CHAPTER II. THE DEMON OF DOUBT
All my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were asvain as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill, and remainedobstinately silent. After an entire day passed in supplication andconjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing theOpera, I entered it from mere force of habit.
I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theatre, I was sooverwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak,except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses.All my powers were centred on a single thought, and the more I turned itover in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning.
What obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and therealization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary eventor even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or the loss of afriend, why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done,when our dreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature ofa secret that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me?What! to conceal it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart tosuspect her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me withhorror. On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or ofcaprice in that woman, as I knew her? I was lost in an abyss of doubt,and I could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point, on whichto base conjecture.
In front of me in the gallery sat a young man whose face was not unknownto me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him withoutthinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him.Suddenly I recognized him: it was he who had brought letters to Brigittefrom N------. I arose and started to accost him without thinking what Iwas doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without disturbinga large number of spectators, and I was forced to await the entr'acte.
My first thought was that if any one could enlighten me it was thisyoung man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson in the lastfew days, and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressedafter his visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was takenill.
The letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possiblethat he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he didnot know all the circumstances, but he could doubtless enlighten me asto the contents of those letters, and there was no reason why I shouldhesitate to question him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to thefoyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away andentered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stoodlooking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last he appeared. I bowed andapproached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared downa stairway.
My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any otherexplanation than deliberate intention on his part to avoid me. He surelyknew my face, and, whether he knew it or not, a man who sees anotherapproaching him ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the onlypersons in the corridor at the time, and there could be no doubt he didnot wish to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatmentfrom a man whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why shouldhe insult me? He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid anawkward interview, during which questions might be asked which he didnot care to answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost asmuch as the first. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head,that young man's action in avoiding me seemed to have some connectionwith Brigitte's obstinate silence.
Of all torments uncertainty is the most difficult to endure, and duringmy life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not waitpatiently. When I returned to my apartments I found Brigitte readingthose same fateful letters from N------. I told her that I could notremain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it atany cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden change whichhad taken place in her, and that, if she refused to speak, I should lookupon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an orderfor me to leave her forever.
She reluctantly handed me the letters she was reading. Her relatives hadwritten her that her departure had disgraced them, that every one knewthe circumstances, and that they felt it their duty to warn her ofthe consequences; that she was living openly as my mistress, and that,although she was a widow and free to do as she chose, she ought to thinkof the name she bore; that neither they nor her old friends would eversee her again if she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts ofthreats and entreaties, they urged her to return.
The tone of the letter angered me, and at first I took it as an insult.
"And that young man who brings you these remonstrances," I cried,"doubtless has orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail todo his own part to the best of his ability. Am I not right?"
Brigitte's dejection made me reflect and calm my wrath.
"You will do as you wish, and achieve my ruin," she said. "My fate restswith you; you have been for a long time my master. Avenge as you pleasethe last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to theworld that I formerly respected, to the honor that I have lost. I havenot a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply, I will obeyyou."
"I care to know nothing," I replied, "but your intentions; it is for meto comply with your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to do it. Tellme, do you desire to remain, to go away, or shall I go alone?"
"Why that question?" asked Brigitte; "have I said that I had changed mymind? I am suffering, and can not travel in my present condition, butwhen I recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned."
We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she hadexpressed her resolution saddened me more than usual. It was not thefirst time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up tothis time whatever letters Brigitte had received she had never takenthem so much to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigittehad been so affected by protests which in less happy moments had had noeffect on her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoilsfrom an act of final significance? "I will do as you please," she hadsaid. No, it does not please me to demand patience, and rather than lookat that sorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks I will setout alone.
Fool that I was! Had I the strength to do it? I did not close my eyesthat night, and the next morning I resolved to call on that young man Ihad seen at the opera. I do not know whether it was wrath or curiositythat impelled me to this course, nor did I know just what I desired tolearn of him; but I reflected that he could not avoid me this time, andthat was all I desired.
As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending thatI felt under an obligation to call on him after all the visits hehad made us; I had not said a word about my experience at the opera.Brigitte's eyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room sheheld out her hand and said:
"What do you wish?"
Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words, and I setout less unhappy.
The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was livingnear us. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensationof uneasiness; I was dazed as though by a sudden flash of light. Hisfirst gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accentBrigitte had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he heldout his hand and said:
"What do you wish?"
Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which reason cannot explain. I sat as still as if awakened from a dream, and began torepeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could Itell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me,how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N------, andknew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to questionhim, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our firstwords were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness inbringing letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving Francewe would ask him to do the same favor for us; and
then we were silent,surprised to find ourselves vis-a-vis.
I looked about me in embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor;everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books,musical instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, buteverything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.
As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. Onthe mantel I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look atit, and he said it was his mother.
I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had knownhim since childhood. Before I came to the country she used to see himoccasionally at N------, but at the time of her last visit there hewas away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned someparticulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honestemployment that enabled him to support his mother and sister.
His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; hedeprived himself of everything for them, and although he possessedmusical talents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, theimmediate needs of those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, hadalways led him to prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances ofsuccess in larger ventures.
In a word, he belonged to that small class who live quietly, and whoare worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I hadlearned of certain traits in his character which will serve to paintthe man he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighborhood,and, after a year of devotion to her, had secured her parents' consentto their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to besigned, the preparations for the wedding were complete, when his mothersaid:
"And your sister? Who will marry her?"
That simple remark made him understand that if he married he would spendall his money in the household expenses and his sister would haveno dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happyprospects; he then came to Paris.
When I heard that story I wished to see the hero. That simple,unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all theglories of war.
The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broachthe subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me,that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually mythoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemedto me that he was also examining me with curiosity.
We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!He, accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of theclock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it whichlies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy governmentoffice; sending his mother all his savings, that farthing of human joywhich the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except forthe happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he hadbeen a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, soinexorable, during the time that with him had been a round of toil, whathad I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?
What I have said in a page can be comprehended in a moment. He spoke tome of our journey and the countries we were going to visit.
"When do you go?" he asked.
"I do not know; Madame Pierson is indisposed, and has been confined toher bed for three days."
"For three days!" he repeated, in surprise.
"Yes; why are you astonished?"
He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. Hewas trembling violently.
"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand tohis head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently tospeak, he said:
"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when Ihave sufficiently recovered I will return your visit."