La confession d'un enfant du siècle. English

  CHAPTER IV. RIPENING ACQUAINTANCE

  I went to see her in the morning. I found her at the piano, her old auntat the window sewing, the little room filled with flowers, the sunlightstreaming through the blinds, a large bird-cage at her side.

  I expected to find her something of a religieuse, at least one of thosewomen of the provinces who know nothing of what happens two leaguesaway, and who live in a certain narrow circle from which they neverescape. I confess that such isolated life, which is found here and therein small towns, under a thousand unknown roofs, had always had on me theeffect of stagnant pools of water; the air does not seem respirable: ineverything on earth that is forgotten, there is something of death.

  On Madame Pierson's table were some papers and new books; they appearedas if they had not been more than touched. In spite of the simplicity ofeverything around her, of furniture and dress, it was easy to recognizemode, that is to say, life; she did not live for this alone, but thatgoes without saying. What struck me in her taste was that there wasnothing bizarre, everything breathed of youth and pleasantness.

  Her conversation indicated a finished education; there was no subject onwhich she could not speak well and with ease. While admitting that shewas naive, it was evident that she was at the same time profound inthought and fertile in resource; an intelligence at once broad and freesoared gently over a simple heart and over the habits of a retired life.The sea-swallow, whirling through the azure heavens, soars thus over theblade of grass that marks its nest.

  We talked of literature, music, and even politics. She had visited Parisduring the winter; from time to time she dipped into the world; what shesaw there served as a basis for what she divined.

  But her distinguishing trait was gayety, a cheerfulness that, while notexactly joy itself, was constant and unalterable; it might be said thatshe was born a flower, and that her perfume was gayety.

  Her pallor, her large dark eyes, her manner at certain moments, all ledme to believe that she had suffered. I know not what it was that seemedto say that the sweet serenity of her brow was not of this world but hadcome from God, and that she would return it to Him spotless in spiteof man; and there were times when she reminded one of the carefulhousewife, who, when the wind blows, holds her hand before the candle.

  After I had been in the house half an hour I could not help saying whatwas in my heart. I thought of my past life, of my disappointment and myennui; I walked to and fro, breathing the fragrance of the flowers andlooking at the sun. I asked her to sing, and she did so with good grace.In the mean time I leaned on the window-sill and watched the birdsflitting about the garden. A saying of Montaigne's came into my head: "Ineither love nor esteem sadness, although the world has invested it, ata given price, with the honor of its particular favor. They dress up init wisdom, virtue, conscience. Stupid and absurd adornment."

  "What happiness!" I cried, in spite of myself. "What repose! What joy!What forgetfulness of self!"

  The good aunt raised her head and looked at me with an air ofastonishment; Madame Pierson stopped short. I became red as fire whenconscious of my folly, and sat down without a word.

  We went out into the garden. The white goat I had seen the eveningbefore was lying in the grass; it came up to her and followed us aboutthe garden.

  When we reached the end of the garden walk, a large young man with apale face, clad in a kind of black cassock, suddenly appeared at therailing. He entered without knocking and bowed to Madame Pierson; itseemed to me that his face, which I considered a bad omen, darkened alittle when he saw me. He was a priest I had often seen in the village,and his name was Mercanson; he came from St. Sulpice and was related tothe cure of the parish.

  He was large and at the same time pale, a thing which always displeasesme and which is, in fact, unpleasant; it impresses me as a sort ofdiseased healthfulness. Moreover, he had the slow yet jerky way ofspeaking that characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of walking,which was not that of youth and health, repelled me; as for his glance,it might be said that he had none. I do not know what to think of a manwhose eyes have nothing to say. These are the signs which led me to anunfavorable opinion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfortunatelycorrect.

  He sat down on a bench and began to talk about Paris, which he calledthe modern Babylon. He had been there, he knew every one; he knew Madamede B------, who was an angel; he had preached sermons in her salonand was listened to on bended knee. (The worst of this was that itwas true.) One of his friends, who had introduced him there, had beenexpelled from school for having seduced a girl; a terrible thing todo, very sad. He paid Madame Pierson a thousand compliments forher charitable deeds throughout the country; he had heard of herbenefactions, her care for the sick, her vigils at the bed of sufferingand of death. It was very beautiful and noble; he would not fail tospeak of it at St. Sulpice. Did he not seem to say that he would notfail to speak of it to God?

  Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal my rising disgust, I satdown on the grass and began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned onme his dull and lifeless eye:

  "The celebrated Vergniaud," said he, "was afflicted with the habit ofsitting on the ground and playing with animals."

  "It is a habit that is innocent enough," I replied. "If there were noneworse the world would get along very well, without so much meddling onthe part of others."

  My reply did not please him; he frowned and changed the subject. He wascharged with a commission; his uncle the cure had spoken to him of apoor devil who was unable to earn his daily bread. He lived in such andsuch a place; he had been there himself and was interested in him; hehoped that Madame Pierson--

  I was looking at her while he was speaking, wondering what reply shewould make and hoping she would say something in order to efface thememory of the priest's voice with her gentle tones. She merely bowed andhe retired.

  When he had gone our gayety returned. We entered a greenhouse in therear of the garden.

  Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and herpeasants: everything about her must be well cared for, each flower musthave its drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that it might be gayand happy as an angel; so nothing could be in better condition than herlittle greenhouse. When we had made the round of the building, she said:

  "This is my little world; you have seen all I possess, and my domainends here."

  "Madame," I said, "as my father's name has secured for me the favor ofadmittance here, permit me to return, and I will believe that happinesshas not entirely forgotten me."

  She extended her hand and I touched it with respect, not daring to raiseit to my lips.

  I returned home, closed my door and retired. There danced before myeyes a little white house; I saw myself walking through the villageand knocking at the garden gate. "Oh, my poor heart!" I cried. "Godbe praised, you are still young, you are still capable of life and oflove!"

  One evening I was with Madame Pierson. More than three months hadpassed, during which I had seen her almost every day; and what can Isay of that time except that I saw her? "To be with those we love," saidBruyere, "suffices; to dream, to talk to them, not to talk to them, tothink of them, to think of the most indifferent things, but to be nearthem, that is all."

  I loved. During the three months we had taken many long walks; I wasinitiated into the mysteries of her modest charities; we passed throughdark streets, she on her pony, I on foot, a small stick in my hand; thushalf conversing, half dreaming, we went from cottage to cottage. Therewas a little bench near the edge of the wood where I was accustomed torest after dinner; we met here regularly, as though by chance. In themorning, music, reading; in the evening, cards with the aunt as in thedays of my father; and she always there, smiling, her presence fillingmy heart. By what road, O Providence! have you led me? What irrevocabledestiny am I to accomplish? What! a life so free, an intimacy socharming, so much repose, such buoyant hope! O God! Of what do mencomplain? What is there sweeter than love?

  To live, yes, t
o feel intensely, profoundly, that one exists, that oneis a sentient man, created by God, that is the first, the greatest giftof love. We can not deny, however, that love is a mystery, inexplicable,profound. With all the chains, with all the pains, and I may even say,with all the disgust with which the world has surrounded it, buried asit is under a mountain of prejudices which distort and deprave it, inspite of all the ordure through which it has been dragged, love, eternaland fatal love, is none the less a celestial law as powerful and asincomprehensible as that which suspends the sun in the heavens.

  What is this mysterious bond, stronger and more durable than iron, thatcan neither be seen nor touched? What is there in meeting a woman, inlooking at her, in speaking one word to her, and then never forgettingher? Why this one rather than that one? Invoke the aid of reason, ofhabit, of the senses, the head, the heart, and explain it if you can.You will find nothing but two bodies, one here, the other there, andbetween them, what? Air, space, immensity. O blind fools! who fondlyimagine yourselves men, and who reason of love! Have you talked withit? No, you have felt it. You have exchanged a glance with a passingstranger, and suddenly there flies out from you something that can notbe defined, that has no name known to man. You have taken root in theground like the seed concealed in the turf which feels the life withinit, and which is on its way to maturity.

  We were alone, the window was open, the murmur of a little fountain cameto us from the garden. O God! would that I could count, drop by drop,all the water that fell while we were sitting there, while she wastalking and I was answering. It was there that I became intoxicated withher to the point of madness.

  It is said that there is nothing so rapid as a feeling of antipathy, butI believe that the road to love is more swiftly traversed. How pricelessthe slightest words! What signifies the conversation, when you listenfor the heart to answer? What sweetness in the glance of a woman whobegins to attract you! At first it seems as though everything thatpasses between you is timid and tentative, but soon there is born astrange joy, an echo answers you; you know a dual life. What a touch!What a strange attraction! And when love is sure of itself and knowsresponse in the object beloved, what serenity in the soul! Words dieon the lips, for each one knows what the other is about to say beforeutterance has shaped the thought. Souls expand, lips are silent. Oh!what silence! What forgetfulness of all!

  Although my love began the first day and had since grown to ardor, therespect I felt for Madame Pierson sealed my lips. If she had been lessfrank in permitting me to become her friend, perhaps I should have beenmore bold, for she had made such a strong impression on me, that I neverquitted her without transports of love. But there was something in thefrankness and the confidence she placed in me that checked me; moreover,it was in my father's name that I had been treated as a friend. Thatconsideration rendered me still more respectful, and I resolved to proveworthy of that name.

  To talk of love, they say, is to make love. We rarely spoke of it. Everytime I happened to touch the subject Madame Pierson led the conversationto some other topic. I did not discern her motive, but it was notprudery; it seemed to me that at such times her face took on a sternaspect, and a wave of feeling, even of suffering, passed over it. As Ihad never questioned her about her past life and was unwilling to do so,I respected her obvious wishes.

  Sunday there was dancing in the village; she was almost always there. Onthose occasions her toilet, although quite simple, was more elegant thanusual; there was a flower in her hair, a bright ribbon, or some suchbagatelle; but there was something youthful and fresh about her. Thedance, which she loved for itself as an amusing exercise, seemed toinspire her with a frolicsome gayety. Once launched on the floor itseemed to me she allowed herself more liberty than usual, that there wasan unusual familiarity. I did not dance, being still in mourning, but Imanaged to keep near her, and seeing her in such good humor, I was oftentempted to confess my love.

