she detested, the one because he was her husband, and the

other because he was only a peasant; in short, we were always disputing

on some subject.

In my evil moments I thought of paying court to her just for the sake of

annoying Brigitte.

"You see," I said, "how perfectly Madame Daniel understands life! In her

present sprightly humor could one desire a more charming mistress?"

I then paid her the most extravagant compliments; her senseless chatting

I described as unrestraint tempered by finesse, her pretentious

exaggerations as a natural desire to please; was it her fault that she

was poor? At least she thought of nothing but pleasure and confessed it

freely; she did not preach sermons herself, nor did she listen to them

from others; I went so far as to tell Brigitte that she ought to adopt

her as a model, and that she was just the kind of woman to please me.

Poor Madame Daniel discovered signs of melancholy in Brigitte's eyes.

She was a strange creature, as good and sincere--when you could get

finery out of her head--as she was stupid when absorbed in such frivolous

affairs. On occasion she could be both good and stupid. One fine day,

when they were walking together, she threw herself into Brigitte's arms,

and told her that she had noticed I was beginning to pay court to her,

and that I had made certain proposals to her, the meaning of which was

not doubtful; but she knew that I was another's lover, and as for her,

whatever might happen, she would die rather than destroy the happiness of

a friend. Brigitte thanked her, and Madame Daniel, having set her

conscience at ease, considered it no sin to render me desolate by

languishing glances.

In the evening, when she had gone, Brigitte, in a severe tone, told me

what had happened; she begged me to spare her such affronts in the

future.

"Not that I attach any importance to such pleasantries," she said, "but

if you have any love for me, it seems to me it is useless to inform a

third party that there are times when you have not."

"Is it possible," I replied with a smile, "that it is important? You see

very well that I was only joking, and that I did it only to pass away the

time."

"Ah! my friend, my friend," said Brigitte, "it is a pity that you must

seek pastimes."

A few days later I proposed that we go to the prefecture to see Madame

Daniel dance; she unwillingly consented. While she was arranging her

toilette, I sat near the window and reproached her for losing her former

cheerfulness.

"What is the matter with you?" I asked. (I knew as well as she.) "Why

that morose air that never leaves you? In truth, you make our life quite

sad. I have known you when you were more joyous, more free and more

open; I am not flattered by the thought that I am responsible for the

change. But you have a cloistral disposition; you were born to live in a

convent."

It was Sunday; as we were driving down the road Brigitte ordered the

carriage to stop in order to say good-evening to some friends, fresh and

vigorous country girls, who were going to dance at Tilleuls. When they

had gone on, Brigitte followed them with, longing eyes; her little rustic

dance was very dear to her; she dried her eyes with her handkerchief.

We found Madame Daniel at the prefecture in high feather. I danced with

her so often that it excited comment; I paid her a thousand compliments

and she replied as best she could.

Brigitte was near us, and her eyes never left us. I can hardly describe

what I felt; it was both pleasure and pain. I clearly saw that she was

jealous; but instead of being moved by it I did all I could to increase

her suffering.

On the return I expected to hear her reproaches; she made none, but

remained silent for three days. When I came to see her she would greet

me kindly; then we would sit down facing each other, both of us

preoccupied, hardly exchanging a word. The third day she spoke,

overwhelmed me with bitter reproaches, told me that my conduct was

unreasonable, that she could not account for it except on the supposition

that I had ceased to love her; but she could not endure this life and

would resort to anything rather than submit to my caprices and coldness.

Her eyes were full of tears, and I was about to ask her pardon when some

words escaped her that were so bitter that my pride revolted. I replied

in the same tone, and our quarrel became violent.

I told her that it was absurd to suppose that I could not inspire enough

confidence in my mistress to escape the necessity of explaining my every

action; that Madame Daniel was only a pretext; that she very well knew I

did not think of that woman seriously; that her pretended jealousy was

nothing but the expression of her desire for despotic power, and that,

moreover, if she had tired of this life, it was easy enough to put an end

to it.

"Very well," she replied; "it is true that I do not recognize you as the

same man I first knew; you doubtless performed a little comedy to

persuade me that you loved me; you are tired of your role and can think

of nothing but abuse. You suspect me of deceiving you upon the first

word, and I am under no obligation to submit to your insults. You are no

longer the man I loved."

