La confession d'un enfant du siècle. English

  CHAPTER I. THE THORNS OF LOVE

  I have now to recount what happened to my love, and the change that tookplace in me. What reason can I give for it? None, except as I repeat thestory and as I say: "It is the truth." For two days, neither morenor less, I was Madame Pierson's lover. One fine night I set out andtraversed the road that led to her house. I was feeling so well in bodyand soul that I leaped for joy and extended my arms to heaven. I foundher at the top of the stairway leaning on the railing, a lighted candlebeside 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 mytaste; how she had taken down a villainous black picture-frame that hadoffended my eye; how she had renewed the flowers; she recounted all shehad done since she had known me, how she had seen me suffer and how shehad suffered herself; how she had thought of leaving the country, offleeing from her love; how she had employed every precaution againstme; how she had sought advice from her aunt, from Mercanson and from thecure; 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, whateverbagatelle on her table attracted my attention, she would give me; thatwhatever she did in the future, in the morning, in the evening, at anyhour, I should regulate as I pleased; that the judgments of the worlddid not concern her; that if she had appeared to care for them, it wasonly to send me away; but that she wished to be happy and close herears, that she was thirty years of age and had not long to be loved byme. "And you will love me a long time? Are those fine words, with whichyou have beguiled me, true?" And then loving reproaches because I hadbeen late in coming to her; that she had put on her slippers in orderthat I might see her foot, but that she was no longer beautiful; thatshe could wish she were; that she had been at fifteen. She went hereand there, silly with love, rosy with joy; and she did not know what toimagine, what to say or do, in order to give herself and all that shehad.

  I was lying on the sofa; I felt, at every word she spoke, a bad hour ofmy past life slipping away from me. I watched the star of love risingin my sky, and it seemed to me I was like a tree filled with sap thatshakes 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 byStradella. More than all else I love sacred music, and that morceauwhich 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 wouldsay of it. I never play my own music when I happen to compose any; butI wanted to try it with you, and you see it has succeeded since you weredeceived."

  What a monstrous machine is man! What could be more innocent? A brightchild might have adopted that ruse to surprise his teacher. She laughedheartily the while, but I felt a strange coldness as if a dark cloud hadsettled 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 myhand 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 cushionwhich had fallen to the floor; she came to me. The more I struggled withthe spirit of darkness which had seized me, the thicker the night thatgathered around my head.

  "Verily," I said, "you lie so well? What! that air is yours? Is itpossible 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 notbelieve me fool enough to reproach her for such a harmless bit ofpleasantry; she did not see anything serious in that sadness which Ifelt; but the more trifling the cause, the greater the surprise. Atfirst she thought I, too, must be joking; but when she saw me growingpaler every moment as if about to faint, she stood with open lips andbent 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 shudderas 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 thehorizon.

  However, my dear Brigitte drew a little round table into the centre ofthe room and brought out some supper. She had prepared it herself, andI did not drink a drop that was not first borne to her lips. The bluelight of day, piercing through the curtains, illumined her charmingface and tender eyes; she was tired and allowed her head to fall on myshoulder with a thousand terms of endearment.

  I could not struggle against such charming abandon, and my heartexpanded with joy; I believed I had rid myself of the bad dream that hadjust tormented me, and I begged her pardon for giving way to a suddenimpulse which I myself did not understand.

  "My friend," I said, from the bottom of my heart, "I am very sorry thatI unjustly reproached you for a piece of innocent badinage; but if youlove me, never lie to me, even in the smallest matter, for a lie is anabomination to me and I can not endure it."

  I told her I would remain until she was asleep. I saw her close herbeautiful eyes and heard her murmur something in her sleep as I bentover and kissed her adieu. Then I went away with a tranquil heart,promising myself that I would henceforth enjoy my happiness and allownothing 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, everythingthat has occurred to my mind, and I want you to see what I said of youthe first day I met you."

  We read together what concerned me, to which we added a hundred foolishcomments, 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 Iwas 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, doubtlessseeing my malady coming on again; "take the book, I want you to readit."

