CHAPTER V. TRUTH AT LAST
What a frightful weapon is human thought! It is our defense and oursafeguard, the most precious gift that God has made us. It is ours andit obeys us; we may launch it forth into space, but, once outside of ourfeeble brains, it is gone; we can no longer control it.
While I was deferring the time of our departure from day to day I wasgradually losing strength, and, although I did not perceive it, my vitalforces were slowly wasting away. When I sat at table I experienced aviolent distaste for food; at night two pale faces, those of Brigitteand Smith, pursued me through frightful dreams. When they went to thetheatre in the evening I refused to go with them; then I went alone,concealed myself in the parquet, and watched them. I pretended that Ihad some business to attend to in a neighboring room and sat there anhour and listened to them. The idea occurred to me to seek a quarrelwith Smith and force him to fight with me; I turned my back on him whilehe was talking; then he came to me with a look of surprise on his face,holding out his hand. When I was alone in the night and every one slept,I felt a strong desire to go to Brigitte's desk and take from it herpapers. On one occasion I was obliged to go out of the house in orderto resist the temptation. One day I felt like arming myself with a knifeand threatening to kill them if they did not tell me why they were sosad; another day I turned all this fury against myself. With what shamedo I write it! And if any one should ask me why I acted thus, I couldnot reply.
To see, to doubt, to search, to torture myself and make myselfmiserable, to pass entire days with my ear at the keyhole, and thenight in a flood of tears, to repeat over and over that I should die ofsorrow, to feel isolation and feebleness uprooting hope in my heart,to imagine that I was spying when I was only listening to the feverishbeating of my own pulse; to con over stupid phrases, such as: "Life isa dream, there is nothing stable here below;" to curse and blasphemeGod through misery and through caprice: that was my joy, the preciousoccupation for which I renounced love, the air of heaven, and liberty!
Eternal God, liberty! Yes, there were certain moments when, in spite ofall, I still thought of it. In the midst of my madness, eccentricity,and stupidity, there were within me certain impulses that at timesbrought me to myself. It was a breath of air which struck my face as Icame from my dungeon; it was a page of a book I read when, in my bitterdays, I happened to read something besides those modern sycophantscalled pamphleteers, who, out of regard for the public health, ought tobe prevented from indulging in their crude philosophizings. Since I havereferred to these good moments, let me mention one of them, they were sorare. One evening I was reading the Memoirs of Constant; I came to thefollowing lines:
"Salsdorf, a Saxon surgeon attached to Prince Christian, had his legbroken by a shell in the battle of Wagram. He lay almost lifeless on thedusty field. Fifteen paces distant, Amedee of Kerbourg, aide-de-camp (Ihave forgotten to whom), wounded in the breast by a bullet, fell to theground vomiting blood. Salsdorf saw that if that young man was not caredfor he would die of suffusion; summoning all his powers, he painfullydragged himself to the side of the wounded man, attended to him andsaved his life. Salsdorf himself died four days later from the effectsof amputation."
When I read these words I threw down my book, and melted into tears.
I do not regret those tears, for they were such as I could shed onlywhen my heart was right; I do not speak merely of Salsdorf, and do notcare for that particular instance. I am sure, however, that I did notsuspect any one that day. Poor dreamer! Ought I to remember that I havebeen other than I am? What good will it do me as I stretch out my armsin anguish to heaven and wait for the bolt that will deliver me forever?Alas! it was only a gleam that flashed across the night of my life.
Like those dervish fanatics who find ecstasy in vertigo, so thought,turning on itself, exhausted by the stress of introspection and tired ofvain effort, falls terror-stricken. So it would seem that man must be avoid and that by dint of delving unto himself he reaches the last turnof a spiral. There, as on the summits of mountains and at the bottom ofmines, air fails, and God forbids man to go farther. Then, struck witha mortal chill, the heart, as if impaired by oblivion, seeks to escapeinto a new birth; it demands life of that which environs it, it eagerlydrinks in the air; but it finds round about only its own chimeras, whichhave exhausted its failing powers and which, self-created, surround itlike pitiless spectres.
This could not last long. Tired of uncertainty, I resolved to resort toa test that would discover the truth.
I ordered post-horses for ten in the evening. We had hired a caleche andI gave directions that all should be ready at the hour indicated. At thesame time I asked that nothing be said to Madame Pierson. Smith came todinner; at the table I affected unusual cheerfulness, and without aword about my plans, I turned the conversation to our journey. I wouldrenounce all idea of going away, I said, if I thought Brigitte did notcare to go; I was so well satisfied with Paris that I asked nothingbetter than to remain as long as she pleased. I made much of all thepleasures of the city; I spoke of the balls, the theatres, of the manyopportunities for diversion on every hand. In short, since we were happyI did not see why we should make a change; and I did not think of goingaway at present.
