CHAPTER III. THE QUESTION OF SMITH
Brigitte was better. She had told me that she desired to go away as soonas she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to restat least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey.
Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured methat the letter was the only cause of her melancholy, and begged meto say nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what waspassing in her heart. We went to the theatre every night in order toavoid embarrassing interviews. There we sometimes pressed each other'shands at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, orexchanged, perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we weremute, absorbed in our thoughts.
Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house hadbeen the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had leftsingular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and hissimplicity reassured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he hadbrought, and he did not appear offended, but saddened. He was ignorantof the contents, and his friendship for Brigitte led him to censure themseverely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, had he knownwhat they contained. On account of Brigitte's tone of reserve in hispresence, I did not think he was in her confidence.
I therefore welcomed him with pleasure, although there was always asort of awkward embarrassment in our meeting. He was asked to act asintermediary between Brigitte and her relatives after our departure.When we three were together he noticed a certain coldness and restraintwhich he endeavored to banish by cheerful good-humor. If he spoke of ourliaison it was with respect and as a man who looks upon love as asacred bond; in fact, he was a kind friend, and inspired me with fullconfidence.
But despite all this, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I couldnot get rid of strange thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I hadseen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time asBrigitte's, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discoveredbetween them, troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago Iwould have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspectBrigitte? Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she notgoing away with me? Even were it possible that Smith could share somesecret of which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of the mystery?What was there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship?
She had known him as a child; she met him again after long years justas she was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunatesituation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of addingto her sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowfulglances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories andregrets? Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a longjourney, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions?I felt this that must be the explanation, and that it was my duty toassure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers,and of requiting the other for the services he had rendered. And yeta deadly chill oppressed me, and I could not determine what course topursue.
When Smith left us in the evening, we either were silent or talkedof him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about himcontinually. She, however, told me just what I have told my reader;Smith's life had never been other than it was now--poor, obscure, andhonest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times,without knowing why I took such an interest in it.
There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would notconfess. If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatesthappiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had hepressed her hand while assisting her into the carriage, would I havepaid the least attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or hadhe not--had he shed tears for some unknown reason, what would itmatter so long as I was happy? But while unable to divine the cause ofBrigitte's sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever she might sayof it, had something to do with her present state. If I had been what Iought to have been for the last six months that we had lived together,nothing in the world, I was persuaded, could have troubled our love.
Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted; his simpleand modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eyeseizes at the first glance; one could know him in a quarter of an hour,and he inspired confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinkingthat if he were Brigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him tothe ends of the earth.
I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it.Brigitte, too, at times urged me to hasten the day.
"Why do you wait?" she asked. "Here I am recovered and everything isready."
Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know.
Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from Smith to my loved one. Isaw that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why, andI could not help thinking that there was but one cause, or one secret tolearn. This was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such ashad formerly tormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. Whatstrange creatures are we! It pleased me to leave them alone before thefire, and to go out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet andlooking at the water. When they spoke of their life at N------, andwhen Brigitte, almost cheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall someincident of their childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, andyet took pleasure in it. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of hismother, of his plans and his prospects; I gave him an opportunity toshow himself in a favorable light, and forced his modesty to reveal hismerit.
"You love your sister very much, do you not?" I asked. "When do youexpect to marry her off?"
He blushed, and replied that his expenses were rather heavy and that itwould probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health wouldpermit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provideher dowry; that there was a well-to-do family in the country, whoseeldest son was her sweetheart; that they were almost agreed on it, andthat fortune would one day come, like sleep, without thinking of it;that he had set aside for his sister a part of the money left by theirfather; that their mother was opposed to it, but that he would insist onit; that a young man can live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of ayoung girl is fixed on the day of her marriage. Thus, little by little,he expressed what was in his heart, and I watched Brigitte listening tohim. Then, when he arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door, andstood there, pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on thestairs.
Upon examining our trunks we found that there were still a few thingsneeded before we could start; Smith was asked to purchase them. He wasremarkably active, and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When Ireturned to my apartments, I found him on the floor, strapping a trunk.Brigitte was at the piano we had rented by the week during our stay. Shewas playing one of those old airs into which she put so much expression,and which were so dear to us. I stopped in the hall; every note reachedmy ear distinctly; never had she sung so sadly, so divinely.
Smith was listening with pleasure; he was on his knees holding thebuckle of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about theroom at the other goods he had packed and covered with a linen cloth.Satisfied with his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot;Brigitte, her hands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For thesecond time I saw tears fall from the young man's eyes; I was ready toshed tears myself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out myhand to him.
"Were you there?" asked Brigitte. She trembled and seemed surprised.
"Yes, I was there," I replied. "Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me hearyour sweet voice."
She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well asSmith's; her voice faltered. With the last notes she arose, and came tome and kissed me.
On another occasion I had brought an album containing views ofSwitzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigittefound a scene that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. Therewas one view that seemed to attract her mo
re than the others; it wasa certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues;some trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance a villageconsisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In theforeground a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, anda farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with hisiron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directingher attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above themwere the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits.Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. Thevalley resembled a lake of verdure, and the eye followed its contourwith delight.
"Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced somefigures on the picture.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make itresemble yours. The pretty hat would become you, and can I not, if I amskilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?"
The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the twofaces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. Thefaces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that thelikenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door openedand I was called away by the servant.
When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at thepicture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound revery, and was notaware of my presence; I sat down near the fire, and it was not untilI spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment,then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw himstrike his forehead with his hand.
When I saw these signs of grief, I said to myself "What does it mean?"Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know; perhaps mygood angel, perhaps my evil fate.