  The book lay on the table within easy reach and I did not take my eyesfrom it. I seemed to hear a voice whispering in my ear, and I thoughtI saw, grimacing before me, with his glacial smile and dry face,Desgenais. "What are you doing here, Desgenais?" I asked as if I reallysaw him. He looked as he did that evening, when he leaned over my tableand unfolded to me his catechism of vice.

  I kept my eyes on the book and I felt vaguely stirring in my memory someforgotten words of the past. The spirit of doubt hanging over my headhad injected into my veins a drop of poison; the vapor mounted tomy head and I staggered like a drunken man. What secret was Brigitteconcealing from me? I knew very well that I had only to bend over andopen the book; but at what place? How could I recognize the leaf onwhich my eye had chanced to fall?

  My pride, moreover, would not permit me to take the book; was it indeedpride? "O God!" I said to myself with a frightful sense of sadness, "isthe past a spectre? and can it come out of its tomb? Ah! wretch that Iam, can I never love?"

  All my ideas of contempt for women, all the phrases of mocking fatuitywhich I had repeated as a schoolboy his lesson, suddenly came to mymind; and strange to say, while formerly I did not believe in making aparade of them, now it seemed that they were real, or at least that theyhad been.

  I had known Madame Pierson four months, but I knew nothing of her pastlife and had never questioned her about it. I had yielded to my love forher with confidence and without reservation. I found a sort of pleasurein
taking her just as she was, for just what she seemed, while suspicionand jealousy are so foreign to my nature that I was more surprised atfeeling 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 beendistrustful, but on the contrary bold and frank, suspecting nothing. Ihad to see my mistress betray me before my eyes before I would believethat she could deceive me. Desgenais himself, while preaching to meafter 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 credulousrather than suspicious; and when the words in that book suddenly struckme, it seemed to me I felt a new being within me, a sort of unknownself; my reason revolted against the feeling, and I did not dare askwhither all this was leading me.

  But the suffering I had endured, the memory of the perfidy that I hadwitnessed, the frightful cure I had imposed on myself, the opinions ofmy friends, the corrupt life I had led, the sad truths I had learned,as well as those that I had unconsciously surmised during my sadexperience, ending in debauchery, contempt of love, abuse of everything,that is what I had in my heart although I did not suspect it; and atthe moment when life and hope were again being born within me, all thesefuries that were being atrophied by time seized me by the throat andcried that they were yet alive.

  I bent over and opened the book, then immediately closed it and threwit on the table. Brigitte was looking at me; in her beautiful eyes wasneither wounded pride nor anger; nothing but tender solicitude, as if Iwere ill.

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

  "No," I replied, "I know nothing except that you are beautiful and thatI 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 betterthan I. What do they say of her here? What do they think of her in thevillage? What kind of life did she lead before I knew her? Whom did shereceive as her friends?"

  "In faith, sir, I have never seen her do otherwise than she does everyday, 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 neverheard a word against her except that she goes through the woods alone atall hours of the day and night; but that is when engaged in charitablework. She is the ministering angel in the valley. As for those shereceives, there are only the cure and Monsieur de Dalens duringvacation."

  "Who is this Monsieur de Dalens?"

  "He owns the chateau at the foot of the mountain on the other side; heonly 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. Iexpected he would try to avoid me; on the contrary he approached me.

  "Sir," he said, "you exhibited signs of anger which it does not becomea man of my character to resent. I wish to express my regret that I wascharged to communicate a message which appeared so unwelcome."

  I returned his compliment, supposing he would leave me at once; but hewalked along at my side.

  "Dalens! Dalens!" I repeated between my teeth, "who will tell me aboutDalens?" 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 havesome witness who had seen Dalens with Madame Pierson and who knew allabout their relations. I could not get that Dalens out of my head, andnot 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, Ihave never known which. It is certain that he had reason to hate me andthat he treated me as meanly as possible. Madame Pierson, who had thegreatest friendship for the cure, had almost come to think equally wellof the nephew. He was proud of it, and consequently jealous. It is notlove alone that inspires jealousy; a favor, a kind word, a smile from abeautiful 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 toknow and had decided not to satisfy me.