I was expecting her to insist that we carry out our plan of going toGeneva, and was not disappointed. However, she insisted but feebly; but,after a few words, I pretended to yield, and then changing the subject Ispoke of other things, as though it was all settled.
"And why will not Smith go with us?" I asked. "It is very true that hehas duties here, but can he not obtain leave of absence? Moreover, willnot the talents he possesses and which he is unwilling to use, assurehim an honorable living anywhere? Let him come along with us; thecarriage is large and we offer him a place in it. A young man shouldsee the world, and there is nothing so irksome for a man of his age asconfinement in an office and restriction to a narrow circle. Is it nottrue?" I asked, turning to Brigitte. "Come, my dear, let your wilesobtain from him what he might refuse me; urge him to give us six weeksof his time. We will travel together, and after a tour of Switzerland hewill return to his duties with new life."
Brigitte joined her entreaties to mine, although she knew it was onlya joke on my part. Smith could not leave Paris without danger of losinghis position, and replied that he regretted being obliged to denyhimself the pleasure of accompanying us. Nevertheless I continuedto press him, and, ordering another bottle of wine, I repeated myinvitation. After dinner I went out to assure myself that my orders werecarried out; then I returned in high spirits, and seating myself at thepiano I proposed some music.
"Let us pass the evening here," I said; "believe me, it is better thangoing to the theatre; I can not take part myself, but I can listen. Wewill make Smith play if he tires of our company, and the time will passpleasantly."
Brigitte consented with good grace and began singing for us; Smithaccompanied her on the violoncello. The materials for a bowl of punchwere brought and the flame of burning rum soon cheered us with variedlights. The piano was abandoned for the table; then we had cards;everything passed off as I wished and we succeeded in divertingourselves to my heart's content.
I had my eyes fixed on the clock and waited impatiently for the hands tomark the hour of ten. I was tormented with anxiety, but allowed them tosee nothing. Finally the hour arrived; I heard the postilion's whip asthe horses entered the court. Brigitte was seated near me; I took her bythe hand and asked her if she was ready to depart. She looked at me withsurprise, doubtless wondering if I was not joking. I told her that atdinner she had appeared so anxious to go that I had felt justified insending for the horses, and that I went out for that purpose when I leftthe table.
"Are you serious?" asked Brigitte; "do you wish to set out to-night?"
"Why not?" I replied, "since we have agreed that we ought to leaveParis?"
"What! now? At this very moment?"
"Certainly; have we not been ready for a month? You see there is nothingto do but load our trunks on the c
arriage; as we have decided to go,ought we not go at once? I believe it is better to go now and put offnothing until tomorrow. You are in the humor to travel to-night and Ihasten to profit by it. Why wait longer and continue to put it off? Ican not endure this life. You wish to go, do you not? Very well, let usgo and be done with it."
Profound silence ensued. Brigitte stepped to the window and satisfiedherself that the carriage was there. Moreover, the tone in which I spokewould admit of no doubt, and, however hasty my action may appear toher, it was due to her own expressed desire. She could not deny her ownwords, nor find any pretext for further delay. Her decision was madepromptly; she asked a few questions as though to assure herself that allthe preparations had been made; seeing that nothing had been omitted,she began to search here and there. She found her hat and shawl, thencontinued her search.
"I am ready," she said; "shall we go? We are really going?"
She took a light, went to my room, to her own, opened lockers andclosets. She asked for the key to her secretary which she said she hadlost. Where could that key be? She had it in her possession not an hourago.
"Come, come! I am ready," she repeated in extreme agitation; "let us go,Octave, let us set out at once."
While speaking she continued her search and then came and sat down nearus.
I was seated on the sofa watching Smith, who stood before me. He had notchanged countenance and seemed neither troubled nor surprised; but twodrops of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I heard an ivory countercrack between his fingers, the pieces falling to the floor. He held outboth hands to us.
"Bon voyage, my friends!" he said.
Again silence; I was still watching him, waiting for him to add a word."If there is some secret here," thought I, "when shall I learn it, ifnot now? It must be on the lips of both of them. Let it but come outinto the light and I will seize it."
"My dear Octave," said Brigitte, "where are we to stop? You will writeto us, Henri, will you not? You will not forget my relatives and will dowhat you can for me?" He replied in a voice that trembled slightly thathe would do all in his power to serve her.