"I know what your sufferings are," I replied. "I can not make a step

without exciting your alarm. Soon I shall not be permitted to address a

word to any one but you. You pretend that you have been abused in order

that you may be justified in offering insult; you accuse me of tyranny in

order that I may become your slave. Since I trouble your repose, I leave

you in peace; you will never see me again."

We parted in anger, and I passed an entire day without seeing her. The

next night, toward midnight, I was seized by a feeling of melancholy that

I could not resist. I shed a torrent of tears; I overwhelmed myself with

reproaches that I richly deserved. I told myself that I was nothing but

a fool, and a cowardly fool at that, to make the noblest, the best of

creatures, suffer in this way. I ran to her to throw myself at her feet.

Entering the garden, I saw that her room was lighted and a flash of

suspicion crossed my mind. "She does not expect me at this hour," I said

to myself; "who knows what she may be doing. I left her in tears

yesterday; I may find her ready to sing to-day and caring no more for me

than if I never existed. I must enter gently, in order to surprise her."

I advanced on tiptoe, and the door being open, I could see Brigitte

without being seen.

She was seated at her table and was writing in that same book that had

aroused my suspicions. She held in her left hand a little box of white

wood which she looked at from time to time and trembled. There was

something sinister in the quiet that reigned in the room. Her secretary

was open and several bundles of papers were carefully ranged in order.

I made some noise at the door. She rose, went to the secretary, closed

it, then came to me with a smile:

"Octave," she said, "we are two children. If you had not come here, I

should have gone to you. Pardon me, I was wrong. Madame Daniel comes to

dinner to-morrow; make me repent, if you choose, of what you call my

despotism. If you but love me I am happy; let us forget what is past and

let us not spoil our happiness."

CHAPTER III

EXPLANATIONS

But quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation; it

was attended, on Brigitte's part, by a mystery which frightened me at

first and then planted in my soul the seeds of constant dread.

There developed in me, in spite of my struggles, the two elements of

misfortune which the past had bequeathed me: at times furious jealousy

attended by reproaches and insults; at other times a cruel gayety, an

affected cheerfulness, that mockingly outraged whatever I held most dear.

Thus the inexorable spectres of the past pursued me without respite; thus

Brigitte, seeing herself treated alternately as a faithless mistress and

a shameless woman, fell into a condition of melancholy that clouded our

entire life; and worst of all, that sadness even, the cause of which I

knew, was not the most burdensome of our sorrows. I was young and I

loved pleasure; that daily association with a woman older than I, who

suffered and languished, that face, more and more serious, which was

always before me, all this repelled my youth and aroused within me bitter

regrets for the liberty I had lost.

One night we were passing through the forest in the beautiful light of

the moon, and both experienced a profound melancholy. Brigitte looked at

me in pity. We sat down on a rock near a wild gorge and passed two

entire hours there; her half-veiled eyes plunged into my soul, crossing a

glance from mine; then wandered to nature, to the heavens and the valley.

"Ah! my dear child," she said, "how I pity you! You do not love me."

To reach that rock we had to travel two leagues; two more in returning

makes four. Brigitte was afraid of neither fatigue nor darkness. We set

out at eleven at night, expecting to reach home some time in the morning.

When we went on long tramps she always dressed in a blue blouse and the

apparel of a man, saying that skirts were not made for bushes. She

walked before me in the sand with a firm step and such a charming

mingling of feminine delicacy and childlike innocence, that I stopped

every few moments to look at her. It seemed that, once started, she had

to accomplish a difficult but sacred task; she walked in front like a

soldier, her arms swinging, her voice ringing through the woods in song;

suddenly she would turn, come to me and kiss me. This was on the outward

journey; on the return she leaned on my arm; then more songs,

confidences, tender avowals in low tones, although we were alone, two

leagues from anywhere. I do not recall a single word spoken on the

return that was not of love or friendship.

Another night we struck out through the woods, leaving the road which led

to the rock. Brigitte was tramping along so stoutly and her little

velvet cap on her light hair made her look so much like a resolute youth,

that I forgot she was a woman when there were no obstacles in our path.

More than once she was obliged to call me to her aid when I, without

thinking of her, had pushed on ahead. I can not describe the effect

produced on me in the clear night air, in the midst of the forest, by

that voice of hers, half-joyous and half-plaintive, coming, as it were,

from that little schoolboy body wedged in between roots and trunks of

trees, unable to advance. I took her in my arms.

