CHAPTER IV. BRIGITTE'S LOSS
As I was crossing the public square one evening I saw two men standingtogether; 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 hasknown only public women; she is paying the price of her folly."
I advanced in the darkness to see who was speaking thus, and to hearmore if possible; but they passed on as soon as they spied me.
I found Brigitte much disturbed; her aunt was seriously ill; she hadtime 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 sentfor me.
"My aunt is dead," she said; "I lose the only one left me on earth, I amnow 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 youlove me. But how can I count on you? I am your mistress, alas! but youare not my lover. It is for you that Shakespeare has written these sadwords: 'Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a veryopal.' 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 longtime."
"Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or I willfollow you. Ah! Brigitte," I continued, throwing myself on my kneesbefore her, "you thought you were alone when your aunt died! That is themost cruel punishment you could inflict on me; never have I so keenlyfelt the misery of my love for you. You must retract those terriblewords; I deserve them, but they will kill me. Oh, God! can it be truethat I count for nothing in your life, or that I am an influence in yourlife 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 inthe village and in the neighboring country. Some say that I have beenruined; others accuse me of imprudence and folly; others represent youas a cruel and dangerous man. Some one has spied into our most secretthoughts; things that I thought no one else knew, events in your lifeand sad scenes to which they have led, are known to others; my pooraunt spoke to me about it not long ago, and she knew it some time beforespeaking 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 loveme so much, shrug their shoulders when they see my place empty at theSunday afternoon balls. How has that come about? I do not know, nor doyou, I suppose; but I must go away, I can not endure it. And my aunt'sdeath, so sudden, so unexpected, above all, this solitude! this emptyroom! Courage fails me; my friend, my friend, do not abandon me!"
She wept; in an adjoining room I saw her household goods in disorder, atrunk on the floor, everything indicating preparations for departure. Itwas evident that, at the time of her aunt's death, Brigitte had triedto go away without seeing me, but could not. She was so overwhelmed withemotion that she could hardly speak; her condition was pitiful, and itwas I who had brought her to it. Not only was she unhappy, but she wasinsulted in public, and the man who ought to be her support and herconsolation 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 withshame. After so many promises, so much useless exaltation, so many plansand hopes, what had I, in fact, accomplished in three months? I thoughtI had a treasure in my heart, and out of it came nothing but malice, theshadow of a dream, and the misfortune of a woman I adored. For the firsttime I found myself really face to face with myself. Brigitte reproachedme for nothing; she had tried to go away and could not; she was ready tosuffer 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 scourgeof 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 meat the confused piles of goods. Alas! I knew them all; my heart wasnot so hardened that it could not be moved by the memories which theyawakened. I began to calculate all the harm I had done; I saw my dearBrigitte 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 foryou? You array yourself in fine linen, and set out, sleek and happy,for the home where your mistress languishes; you throw yourself upon thecushions where she has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, andyou gently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You thinkit no evil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in yourdeliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes froma suit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy in making sport ofsuffering; you find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments incommitting murder by means of little pin pricks.
"What will you say to the living God, when your work is finished? Whatwill become of the woman who loves you? Where will you fall while sheleans on you for support? With what face will you one day bury your paleand wretched creature, just as she buried the last man who protectedher? Yes, yes, you will doubtless have to bury her, for your love killsand consumes; you have devoted her to the Furies and it is she whoappeases them. If you follow that woman you will be the cause of herdeath. Take care! her guardian angel hesitates; he has just knocked atthe door of this house, in order to frighten away a fatal and shamefulpassion! He inspired Brigitte with the idea of flight; at this moment hemay 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 littlegingham dress, folded and ready to be packed in the trunk. It had been awitness 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 becowardly. She has just lost her aunt, and is all alone; she is exposedto the power of I know not what enemy. Can it be Mercanson? He may havespoken of my conversation with him, and, seeing that I was jealous ofDalens, may have guessed the rest. Assuredly he is the snake who hasbeen hissing about my well-beloved flower. I must punish him, and Imust repair the wrong I have done Brigitte. Fool that I am! I think ofleaving her, when I ought to consecrate my life to her, to the expiationof my sins, to rendering her happy after the tears I have drawn from hereyes-when I am her only support in the world, her only friend, heronly protector! when I ought to follow her to the end of the world, toshelter her with my body, to console her for having loved me, for havinggiven herself to me!
"Brigitte!" I cried, returning to her room, "wait an hour for me, and Iwill return."
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Wait for me," I replied, "do not set out without me. Remember the wordsof Ruth: 'Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I willlodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thoudiest, will I die, and there will I be buried."'
I left her precipitately, and rushed out to find Mercanson. I was toldthat 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 blacktable. I was becoming impatient when I recalled my duel on account of myfirst mistress.
"I received a wound from a bullet and am still a fool," I said tomyself. "What have I come to do here? This priest will not fight; if Iseek a quarrel with him, he will say that his priestly robes forbid, andhe will continue his vile gossip when I have gone. Moreover, for whatcan I hold him responsible? What is it that has disturbed Brigitte? Theysay that her reputation has been sullied, that I ill-treat her, and thatshe 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 noticean insult is to give it importance.
"Is it possible to prevent
provincials from talking about theirneighbors? Can any one prevent a gossip from maligning a woman wholoves? What measures can be taken to stop a public rumor? If they saythat I ill-treat her, it is for me--to prove the contrary by my conductwith her, and not by violence. It would be as ridiculous to seek aquarrel 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 beto say to all the world that there is truth in its idle rumors, and togive excuse to the gossips. We must neither go away nor take any noticeof such things."
I returned to Brigitte. A half hour had passed, and I had changed mymind three times. I dissuaded her from her plans; I told her what I hadjust done and why I had not carried out my first impulse. She listenedresignedly, yet she wished to go away; the house where her aunt had diedhad become odious to her. Much effort and persuasion on my part wererequired to get her to consent to remain; finally I accomplished it. Werepeated 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 shouldconsole 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 matterof 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 myheart; that hence forth she should not be offended either by my pride orby my caprices; and thus, sad and patient, her arms around my neck, sheyielded obedience to the pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flashof reason.
One day I saw a little chamber she called her oratory; there was nofurniture except a prie-dieu and a little altar with a cross and somevases of flowers. As for the rest, the walls and curtains were as whiteas snow. She shut herself up in that room at times, but rarely since Ihad known her.
I stepped to the door and saw Brigitte seated on the floor in the middleof 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 driedgrass, 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 wreaththat has faded here in the oratory; I have come here to change myflowers, as I have not attended to them for some time."
Her voice trembled, and she appeared to be about to faint. I recalledthat name of Brigitte la Rose that I had heard given her. I asked herwhether 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, myeyes fixed on the offering.
"Was I not right," she asked, "if it was my crown, to take it from thewall where it has hung so long?
"Of what use are these remains? Brigitte la Rose is no more, nor theflowers that baptized her." She went out. I heard her sobs, and the doorclosed on me; I fell on my knees and wept bitterly. When I returned toher room, I found her waiting for me; dinner was ready. I took my placein silence, and not a word was said of what was in our hearts.