La confession d'un enfant du siècle. English

  CHAPTER VI. THE RUGGED PATH OF LOVE

  That evening I received from Madame Pierson a letter addressed to M. R.D., at Strasburg. Three weeks later my mission had been accomplished andI returned. During my absence I had thought of nothing but her, and Idespaired of ever forgetting her. Nevertheless I determined to restrainmy feelings in her presence; I had suffered too cruelly at the prospectof losing her to run any further risks. My esteem for her rendered itimpossible for me to suspect her sincerity, and I did not see, inher plan of getting me to leave the country, anything that resembledhypocrisy. In a word, I was firmly convinced that at the first word oflove her door would be closed to me. Upon my return I found her thin andchanged. Her habitual smile seemed to languish on her discolored lips.She told me that she had been suffering. We did not speak of the past.She did not appear to wish to recall it, and I had no desire to refer toit. We resumed our old relations of neighbors; yet there was somethingof constraint between us, a sort of conventional familiarity. It wasas if we had agreed: "It was thus before, let it still be thus." Shegranted me her confidence, a concession that was not without its charmsfor me; but our conversation was colder, for the reason that our eyesexpressed as much as our tongues. In all that we said there was more tobe surmised than was actually spoken. We no longer endeavored to fathomeach other's minds; there was not the same interest attaching to eachword, to each sentiment; that curious analysis that characterized ourpast intercourse; she treated me with kindness, but I distrustedeven that kindness; I walked with her in the garden, but no longeraccompanied her outside of the premises; we no longer wandered throughthe woods and valleys; she opened the piano when we were alone; thesound of her voice no longer awakened in my heart those transports ofjoy which are like sobs that are inspired by hope. When I took leave ofher, she gave me her hand, but I was conscious of the fact that it waslifeless; there was much effort in our familiar ease, many reflectionsin our lightest remarks, much sadness at the bottom of it all. We feltthat there was a third party between us: it was my love for her.My actions never betrayed it, but it appeared in my face. I lost mycheerfulness, my energy, and the color of health that once shone in mycheeks. At the end of one month I no longer resembled my old self. Andyet in all our conversations I insisted on my disgust with the world, onmy aversion to returning to it. I tried to make Madame Pierson feelthat she had no reason to reproach herself for allowing me to see her;I depicted my past life in the most sombre colors, and gave her tounderstand that if she should refuse to allow me to see her, she wouldcondemn me to a loneliness worse than death. I told her that I heldsociety in abhorrence and the story of my life, as I recited it, provedmy sincerity. So I affected a cheerfulness that I was far from feeling,in order to show her that in permitting me to see her, she had saved mefrom the most frightful misfortune; I thanked her almost every time Iwent to see her, that I might return in the evening or the followingmorning. "All my dreams of happiness," said I, "all my hopes, all myambitions, are enclosed in the little corner of the earth where youdwell; outside of the air that you breathe there is no life for me."

  She saw that I was suffering and could not help pitying me. My couragewas pathetic, and her every word and gesture shed a sort of tenderlight over my devotion. She saw the struggle that was going on in me; myobedience flattered her pride, while my pallor awakened her charitableinstinct. At times she appeared to be irritated, almost coquettish; shewould say in a tone that was almost rebellious: "I shall not be hereto-morrow, do not come on such and such a day." Then, as I was goingaway sad, but resigned, she sweetened the cup of bitterness by adding:"I am not sure of it, come whenever you please;" or her adieu was morefriendly than usual, her glance more tender.

  "Rest assured that Providence has led me to you," I said. "If I had notmet you, I might have relapsed into the irregular life I was leadingbefore I knew you.

  "God has sent you as an angel of light to draw me from the abyss. Hehas confided a sacred mission to you; who knows, if I should lose you,whither the sorrow that consumes me might lead me, because of the sadexperience I have been through, the terrible combat between my youth andmy ennui?"

  That thought, sincere enough on my part, had great weight with a womanof lofty devotion whose soul was as pious as it was ardent. It wasprobably the only consideration that induced Madame Pierson to permit meto see her.

  I was preparing to visit her one day when some one knocked at my door,and I saw Mercanson enter, that priest I had met in the garden onthe occasion of my first visit. He began to make excuses that were astiresome as himself for presuming to call on me without having made myacquaintance; I told him that I knew him very well as the nephew of ourcure, and asked what I could do for him.