"Come, Madame," I cried, laughing, "you are a pretty little mountaineer,

but you are blistering your white hands, and in spite of your hobnailed

shoes, your stick and your martial air, I see that you must be carried."

We arrived at the rock breathless; about my body was strapped a leather

belt to which was attached a wicker bottle. When we were seated on the

rock, my dear Brigitte asked for the bottle; I had lost it, as well as a

tinder-box which served another purpose: that was to read the

inscriptions on the guide-posts when we went astray, which occurred

frequently. At such times I would climb the posts, and read the half-

effaced inscription by the light of the tinder-box; all this in play,

like the children that we were. At a crossroad we would have to examine

not one guide-post but five or six until the right one was found. But

this time we had lost our baggage on the way.

"Very well," said Brigitte, "we will pass the night here, as I am rather

tired. This rock will make a hard bed, but we can cover it with dry

leaves. Let us sit down and make the best of it."

The night was superb; the moon was rising behind us; I looked at it over

my left shoulder. Brigitte was watching the lines of the wooded hills as

they began to outline themselves against the background of sky. As the

light flooded the copse and threw its halo over sleeping nature,

Brigitte's song became more gentle and more melancholy. Then she bent

over, and, throwing her arms around my neck, said:

"Do not think that I do not understand your heart or that I would

reproach you for what you make me suffer. It is not your fault, my

friend, if you have not the power to forget your past life; you have

loved me in good faith and I shall never regret, although I should die

for it, the day I gave myself to you. You thought you were entering upon

a new life, and that with me you would forget the women who had deceived

you. Alas! Octave, I used to smile at that precocious experience which

you said you had been through, and of which I heard you boast like a

child who knows nothing of life. I thought I had but to will it, and all

that there was that was good in your heart would come to your lips with

my first kiss. You, too, believed it, but we were both mistaken.

"Oh, my child! You have in your heart a plague that can not be cured;

that woman who deceived you, how you must have loved her! Yes, more than

you love me, alas! much more, since with all my poor love I can not

efface her image; she must have deceived you most cruelly, since it is in

vain that I am faithful!

"And the others, those wretches who then poisoned your youth! The

pleasures they sold must have been terrible since you ask me to imitate

them! You remember them with me! Alas! my dear child, that is too

cruel. I like you better when you are unjust and furious, when you

reproach me for imaginary crimes and avenge on me the wrong done you by

others, than when you are under the influence of that frightful gayety,

when you assume that air of hideous mockery, when that mask of scorn

affronts my eyes.

"Tell me, Octave, why that? Why those moments when you speak of love

with contempt and rail at the most sacred mysteries of love? What

frightful power over your irritable nerves has that life you have led,

that such insults should mount to your lips in spite of you? Yes, in

spite of you; for your heart is noble, you blush at your own blasphemy;

you love me too much, not to suffer when you see me suffer. Ah! I know

you now. The first time I saw you thus, I was seized with a feeling of

terror of which I can give you no idea. I thought you were only a roue,

that you had deliberately deceived me by feigning a love you did not

feel, and that I saw you such as you really were. O my friend! I

thought it was time to die; what a night I passed! You do not know my

life; you do not know that I who speak to you have had an experience as

terrible as yours. Alas! life is sweet only to those who do not know

life.

"You are not, my dear Octave, the only man I have loved. There is hidden

in my heart a fatal story that I wish you to know. My father destined

me, when I was quite young, for the only son of an old friend. They were

neighbors and each owned a little domain of almost equal value. The two

families saw each other every day, and lived, so to speak, together. My

father died; my mother had been dead some time. I lived with the aunt

whom you know. A journey she was compelled to take forced her to confide

me to the care of my future father-in-law. He called me his daughter,

and it was so well known about the country that I was to marry his son

that we were allowed the greatest liberty together.

"That young man, whose name you need not know, appeared to love me. What

had been friendship from infancy became love in time. He began to tell

me of the happiness that awaited us; he spoke of his impatience, I was

only one year younger than he; but he had made the acquaintance of a man

of dissipated habits who lived in the vicinity, a sort of adventurer, and

had listened to his evil suggestions. While I was yielding to his

caresses with the confidence of a child, he resolved to deceive his

father, and to abandon me after he had ruined me.