"I can answer for nothing," he said, "and, judging from the letters youhave received, there is not much hope. But it will not be my fault if Ido not send you good news. Count on me, I am devoted to you."
After a few more kind words he made ready to take his departure. I aroseand left the room before him; I wished to leave them together a momentfor the last time and, as soon as I had closed the door behind me, in aperfect rage of jealousy, I pressed my ear to the keyhole.
"When shall I see you again?" he asked.
"Never," replied Brigitte; "adieu, Henri." She held out her hand. Hebent over it, pressed it to his lips and I had barely time to slip intoa corner as he passed out without seeing me.
Alone with Brigitte, my heart sank within me. She was waiting for me,her shawl on her arm, and emotion plainly marked on her face. She hadfound the key she had been looking for and her desk was open. I returnedand sat down near the fire. "Listen to me," I said, without daring tolook at her; "I have been so culpable in my treatment of you that Iought to wait and suffer without a word of complaint. The change whichhas taken place in you has thrown me into such despair that I have notbeen able to refrain from asking you the cause; but to-day I ask nothingmore. Does it cost you an effort to depart? Tell me, and if so I amresigned."
"Let us go, let us go!" she replied.
"As you please, but be frank; whatever blow I may receive, I ought notto ask whence it comes; I should submit without a murmur. But if I loseyou, do not speak to me of hope, for God knows I will not survive theloss."
She turned on me like a flash.
"Speak to me of your love," she said, "not of your grief."
"Very well, I love you more than life. Beside my love, my grief is buta dream. Come with me to the end of the world, I will die or I will livewith you."
With these words I advanced toward her; she turned pale and recoiled.She made a vain effort to force a smile on her contracted lips, andsitting down before her desk she said:
"One moment; I have some papers here I want to burn."
She showed me the letters from N------, tore them up and threw theminto the fire; she then took out other papers which she reread and thenspread out on the table. They were bills of purchases she had made andsome of them were still unpaid. While examining them she began to talkrapidly, while her cheeks burned as if with fever. Then she begged mypardon for her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival.
She gave evidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever. Sheclapped her hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey; inshort, she was all love, or at least apparently all love. I can not tellhow I suffered at the sight of that factitious joy; there was in thatgrief which crazed her something more sad than tears and more bitterthan reproaches. I would have preferred to have her cold and indifferentrather than thus excited; it seemed to me a parody of our happiestmoments. There were the same words, the same woman, the same caresses;and that which, fifteen days before would have intoxicated me with loveand happiness, repeated thus, filled me with horror.
"Brigitte," I suddenly inquired, "what secret are you concealing fromme? If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are enacting beforeme?"
"I!" said she, almost offended. "What makes you think I am acting?"
"What makes me think so? Tell me, my dear, that you have death in yoursoul and that you are suffering martyrdom. Behold my arms are ready toreceive you; lean your head on me and weep. Then I will take you away,perhaps; but in truth, not thus."
"Let us go, let us go!" she again repeated.
"No, on my soul! No, not at present; no, not while there is between usa lie or a mask. I like unhappiness better than such cheerfulness asyours."
She was silent, astonished to see that I had not been deceived by herwords and manner and that I saw through them both.
"Why should we delude ourselves?" I continued.
"Have I fallen so low in your esteem that you can dissimulate before me?That unfortunate journey, you think you are condemned to it, do you?Am I a tyrant, an absolute master? Am I an executioner who drags you topunishment? How much do you fear my wrath when you come before me withsuch mimicry? What terror impels you to lie thus?"
"You are wrong," she replied; "I beg of you, not a word more."
"Why so little sincerity? If I am not your confidant, may I not atleast be your friend? If I am denied all knowledge of the source of yourtears, may I not at least see them flow? Have you not enough confidencein me to believe that I will respect your sorrow? What have I done thatI should be ignorant of it? Might not the remedy lie right there?"
"No," she replied, "you are wrong; you will achieve your own unhappinessas well as mine if you press me farther. Is it not enough that we aregoing away?"
"And do you expect me to drag you away against your will? Is it notevident that you have consented reluctantly, and that you already beginto repent? Great God! What is it you are concealing from me? What is theuse of playing with words when your thoughts are as clear as that glassbefore which you stand? Should I not be the meanest of men to accept atyour hands what is yielded with so much regret? And yet how can I refuseit? What can I do if you refuse to speak?"
"No, I do not oppose you, you are mistaken; I love you, Octave; ceasetormenting me thus."