  He turned uneasily from one side to the other with an air of constraint,searching for phrases and fingering everything on the table before himas if at a loss what to say. Finally he informed me that Madame Piersonwas ill and that she had sent word to me by him that she would not beable to see me that day.

  "Is she ill? Why, I left her late yesterday afternoon, and she was verywell at that time!"

  He bowed.

  "But," I continued, "if she is ill why send word to me by a thirdperson? She does not live so far away that a useless call would harmme."

  The same response from Mercanson. I could not understand what thispeculiar manner signified, much less why she had entrusted her missionto him.

  "Very well," I said, "I shall see her to-morrow and she will explainwhat this means."

  His hesitation continued.

  "Madame Pierson has also told me--that I should inform you--in fact, Iam requested to--"

  "Well, what is it?" I cried, impatiently.

  "Sir, you are becoming violent! I think Madame Pierson is seriously ill;she will not be able to see you this week."

  Another bow, and he retired.

  It was clear that his visit concealed some mystery: either MadamePierson did not wish to see me, and I could not explain why; orMercanson had interfered on his own responsibility.

  I waited until the following day and then presented myself at her door;the servant who met me said that her mistress was indeed very ill andcould not see me; she refused to accept the money I offered her, andwould not answer my questions.

  As I was passing through the village on my return, I saw Mercanson;he was surrounded by a number of schoolchildren, his uncle's pupils.I stopped him in the midst of his harangue and asked if I could have aword with him.

  He followed me aside; but now it was my turn to hesitate, for I was at aloss how to proceed to draw his secret from him.

  "Sir," I finally said, "will you kindly inform me if what you told meyesterday was the truth, or was there some motive behind it? Moreover,as there is not a physician in the neighborhood who can be called in,in case of necessity, it is important that I should know whether hercondition is serious."

  He protested that Madame Pierson was ill, but that he knew nothing more,except that she had sent for him and asked him to notify me as he haddone. While talking we had walked down the road some distance and hadnow reached a deserted spot. Seeing that neither strategy nor entreatywould serve my purpose, I suddenly turned and seized him by the arms.

  "What does this mean, Monsieur? You intend to resort to violence?" hecried.

  "No, but I intend to make you tell me what you know."

  "Monsieur, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought toknow."

  "You have told me what you think I ought to know, but not what you know.Madame Pierson is not sick; I am sure of it."

  "How do you know?"

  "The servant told me so. Why has she closed her door against me, and whydid she send you to tell me of it?"

  Mercanson saw a peasant passing.

  "Pierre!" he cried, calling him by name, "wait a moment, I wish to speakwith you."

  The peasant approached; that was all he wanted, thinking I would notdare use violence in the presence of a third person. I released him, butso roughly that he stagger
ed back and fell against a tree. He clenchedhis fist and turned away without a word.

  For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three times a day I called atMadame Pierson's and each time was refused admittance. I received oneletter from her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in thevillage, and begged me to call less frequently. Not a word aboutMercanson or her illness.

  This precaution on her part was so unnatural, and contrasted so stronglywith her former proud indifference in matters of this kind, that atfirst I could hardly believe it. Not knowing what else to say, I repliedthat there was no desire in my heart but obedience to her wishes. But inspite of me, the words I used did not conceal the bitterness I felt.

  I purposely delayed going to see her even when permitted to do so, andno longer sent to inquire about her condition, as I wished to have herknow that I did not believe in her illness. I did not know why shekept me at a distance; but I was so miserably unhappy that, at times,I thought seriously of putting an end to a life that had becomeinsupportable. I was accustomed to spend entire days in the woods, andone day I happened to encounter her there.

  I hardly had the courage to ask for an explanation; she did not replyfrankly, and I did not recur to the subject; I could only count thedays I was obliged to pass without seeing her, and live in the hope ofa visit. All the time I was sorely tempted to throw myself at her feet,and tell her of my despair. I knew that she would not be insensible toit, and that she would at least express her pity; but her severity andthe abrupt manner of her departure recalled me to my senses; I trembledlest I should lose her, and I would rather die than expose myself tothat danger.

  Thus denied the solace of confessing my sorrow, my health began togive way. My feet lagged on the way to her house; I felt that I wasexhausting the source of tears, and each visit cost me added sorrow; Iwas torn with the thought that I ought not to see her.