"His father called us into his room one evening and, in the presence of

the family, set the day of our wedding. The very evening before that day

he had met me in the garden and had spoken to me of love with more force

than usual; he said that since the time was set, we were just the same as

married, and for that matter had been in the eyes of God, ever since our

birth. I have no other excuse to offer than my youth, my ignorance,

and my confidence in him. I gave myself to him before becoming his wife,

and eight days afterward he left his father's house. He fled with a

woman his new friend had introduced to him; he wrote that he had gone to

Germany and that we should never see him again.

"That is, in a word, the story of my life; my husband knew it as you now

know it. I am proud, my child, and I have sworn that no man shall ever

make me again suffer what I suffered then. I saw you and forgot my oath,

but not my sorrow. You must treat me gently; if you are sick, I am also;

we must care for each other. You see, Octave, I, too, know what it is to

call up memories of the past. It inspires me at times with cruel terror;

I should have more courage than you, for perhaps I have suffered more.

It is my place to begin; my heart is not sure of itself, I am still very

feeble; my life in this village was so tranquil before you came! I had

promised myself that it should never change! All this makes me exacting.

"Ah! well, it does not matter, I am yours. You have told me, in your

better moments, that Providence appointed me to watch over you as a

mother. Yes, when you make me suffer I do not look upon you as a lover,

but as a sick child, fretful and rebellious, that I must care for and

cure in order that I may always keep him and love him. May God give me

that power!" she added looking up to heaven. "May God who sees me, who

hears us, may the God of mothers and of lovers permit me to accomplish

that task! When I feel as if I should sink under it, when my pride

rebels, when my heart is breaking, when all my life--"

She could not finish; her tears choked her. Oh, God! I saw her there on

her knees, her hands clasped on the rock; she swayed in the breeze as did

the bushes about us. Frail and sublime creature! she prayed for her

love. I raised her in my arms.

"Oh! my only friend," I cried, "oh! my mistress, my mother, and my

sister! Pray also for me that I may be able to love you as you deserve.

Pray that I may have the courage to live; that my heart may be cleansed

in your tears; that it may become a holy offering before God and that we

may share it together."

All was silent about us; above our heads spread the heavens resplendent

with stars.

"Do you remember," I said, "do you remember the first day?"

From that night we never returned to that spot. That rock was an altar

which has retained its purity; it is one of the visions of my life, and

it still passes before my eyes wreathed in spotless white.

CHAPTER IV

BRIGITTE'S LOSS

As I was crossing the public square one evening I saw two men standing

together; one of them said:

"It appears to me that he has ill-treated her."

"It is her fault," replied the other; "why choose such a man? He has

known only public women; she is paying the price of her folly."

I advanced in the darkness to see who was speaking thus, and to hear more

if possible; but they passed on as soon as they spied me.

I found Brigitte much disturbed; her aunt was seriously ill; she had time

for only a few words with me. I did not see her for an entire week; I

knew that she had summoned a physician from Paris; finally she sent for

me.

"My aunt is dead," she said; "I lose the only one left me on earth, I am

now alone in the world, and I am going to leave the country."

"Am I, then, nothing to you?"

"Yes, my friend; you know that I love you, and I often believe that you

love me. But how can I count on you? I am your mistress, alas! but you

are not my lover. It is for you that Shakespeare has written these sad

words: 'Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very

opal.' And I, Octave," she added, pointing to her mourning costume, "I am

reduced to a single color, and I shall not change it for a long time."

"Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or I will

follow you. Ah! Brigitte," I continued, throwing myself on my knees

before her, "you thought you were alone when your aunt died! That is the

most cruel punishment you could inflict on me; never have I so keenly

felt the misery of my love for you. You must retract those terrible

words; I deserve them, but they will kill me. Oh, God! can it be true

that I count for nothing in your life, or that I am an influence in your

life only because of the evil I have done you!"

"I do not know," she said, "who is busying himself in our affairs;

certain insinuations, mixed with idle gossip, have been set afloat in the

village and in the neighboring country. Some say that I have been

ruined; others accuse me of imprudence and folly; others represent you as

a cruel and dangerous man. Some one has spied into our most secret

thoughts; things that I thought no one else knew, events in your life and

sad scenes to which they have led, are known to others; my poor aunt

spoke to me about it not long ago, and she knew it some time before

speaking to me. Who knows but that that has hastened her death?

"When I meet my old friends in the street, they either treat me coldly,

or turn aside. Even my dear peasant girls, those good girls who love me

so much, shrug their shoulders when they see my place empty at the Sunday

afternoon balls. How has that come about? I do not know, nor do you,

I suppose; but I must go away, I can not endure it. And my aunt's death,

so sudden, so unexpected, above all, this solitude! this empty room!