  "How does it happen that you have known Madame Pierson so long and sointimately (I think so, at least) and have not met Monsieur de Dalens?But, doubtless, you have some reason unknown to me for inquiring abouthim to-day. All I can say is that as far as I know, he is an honestman, kind and charitable; he was, like you, very intimate with MadamePierson; he is fond of hunting and entertains handsomely. He and MadamePierson were accustomed to devote much of their time to music. Hepunctually attended to his works of charity and, when--in the country,accompanied that lady on her rounds, just as you do. His family enjoysan excellent reputation at Paris; I used to find him with Madame Piersonwhenever I called; his manners were excellent. As for the rest, I speaktruly 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 herhusband; he is said to be rich and very generous; but I know nothingabout it except that--"

  With what tortured phrases was this dull tormentor teasing me. I wasashamed to listen to him, yet not daring to ask a single question orinterrupt his vile insinuations. I was alone on the promenade; thepoisoned arrow of suspicion had entered my heart. I did not know whetherI felt more of anger or of sorrow. The confidence with which I hadabandoned myself to my love for Brigitte had been so sweet and sonatural that I could not bring myself to believe that so much happinesshad been built upon an illusion. That sentiment of credulity which hadattracted me to her seemed a proof that she was worthy. Was it possiblethat these four months of happiness were but a dream?

  But after all, I thought, that woman has yielded too easily. Was therenot deception in that pretended anxiety to have me leave the country? Isshe not just like all the rest? Yes, that is the way they all do; theyattempt to escape in order to experience the happiness of being pursued:it is the feminine instinct. Was it not she who confessed her love byher own act, at the very moment I had decided that she would never bemine? Did she not accept my arm the first day I met her? If Dalens hasbeen her lover, he probably is still; there is a certain sort of liaisonthat has neither beginning nor end; when chance ordains a meeting, it isresumed; when parted, it is forgotten.

  If that man comes here this summer, she will probably see him withoutbreaking with me. Who is this aunt, what mysterious life is this thathas 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 peopleso easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I have fallen into an affair ofgallantry 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 notcare 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 Ihad suffered, I had come at the end of two days to a point where I wastormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte had yielded too easily.Thus, like all who doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason todispute with facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love.

  Wh
ile absorbed in these reflections I was slowly approaching MadamePierson's.

  I found the gate open, and as I entered the garden I saw a light in thekitchen. 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 workedin 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, fromtime to time, as though ashamed; a warm, nauseating odor emanated fromthe reeking walls. When the old woman caught sight of me, she smiled ina 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 wellsuited to my ignoble purpose. I fled from that old woman as fromjealousy personified, and as if the stench of her cooking had come frommy heart.

  Brigitte was at the window watering her well-beloved flowers; a childof one of her neighbors was lying in a cradle at her side, and she wasgently rocking the cradle with her disengaged hand; the child's mouthwas full of bonbons, and in gurgling eloquence it was addressing anincomprehensible apostrophe to its nurse. I sat down near her and kissedthe child on its fat cheeks, as if to imbibe some of its innocence.Brigitte accorded me a timid greeting; she could see her troubled imagein my eyes. For my part I avoided her glance; the more I admired herbeauty and her air of candor, the more I was convinced that such a womanwas either an angel or a monster of perfidy; I forced myself to recalleach one of Mercanson's words, and I confronted, so to speak, the man'sinsinuations with her presence and her face. "She is very beautiful," Isaid to myself, "and very dangerous if she knows how, to deceive; butI will fathom her and I will sound her heart; and she shall know who Iam."

  "My dear," I said after a long silence, "I have just given a piece ofadvice to a friend who consulted me. He is an honest young man, and hewrites me that a woman he loves has another lover. He asks me what heought 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 foryour pleasure; there will always be time to quit her, if it is merely amatter of beauty, and one is worth as much as another."

  Hearing me speak thus, Brigitte put down the child she was holding andsat 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 Ihad uttered were so heartless, so cruel, that I was dazed myself, and myheart 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. Iarose, Brigitte also; but she suddenly placed her hand on her heart andfell to the floor.