  On her part there was neither the same tone nor the same ease as of old;she spoke of going away on a tour; she pretended to confess to me herlonging to get away, leaving me more dead than alive after her cruelwords. If surprised by a natural impulse of sympathy, she immediatelychecked herself and relapsed into her accustomed coldness. Upon oneoccasion I could not restrain my tears. I saw her turn pale. As I wasgoing, she said to me at the door:

  "To-morrow I am going to Sainte-Luce (a neighboring village), and it istoo far to go on foot. Be here with your horse early in the morning, ifyou have nothing to do, and go with me."

  I was on hand promptly, as may readily be imagined. I had sleptover that word with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house,I experienced a feeling of deep dejection. In restoring me to theprivilege I had formerly enjoyed of accompanying her on her missionsabout the country, she had clearly been guilty of a cruel caprice ifshe did not love me. She knew how I was suffering; why abuse my courageunless she had changed her mind?

  This reflection had a strange influence on me. When she mounted herhorse my heart beat violently as I took her foot; I do not know whetherit was from desire or anger. "If she is touched," I said to myself, "whythis reserve? If she is a coquette, why so much liberty?"

  Such are men. At my first word she saw that a change had taken place inme. I did not speak to her, but kept to the other side of the road. Whenwe reached the valley she appeared at ease, and only turned her headfrom time to time to see if I was following her; but when we came to theforest and our horses' hoofs resounded against the rocks that lined theroad, I saw that she was trembling. She stopped as though to wait forme, as I was some distance in the rear; when I had overtaken her sheset out at a gallop. We soon reached the foot of the mountain and werecompelled to slacken our pace. I then made my way to her side; our headswere bowed; the time had come, I took her hand.

  "Brigitte," I said, "are you weary of my complaints? Since I have beenreinstated in your favor, since I have been allowed to see you everyday and every evening, I have asked myself if I have been importunate.During the last two months, while strength and hope have been failingme, have I said a word of that fatal love which is consuming me? Raiseyour head and answer me. Do you not see that I suffer and that my nightsare given to weeping? Have you not met in the forest an unfortunatewretch sitting in solitary dejection with his hands pressed to hisforehead? Have you not seen tears on these bushes? Look at me, look atthese mountains; do you realize that I love you? They know it, they aremy witnesses; these rocks and these trees know my secret. Why lead mebefore them? Am I not wretched enough? Do I fail in courage? Have Iobeyed you? To what tests, what tortures am I subjected, and for whatcrime? If you do not love me, what are you doing here?"

  "Let us return," she said, "let us retrace our steps."

  I seized her horse's bridle.

  "No," I replied, "for I have spoken. If we return, I lose you, I realizeit; I know in advance what you will say. You have been pleased to trymy patience, you have set my sorrow at defiance, perhaps that you mighthave the right to drive me from your presence; you have become tired ofthat sorrowful lover who suffered without complaint and who drank withresignation the bitter chalice of your disdain! You knew that, alonewith you in the presence of these trees, in the midst of this solitudewhere my love had its birth, I could not be silent! You wish tobe offended. Very well, Madame, I lose you! I have wept and I havesuffered, I have too long nourished in my heart a pitiless love thatdevours me. You have been cruel!"

  As she was about to leap from her saddle, I seized her in my arms andpressed my lips to hers. She turned pale, her eyes closed, her bridleslipped from her hand and she fell to the ground.

  "God be praised!" I cried, "she loves me!" She had returned my kiss.

  I leaped to the ground and hastened to her side. She was extended on theground. I raised her, she opened her eyes, and shuddered with terror;she pushed my arm aside, and burst into tears.

  I stood near the roadside; I looked at her as she leaned against a tree,as beautiful as the day, her long hair falling over her shoulders, herhands twitching and trembling, her cheeks suffused with crimson, whereonshone pearly tears.

  "Do not come near me!" she cried, "not a step!"

  "Oh, my love!" I said, "fear nothing; if I have offended you, you knowhow to punish me. I was angry and I gave way to my grief; treat me asyou choose; you may go away now, you may send me away! I know that youlove me, Brigitte, and you are safer here than a king in his palace."

  As I spoke these words, Madame Pierson fixed her humid eyes on mine; Isaw the happiness of my life come to me in the flash of those orbs.I crossed the road and knelt before her. How little he loves who canrecall the words he uses when he confesses that love!