Courage fails me; my friend, my friend, do not abandon me!"

She wept; in an adjoining room I saw her household goods in disorder,

a trunk on the floor, everything indicating preparations for departure.

It was evident that, at the time of her aunt's death, Brigitte had tried

to go away without seeing me, but could not. She was so overwhelmed with

emotion that she could hardly speak; her condition was pitiful, and it

was I who had brought her to it. Not only was she unhappy, but she was

insulted in public, and the man who ought to be her support and her

consolation in such an hour was the cause of all her troubles.

I felt the wrong I had done her so keenly that I was overcome with shame.

After so many promises, so much useless exaltation, so many plans and

hopes, what had I, in fact, accomplished in three months? I thought I

had a treasure in my heart, and out of it came nothing but malice, the

shadow of a dream, and the misfortune of a woman I adored. For the first

time I found myself really face to face with myself. Brigitte reproached

me for nothing; she had tried to go away and could not; she was ready to

suffer still. I suddenly asked myself whether I ought not to leave her,

whether it was not my duty to flee from her and rid her of the scourge of

my presence.

I arose, and, passing into the next room, sat down on Brigitte's trunk.

There I leaned my head on my hand and sat motionless. I looked about me

at the confused piles of goods. Alas! I knew them all; my heart was not

so hardened that it could not be moved by the memories which they

awakened. I began to calculate all the harm I had done; I saw my dear

Brigitte walking under the lindens with her goat beside her.

"O man!" I mused, "and by what right?--how dared you come to this house,

and lay hands on this woman? Who has ordained that she should suffer for

you? You array yourself in fine linen, and set out, sleek and happy, for

the home where your mistress languishes; you throw yourself upon the

cushions where she has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, and you

gently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You think it no

evil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in your

deliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes from a

suit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy in making sport of

suffering; you find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments in

committing murder by means of little pin pricks.

"What will you say to the living God, when your work is finished? What

will become of the woman who loves you? Where will you fall while she

leans on you for support? With what face will you one day bury your pale

and wretched creature, just as she buried the last man who protected her?

Yes, yes, you will doubtless have to bury her, for your love kills and

consumes; you have devoted her to the Furies and it is she who appeases

them. If you follow that woman you will be the cause of her death. Take

care! her guardian angel hesitates; he has just knocked at the door of

this house, in order to frighten away a fatal and shameful passion! He

inspired Brigitte with the idea of flight; at this moment he may be

whispering in her ear his final warning. O assassin! O murderer!

Beware! it is a matter of life and death."

Thus I communed with myself; then on the sofa I caught sight of a little

gingham dress, folded and ready to be packed in the trunk. It had been a

witness of our happy days. I took it up and examined it.

"Must I leave you?" I said to it; "Must I lose you? O little dress,

would you go away without me?"

No, I can not abandon Brigitte; in these circumstances it would be

cowardly. She has just lost her aunt, and is all alone; she is exposed

to the power of I know not what enemy. Can it be Mercanson? He may have

spoken of my conversation with him, and, seeing that I was jealous of

Dalens, may have guessed the rest. Assuredly he is the snake who has

been hissing about my well-beloved flower. I must punish him, and I must

repair the wrong I have done Brigitte. Fool that I am! I think of

leaving her, when I ought to consecrate my life to her, to the expiation

of my sins, to rendering her happy after the tears I have drawn from her

eyes-when I am her only support in the world, her only friend, her only

protector! when I ought to follow her to the end of the world, to shelter

her with my body, to console her for having loved me, for having given

herself to me!

"Brigitte!" I cried, returning to her room, "wait an hour for me, and I

will return."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Wait for me," I replied, "do not set out without me. Remember the words

of Ruth: 'Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will

lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou

diest, will I die, and there will I be buried."'

I left her precipitately, and rushed out to find Mercanson. I was told

that he had gone out, and I entered his house to wait for him.

I sat in the corner of the room on a priest's chair before a dirty black

table. I was becoming impatient when I recalled my duel on account of my

first mistress.

"I received a wound from a bullet and am still a fool," I said to myself.