  But for some strange reason, whenever I thought of it, I was seized withan irresistible feeling of fear; the idea of an avowal was enoughto render me serious in the midst of gayety. I conceived the idea ofwriting to her, but burned the letters before they were half finished.

  That evening I dined with her, and looked about me at the many evidencesof a tranquil life; I thought of the quiet life that I was leading, ofmy happiness since I had known her, and said to myself: "Why ask formore? Does not this suffice? Who knows, perhaps God has nothing more foryou? If I should tell her that I love her, what would happen? Perhapsshe would forbid me the pleasure of seeing her. Would I, in speaking thewords, make her happier than she is to-day? Would I be happier myself?"

  I was leaning on the piano, and as I indulged in these reflectionssadness took possession of me. Night was coming on and she lighted acandle; while returning to her seat she noticed a tear in my eye.

  "What is the matter?" she asked.

  I turned aside my head.

  I sought an excuse, but could find none; I was afraid to meet herglance. I arose and stepped to the window. The air was balmy, the moonwas rising beyond those lindens where I had first met her. I fell intoa profound revery; I even forgot that she was present and, extending myarms toward heaven, a sob welled up from my heart.

  She arose and stood behind me.

  "What is it?" she again asked.

  I replied that the sight of that valley stretching out beneath us hadrecalled my father's death; I took leave of her and went out.

  Why I decided to silence my love I can not say. Nevertheless, instead ofreturning home, I began to wander about the woods like a fool. WheneverI found a bench I sat down only to rise precipitately. Toward midnightI approached Madame Pierson's house; she was at the window. Seeingher there I began to tremble and tried to retrace my steps, but I wasfascinated; I advanced gently and sadly and sat down beneath her window.

  I do not know whether she recognized me; I had been there some time whenI heard her sweet, fresh voice singing the refrain of a romance, andat the same instant a flower fell on my shoulder. It was a rose shehad worn that evening on her bosom; I picked it up and pressed it to mylips.

  "Who is there at this hour? Is it you?"

  She called me by name. The gate leading into the garden was open; Iarose without replying and entered it, I stopped before a plot of grassin the centre of the garden; I was walking like a somnambulist, withoutknowing what I was doing.

  Suddenly I saw her at the door opening into the garden; she seemed to beundecided and looked attentively at the rays of the moon. She made a fewsteps toward me and I advanced to meet her. I could not speak, I fell onmy knees before her and seized her hand.

  "Listen to me," she said; "I know all; but if it has come to that,Octave, you must go away. You come here every day and you are alwayswelcome, are you not? Is not that enough? What more can I do for you? Myfriendship you have won; I wish you had been able to keep yours a littlelonger."

  When Madame Pierson had spoken these words she waited in silence asthough expecting a reply. As I remained overwhelmed with sadness, shegently withdrew her hand, stepped back, waited a moment longer and thenreentered the house.

  I remained kneeling on the grass. I had been expecting what she said; myresolution was soon taken, and I decided to go away. I arose, my heartbleeding but firm. I looked at the house, at her window; I opened thegarden-gate and placed my lips on the lock as I passed out.

  When I reached home I told Larive to make what preparations werenecessary, as I would set out in the morning. The poor fellow wasastonished, but I made him a sign to obey and ask no questions.He brought a large trunk and busied himself with preparations fordeparture.

  It was five o'clock in the morning and day was beginning to break when Iasked myself where I was going. At that thought, which had not occurredto me before, I experienced a profound feeling of discouragement. I castmy eyes over the country, scanning the horizon. A sense of weakness tookpossession of me; I was exhausted with fatigue. I sat down in a chairand my ideas became confused; I bore my hand to my f
orehead and found itbathed in sweat. A violent fever made my limbs tremble; I could hardlyreach my bed with Larive's assistance. My thoughts were so confusedthat I had no recollection of what had happened. The day passed; towardevening I heard the sound of instruments. It was the Sunday dance, and Iasked Larive to go and see if Madame Pierson was there. He did not findher; I sent him to her house. The blinds were closed, and a servantinformed him that Madame Pierson and her aunt had gone to spend somedays with a relative who lived at N------, a small town some distancenorth. He handed me a letter that had been given him. It was couched inthe following terms:

  "I have known you three months, and for one month have noticed that you feel for me what at your age is called love. I thought I detected on your part a resolution to conceal this from me and conquer yourself. I already esteemed you, this enhanced my respect. I do not reproach you for the past, nor for the weakness of your will.

  "What you take for love is nothing more than desire. I am well aware that many women seek to arouse it; it would be better if they did not feel the necessity of pleasing those who approach them. Such a feeling is a dangerous thing, and I have done wrong in entertaining it with you.

  "I am some years older than you, and ask you not to try to see me again. It would be vain for you to try to forget the weakness of a moment; what has passed between us can neither be repeated nor forgotten.

  "I do not take leave of you without sorrow; I expect to be absent some time; if, when I return, I find that you have gone away, I shall appreciate your action as the final evidence of your friendship and esteem.

  "BRIGITTE PIERSON."