I was again in the old house, _and without her_, in the old house where
Elaine used to spend all her holidays, in the room whose shutters had
not been opened since our departure, seven months ago.
Why did I go there, where the calm of the country, the silence of the
solitude and my recollections, irritated me and recalled my trouble,
where I suffered even more than I did in Paris, and where I thought of
Elaine every moment I seemed to see her and to hear her, in a species of
hallucination.
What did her letters that I had taken out of her writing table, which
she had used as a girl, what did her ball cards which were stuck round
her looking glass, in which she used to admire herself formerly, what
did her dresses, her dressing gowns, and the dusty furniture whose
repose my trembling hands violated, tell me? Nothing, and always
nothing.
At table, I used to speak with the worthy couple who had never left the
mansion and who appeared to look upon themselves as its second masters,
with the apparent good nature of a man who was in love with his wife and
who wished only to speak about her, who took an interest in the smallest
detail of her childhood and youth, with all the jovial familiarity which
encourages peasants to talk, and when a few glasses of white wine had
loosened their tongues they would talk about her, whom they loved as if
she had been their child, and at other times I used to question the
farmers, when they came to settle their accounts.
Had Elaine the bridle on her neck like so many girls had; did she like
the country, were the peasants fond of her, and did she show any
preference for one or the other? Were many people invited for the
shooting, and did she visit much with the other ladies in the
neighborhood?
And they drank with their elbows resting on the table in front of me,
uttered her praises in a voice as monotonous as a spinning wheel, lost
themselves in endless, senseless chatter which made me yawn in spite of
myself, and told me her girlish tricks which certainly did not disclose
what was haunting me, the traces of that first love, that perilous
flirtation, that foolish escapade in which Elaine might have been
seduced.
Old and young men and women, spoke of her with something like devotion,
and all said how kind and charitable she was, and as merry as a bird on
a bright day; they said she pitied their wretchedness and their
troubles, and was still the young girl in spite of her long dresses, and
fearing nothing, while even the animals loved her.
She was almost always alone, and was never troubled with any companions;
she seemed to shun the house, hide herself in the park when the bell
announced some unexpected visits, and when one of her aunts, Madame de
Pleissac, said to her one day:
"Do you think that you will ever find a husband with your stand-offish
manners?"
She replied with a burst of laughter:
"Oh! Very well, then, Auntie, I shall do without one!"
She had never given a hand to spiteful chatter or to slander, and had
not flirted with the best looking young man in the neighborhood, any
more than she had with the officers who stayed at the _château_ during
the maneuver, or the neighbors, who came to see her parents. And some of
them even old men, whom years of work had bent like vine-stalks and had
tanned like the leather bottles which are used by caravans in the East,
used to say with tears in their dim eyes:
"Ah! When you married our young lady, we all said that there would not
be a happier man in the whole world than you!"
Ought I to have believed them? Were they not simple, frank souls, who
were ignorant of wiles and of lies, who had no interest in deceiving me,
who had lived near Elaine while she was growing up and becoming a woman,
and who had been familiar with her?
Could I be the only one who doubted Elaine, the only one who accused her
and suspected her, I who loved her so madly, I, whose only hope, only
desire, only happiness she was? May heaven guide me on this bad road on
which I have lost my way, where I am calling for help and where my
misery is increasing every day, and grant me the infinite pleasure of
being able to enjoy her caresses without any ill feeling, and to be able
to love her, as she loves me. And if I must expiate my old faults, and
this infamous doubt which I am ashamed of not being immediately able to
cast from me, if I must pay for my unmerited happiness with usury, I
hope that I may be given to death as a prey, only provided that I might
belong to her, idolize her, believe in her kisses, believe in her beauty
and in her love, for one hour, for even a few moments!