"What have I come to do here? This priest will not fight; if I seek a

quarrel with him, he will say that his priestly robes forbid, and he will

continue his vile gossip when I have gone. Moreover, for what can I hold

him responsible? What is it that has disturbed Brigitte? They say that

her reputation has been sullied, that I ill-treat her, and that she ought

not to submit to it. What stupidity! That concerns no one; there is

nothing to do but allow them to talk; in such a case, to notice an insult

is to give it importance.

"Is it possible to prevent provincials from talking about their

neighbors? Can any one prevent a gossip from maligning a woman who

loves? What measures can be taken to stop a public rumor? If they say

that I ill-treat her, it is for me--to prove the contrary by my conduct

with her, and not by violence. It would be as ridiculous to seek a

quarrel with Mercanson as to leave the country on account of gossip.

No, we must not leave the country; that would be a bad move; that would

be to say to all the world that there is truth in its idle rumors, and to

give excuse to the gossips. We must neither go away nor take any notice

of such things."

I returned to Brigitte. A half hour had passed, and I had changed my

mind three times. I dissuaded her from her plans; I told her what I had

just done and why I had not carried out my first impulse. She listened

resignedly, yet she wished to go away; the house where her aunt had died

had become odious to her. Much effort and persuasion on my part were

required to get her to consent to remain; finally I accomplished it.

We repeated that we would despise the world, that we would yield nothing,

that we would not change our manner of life. I swore that my love should

console her for all her sorrows, and she pretended to hope for the best.

I told her that this circumstance had so enlightened me in the matter of

the wrongs I had done her, that my conduct would prove my repentance,

that I would drive from me as a phantom all the evil that remained in my

heart; that hence forth she should not be offended either by my pride or

by my caprices; and thus, sad and patient, her arms around my neck, she

yielded obedience to the pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash

of reason.

One day I saw a little chamber she called her oratory; there was no

furniture except a prie-dieu and a little altar with a cross and some

vases of flowers. As for the rest, the walls and curtains were as white

as snow. She shut herself up in that room at times, but rarely since I

had known her.

I stepped to the door and saw Brigitte seated on the floor in the middle

of the room, surrounded by the flowers she was throwing here and there.

She held in her hand a little wreath that appeared to be made of dried

grass, and she was breaking it in pieces.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

She trembled and stood up.

"It is nothing but a child's plaything," she said; "it is a rose wreath

that has faded here in the oratory; I have come here to change my

flowers, as I have not attended to them for some time."

Her voice trembled, and she appeared to be about to faint. I recalled

that name of Brigitte la Rose that I had heard given her. I asked her

whether it was not her crown of roses that she had just broken thus.

"No," she replied, turning pale.

"Yes," I cried, "yes, on my life! Give me the pieces."

I gathered them up and placed them on the altar, then I was silent, my

eyes fixed on the offering.

"Was I not right," she asked, "if it was my crown, to take it from the

wall where it has hung so long?

"Of what use are these remains? Brigitte la Rose is no more, nor the

flowers that baptized her." She went out. I heard her sobs, and the

door closed on me; I fell on my knees and wept bitterly. When I returned

to her room, I found her waiting for me; dinner was ready. I took my

place in silence, and not a word was said of what was in our hearts.

CHAPTER V

A TORTURED SOUL

It was Mercanson who had repeated in the village and in the chateau my

conversation with him about Dalens and the suspicions that, in spite of

myself, I had allowed him clearly to see. Every one knows how bad news

travels in the provinces, flying from mouth to mouth and growing as it

flies; that is what had happened in this case.

Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face with each other in a new

position. However feebly she may have tried to flee, she had

nevertheless made the attempt. It was on account of my prayers that

she remained; there was an obligation implied. I was under oath not

to grieve her either by my jealousy or my levity; every thoughtless or

mocking word that escaped me was a sin, every sorrowful glance from her

was a reproach acknowledged and merited.

Her simple good-nature gave a charm even to solitude; she could see me

now at all hours without resorting to any precaution. Perhaps she

consented to this arrangement in order to prove to me that she valued her

love more highly than her reputation; she seemed to regret having shown

that she cared for the representations of malice. At any rate, instead

of making any attempt to disarm criticism or thwart curiosity, we lived

the freest kind of life, more regardless of public opinion than ever.

For some time I kept my word, and not a cloud troubled our life.

These were happy days, but it is not of these that I would speak.