She threw so much tenderness into these words that I fell down on myknees before her. Who could resist her glance and her voice?
"My God!" I cried, "you love me, Brigitte? My dear mistress, you loveme?"
"Yes, I love you; yes. I belong to you; do with me what you will. Iwill follow you, let us go away together; come, Octave, the carriage iswaiting."
She pressed my hand in hers, and kissed my forehead.
"Yes, it must be," she murmured, "it must be."
"It must be," I repeated to myself. I arose.
On the table there remained only one piece of paper that Brigi
tte wasexamining. She picked it up, then allowed it to drop to the floor.
"Is that all?" I asked.
"Yes, that is all."
When I ordered the horses I had no idea that we would really go, Iwished merely to make a trial, but circumstances bid fair to force me tocarry my plans farther than I at first intended. I opened the door.
"It must be!" I said to myself. "It must be!" I repeated aloud.
"What do you mean by that, Brigitte? What is there in those words that Ido not understand? Explain yourself, or I will not go. Why must you loveme?"
She fell on the sofa and wrung her hands in grief.
"Ah! Unhappy man!" she cried, "you will never know how to love!"
"Yes, I think you are right, but, before God, I know how to suffer. Youmust love me, must you not? Very well, then you must answer me. Were Ito lose you forever, were these walls to crumble over my head, I willnot leave this spot until I have solved the mystery that has beentorturing me for more than a month. Speak, or I will leave you. I may bea fool who destroys his own happiness; I may be demanding something thatis not for me to possess; it may be that an explanation will separateus and raise before me an insurmountable barrier, which will render ourtour, on which I have set my heart, impossible; whatever it may cost youand me, you shall speak or I will renounce everything."
"No, I will not speak."
"You will speak! Do you fondly imagine I am the dupe of your lies? WhenI see you change between morning and evening until you differ more fromyour natural self than does night from day, do you think I am deceived?When you give me as a cause some letters that are not worth the troubleof reading, do you imagine that I am to be put off with the firstpretext that comes to hand because you do not choose to seek another? Isyour face made of plaster, that it is difficult to see what is passingin your heart? What is your opinion of me? I do not deceive myself asmuch as you suppose, and take care lest in default of words your silencediscloses what you so obstinately conceal."
"What do you imagine I am concealing?"
"What do I imagine? You ask me that! Is it to brave me you ask such aquestion! Do you think to make me desperate and thus get rid of me? Yes,I admit it, offended pride is capable of driving me to extremes. IfI should explain myself freely, you would have at your service allfeminine hypocrisy; you hope that I will accuse you, so that you canreply that such a woman as you does not stoop to justify herself. Howskilfully the most guilty and treacherous of your sex contrive to useproud disdain as a shield! Your great weapon is silence; I did not learnthat yesterday. You wish to be insulted and you hold your tongue untilit comes to that. Come, struggle against my heart--where yours beatsyou will find it; but do not struggle against my head, it is harder thaniron, and it has served me as long as yours!"
"Poor boy!" murmured Brigitte; "you do not want to go?"
"No, I shall not go except with my beloved, and you are not that now. Ihave struggled, I have suffered, I have eaten my own heart long enough.It is time for day to break, I have loved long enough in the night. Yesor no, will you answer me?"
"No."
"As you please; I will wait."
I sat down on the other side of the room, determined not to rise untilI had learned what I wished to know. She appeared to be reflecting, andwalked back and forth before me.
I followed her with an eager eye, while her silence gradually increasedmy anger. I was unwilling to have her perceive it and was undecided whatto do. I opened the window.
"You may drive off," I called to those below, "and I will see that youare paid. I shall not start to-night."
"Poor boy!" repeated Brigitte. I quietly closed the window and sat downas if I had not heard her; but I was so furious with rage that Icould hardly restrain myself. That cold silence, that negative force,exasperated me to the last point. Had I been really deceived andconvinced of the guilt of a woman I loved I could not have sufferedmore. As I had condemned myself to remain in Paris, I reflected that Imust compel Brigitte to speak at any price. In vain I tried to think ofsome means of forcing her to enlighten me; for such power I would havegiven all I possessed. What could I do or say? She sat there calm andunruffled, looking at me with sadness. I heard the sound of the horses'hoofs on the paving as the carriage drew out of the court. I had merelyto turn my hand to call them back, but it seemed to me that there wassomething irrevocable about their departure. I slipped the bolt on thedoor; something whispered in my ear: "You are face to face with thewoman who must give you life or death."