  I hastened to her side; she had not lost consciousness and begged menot to call any one. She explained that she was subject to violentpalpitation of the heart and had been troubled by fainting spells fromher youth; that there was no danger and no remedy. I kneeled besideher; she sweetly opened her arms; I raised her head and placed it on myshoulder.

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

  "Listen to me," I whispered in her ear, "I am a wretched fool, but I cankeep nothing on my heart. Who is this Monsieur de Dalens who lives onthe 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 methat her face wore a grieved expression. I bit my lips. "If she wants todeceive me," I thought, "I was foolish to question her."

  Brigitte rose with difficulty; she took her fan and began to walk up anddown the room.

  She was breathing hard; I had wounded her. She was absorbed in thoughtand we exchanged two or three glances that were almost cold. She steppedto her desk, opened it, drew out a package of letters tied together witha ribbon, and threw it at my feet without a word.

  But I was looking neither at her nor her letters; I had just thrown astone into the abyss and was listening to the echoes. For the firsttime offended pride was depicted on Brigitte's face. There was no longereither anxiety or pity in her eyes, and, just as I had come to feelmyself other than I had ever been, so I saw in her a woman I did notknow.

  "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 innocencethat I was seized with remorse.

  "You remind me," she said, "that I owe you the story of my life; sitdown and you shall learn it. You will open these drawers, and you willread 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 itdifficult to speak. She was pale as death, her voice constrained, herthroat swollen.

  "Brigitte! Brigitte!" I cried, "in the name of heaven, do not speak! Godis my witness I was not born such as you see me; during my life I havebeen neither suspicious nor distrustful. I have been undone, my hearthas been seared by the treachery of others. A frightful experience hasled me to the very brink of the precipice, and for a year I have seennothing 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 haveassumed, the meanest role of all, that of a jealous lover. God is mywitness that I love you and that you are the only one in the world whocan cure me of the past.

  "I have had to do, up to this time, with women who deceived me, or whowere unworthy of love. I have led the life of a libertine; I bear onmy heart certain marks that will never be effaced. Is it my fault ifcalumny, and base suggestion, to-day planted in a heart whose fibreswere still trembling with pain and ready to assimilate all thatresembles sorrow, have driven me to despair? I have just heard the nameof a man I have never met, of whose existence I was ignorant; I havebeen given to understand that there has been between you and him acertain 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 anirreparable wrong. But rather than consent to what you propose, I willthrow it all in the fire. Ah! my friend, do not degrade me; do notattempt to justify yourself, do not punish me for suffering. How couldI, in the bottom of my heart, suspect you of deceiving me? No, you arebeautiful and you are true; a single glance of yours, Brigitte, tells memore 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 youknew 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, tojealousy, to despair!

  "Alas! alas! my dear mistress, if you knew whom you love! Do notreproach me, but rather pity me; I must forget that other beings thanyou exist. Who can know through what frightful trials, through whatpitiless suffering I have passed! I did not expect this, I did notanticipate this moment. Since you have become mine, I realize what Ihave done; I have felt, in kissing you, that my lips were not, likeyours, unsullied. In the name of heaven, help me live! God made me abetter man than the one you see before you."

  Brigitte held out her hands and caressed me tenderly. She begged meto tell her all that had led to this sad scene. I spoke of what I hadlearned from Larive, but did not dare confess that I had interviewedMercanson. She insisted that I listen to her explanation. M. de Dalenshad loved her; but he was a man of frivolous disposition, dissipatedand inconstant; she had given him to understand that, not wishing toremarry, she could only request that he drop the role of suitor, andhe had yielded to her wishes with good grace; but his visits had becomemore rare since that time, until now they had ceased altogether. Shedrew from the bundle a certain letter which she showed me, the dateof which was recent; I cou
ld not help blushing as I found in it theconfirmation 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 ofany cause I might have to suspect her. Our treaty was sealed with akiss, and when I left her we had both forgotten that M. de Dalens everexisted.