It was said everywhere about the country that Brigitte was living

publicly with a libertine from Paris; that her lover ill-treated her,

that they spent their time quarrelling, and that she would come to a bad

end. As they had praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, so they

blamed her now. There was nothing in her past life, even, that was not

picked to pieces and misrepresented. Her lonely tramps over the

mountains, when engaged in works of charity, suddenly became the subject

of quibbles and of raillery. They spoke of her as of a woman who had

lost all human respect and who deserved the frightful misfortunes she was

drawing down on her head.

I had told Brigitte that it was best to let them talk and pay no

attention to them; but the truth is, it became insupportable to me.

I sometimes tried to catch a word that could be construed as an insult

and to demand an explanation. I listened to whispered conversations in

a salon where I was visiting, but could hear nothing; in order to do us

better justice they waited until I had gone. I returned to Brigitte and

told her that all these stories were mere nonsense; that it was foolish

to notice them; that they could talk about us as much as they pleased and

we would care nothing about it.

Was I not terribly mistaken? If Brigitte was imprudent, was it not my

place to be cautious and ward off danger? On the contrary, I took, so

to speak, the part of the world against her.

I began by indifference; I was soon to grow malignant.

"It is true," I said, "that they speak evil of your nocturnal excursions.

Are you sure that they are wrong? Has nothing happened in those romantic

grottoes and by-paths in the forest? Have you never accepted the arm of

an unknown as you accepted mine? Was it merely charity that served as

your divinity in that beautiful temple of verdure that you visited so

bravely?"

Brigitte's glance when I adopted this tone I shall never forget;

I shuddered at it myself. "But, bah!" I thought, "she would do the same

thing that my other mistress did--she would point me out as a ridiculous

fool, and I should pay for it all in the eyes of the public."

Between the man who doubts and the man who denies there is only a step.

All philosophy is akin to atheism. Having told Brigitte that I suspected

her past conduct, I began to regard it with real suspicion.

I came to imagine that Brigitte was deceiving me, she who never left me

at any hour of the day; I sometimes planned long absences in order to

test her, as I supposed; but in truth it was only to give myself some

excuse for suspicion and mockery. And then I took pleasure in observing

that I had outgrown my foolish jealousy, which was the same as saying

that I no longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her.

At first I kept such thoughts to myself, but soon found pleasure in

revealing them to Brigitte. We had gone out for a walk:

"That dress is pretty," I said, "such and such a girl, belonging to one

of my friends, has one like it."

We were now seated at table.

"Come, my dear, my former mistress used to sing for me at dessert; you

promised, you know, to imitate her."

She sat down at the piano.

"Ah! pardon me, but will you play that waltz that was so popular last

winter? That will remind me of happy times."

Reader, this lasted six months: for six long months Brigitte,

scandalized, exposed to the insults of the world, had to endure from me

all the wrongs that a wrathful and cruel libertine can inflict on woman.

After these distressing scenes, in which my own spirit exhausted itself

in suffering and in painful contemplation of the past; after recovering

from that frenzy, a strange access of love, an extreme exaltation, led me

to treat my mistress like an idol, or a divinity. A quarter of an hour

after insulting her I was on my knees before her; when I was not accusing

her of some crime, I was begging her pardon; when I was not mocking, I

was weeping. Then, seized by a delirium of joy, I almost lost my reason

in the violence of my transports; I did not know what to do, what to say,

what to think, in order to repair the evil I had done. I took Brigitte

in my arms, and made her repeat a hundred times that she loved me and

that she pardoned me. I threatened to expiate my evil deeds by blowing

out my brains if I ever ill-treated her again. These periods of

exaltation sometimes lasted several hours, during which time I exhausted

myself in foolish expressions of love and esteem. Then morning came; day

appeared; I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and I awakened with a

smile on my lips, mocking at everything, believing in nothing.

During these terrible hours, Brigitte appeared to forget that there was a

man in me other than the one she saw. When I asked her pardon she

shrugged her shoulders as if to answer: "Do you not know that I pardon

you?" She would not complain as long as a spark of love remained in my

heart; she assured me that all was good and sweet coming from me, insults

as well as tears.

And yet as time passed my evil grew worse, my moments of malignity and

irony became more sombre and intractable. A real physical fever attended

my outbursts of passion; I awakened trembling in every limb and covered

with cold sweat. Brigitte, too, although she did not complain of it,

began to fail in health. When I started to abuse her she would leave me

without a word and lock herself in her room. Thank God, I never raised

my hand against her; in my most violent moments I would rather have died

than touched her.

One evening the rain was driving against the windows; we were alone, the

curtains were closed.

"I am in happy humor this evening," I said to Brigitte, "and yet the

horrible weather saddens me. Let us seek some diversion in spite of the

storm."

I arose and lighted all the candles I could find. The room was small and

the illumination brilliant. At the same time a bright fire threw out a

stifling heat:

"Come," I said, "what shall we do while waiting for supper?"

I happened to remember that it was carnival time in Paris I seemed to see

the carriages filled with masks crossing the boulevards. I heard the

shouts of the crowds before the theatres; I saw the lascivious dances,

the gay costumes, the wine and the folly; all my youth bounded in my

heart.

"Let us disguise ourselves," I said to Brigitte. "It will be for our own

amusement, but what does that matter? If you have no costumes we can

make them, and pass away the time agreeably."

We searched in the closet for dresses, cloaks, and artificial flowers;

Brigitte, as usual, was patient and cheerful. We both arranged a sort of

travesty; she wished to dress my hair herself; we painted and powdered

ourselves freely; all that we lacked was found in an old chest that had

belonged, I believe, to the aunt. In an hour we could not recognize each

other. The evening passed in singing, in a thousand follies; toward one

o'clock in the morning it was time for supper.

We had ransacked all the closets; there was one near me that remained

open. While sitting down at the table, I perceived on a shelf the book

of which I have already spoken, the one in which Brigitte was accustomed

to write.

"Is it not a collection of your thoughts?" I asked, stretching out my

hand and taking the book down. "If I may, allow me to look at it."

I opened the book, although Brigitte made a gesture as if to prevent me;

on the first page I read these words:

"This is my last will and testament."

Everything was written in a firm hand; I found first a faithful recital

of all that Brigitte had suffered on my account since she had been my

mistress. She announced her firm determination to endure everything,

so long as I loved her, and to die when I left her. Her daily life was

recorded there; what she had lost, what she had hoped, the isolation she

experienced even in my presence, the barrier that was growing up between

us; the cruelties I subjected her to in return for her love and her

resignation. All this was written down without a complaint; on the

contrary she undertook to justify me. Then followed personal details,

the disposition of her effects. She would end her life by poison, she

wrote. She would die by her own hand and expressly forbade that her

death should be charged to me. "Pray for him!" were her last words.

I found in the closet on the same shelf a little box that I remembered I

had seen before, filled with a fine bluish powder resembling salt.

"What is this?" I asked of Brigitte, raising the box to my lips. She

gave vent to a scream of terror and threw herself upon me.

"Brigitte," I said, "bid me farewell. I shall carry this box away with

me; you will forget me, and you will live if you wish to save me from

becoming a murderer. I shall set out this very night; you will agree

with me that God demands it. Give me a last kiss."

I bent over her and kissed her forehead.

"Not yet!" she cried, in anguish. But I repulsed her and left the room.

Three hours later I was ready to set out, and the horses were at the

door. It was still raining when I entered the carriage. At the moment

the carriage was starting, I felt two arms about my body and a sob which

spent itself on my lips.

It was Brigitte. I did all I could to persuade her to remain; I ordered

the driver to stop; I even told her that I would return to her when time

should have effaced the memory of the wrongs I had done her. I forced

myself to prove to her that yesterday was the same as to-day, to-day as

yesterday; I repeated that I could only render her unhappy, that to

attach herself to me was but to make an assassin of me. I resorted to

prayers, to vows, to threats even; her only reply was: "You are going

away; take me, let us take leave of the country, let us take leave of the

past. We can not live here; let us go elsewhere, wherever you please;

let us go and die together in some remote corner of the world. We must

be happy, I by you, you by me."

I kissed her with such passion that I feared my heart would burst.

"Drive on!" I cried to the coachman. We threw ourselves into each

other's arms, and the horses set out at a gallop.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Adieu, my son, I love you and I die

All philosophy is akin to atheism

And when love is sure of itself and knows response

Can any one prevent a gossip

Each one knows what the other is about to say

Good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly

Great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--they listen

Happiness of being pursued

He who is loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow

I neither love nor esteem sadness

It is a pity that you must seek pastimes

Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer

No longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her

Pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason

Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation

She pretended to hope for the best

Terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me

There are two different men in you

We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum

What human word will ever express thy slightest caress

What you take for love is nothing more than desire