While thus buried in thought I tried to invent some expedient thatwould lead to the truth. I recalled one of Diderot's romances in whicha woman, jealous of her lover, resorted to a novel plan, for the purposeof clearing away her doubts. She told him that she no longer loved himand that she wished to leave him. The Marquis des Arcis (the name of thelover) falls into the trap, and confesses that he himself has tired ofthe liaison. That piece of strategy, which I had read at too early anage, had struck me as being very skilful, and the recollection of it atthis moment made me smile. "Who knows?" said I to myself. "If I shouldtry this with Brigitte, she might be deceived and tell me her secret."
My anger had become furious when the idea of resorting to such trickeryoccurred to me. Was it so difficult to make a woman speak in spite ofherself? This woman was my mistress; I must be very weak if I could notgain my point. I turned over on the sofa with an air of indifference.
"Very well, my dear," said I, gayly, "this is not a time forconfidences, then?"
She looked at me in astonishment.
"And yet," I continued, "we must some day come to the truth. Now Ibelieve it would be well to begin at once; that will make you confiding,and there is nothing like an understanding between friends."
Doubtless my face betrayed me as I spoke these words; Brigitte did notappear to understand and kept on walking up and down.
"Do you know," I resumed, "that we have been together now six months?The life we are leading together is not one to be laughed at. You areyoung, I also; if this kind of life should become distasteful to you,are you the woman to tell me of it? In truth, if it were so, I wouldconfess it to you frankly. And why not? Is it a crime to love? If not,it is not a crime to love less or to cease to love at all. Would it beastonishing if at our age we should feel the need of change?"
She stopped me.
"At our age!" said she. "Are you addressing me? What comedy are you nowplaying, yourself?"
Blood mounted to my face. I seized her hand. "Sit down here," I said,"and listen to me."
"What is the use? It is not you who speak."
I felt ashamed of my own strategy and abandoned it.
"Listen to me," I repeated, "and come, I beg of you, sit down near me.If you wish to remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have tosay."
"I am listening, what have you to say to me?"
"If some one should say to me: 'You are a coward!' I, who am twenty-twoyears of age and have fought on the field of honor, would throwthe taunt back in the teeth of my accuser. Have I not within me theconsciousness of what I am? It would be necessary for me to meet myaccuser on the field, and play my life against his; why? In order toprove that I am not a coward; otherwise the world would believe it. Thatsingle word demands that reply every time it is spoken, and it mattersnot by whom."
"It is true; what is your meaning?"
"Women do not fight; but as society is constituted there is no being,of whatever sex, who ought to submit to the indignity involved in anaspersion on all his or her past life, be that life regulated as by apendulum. Reflect; who escapes that law? There are some, I admit;but what happens? If it is a man, dishonor; if it is a woman, what?Forgiveness? Every one who loves ought to give some evidence of life,some proof of existence. There is, then, for woman as well as for man,a time when an attack must be resented. If she is brave, she rises,announces that she is present and sits down again. A stroke of the swordis not for her. She must not only avenge herself, but she must forge herown arms. Someone suspects
her; who? An outsider? She may hold him incontempt--her lover whom she loves? If so, it is her life that is inquestion, and she may not despise him."
"Her only recourse is silence."
"You are wrong; the lover who suspects her casts an aspersion on herentire life. I know it. Her plea is in her tears, her past life, herdevotion and her patience. What will happen if she remains silent? Herlover will lose her by her own act and time will justify her. Is notthat your thought?"
"Perhaps; silence before all."
"Perhaps, you say? Assuredly I will lose you if you do not speak; myresolution is made: I am going away alone."
"But, Octave--"
"But," I cried, "time will justify you! Let us put an end to it; yes orno?"
"Yes, I hope so."
"You hope so! Will you answer me definitely? This is doubtless the lasttime you will have the opportunity. You tell me that you love me, and Ibelieve it. I suspect you; is it your intention to allow me to go awayand rely on time to justify you?"
"Of what do you suspect me?"
"I do not choose to say, for I see that it would be useless. But, afterall, misery for misery, at your leisure; I am as well pleased. Youdeceive me, you love another; that is your secret and mine."
"Who is it?" she asked.
"Smith."
She placed her hand on her lips and turned aside. I could say no more;we were both pensive, our eyes fixed on the floor.
"Listen to me," she began with an effort, "I have suffered much. I callheaven to bear me witness that I would give my life for you. So long asthe faintest gleam of hope remains, I am ready to suffer anything; but,although I may rouse your anger in saying to you that I am a woman, Iam nevertheless a woman, my friend. We can not go beyond the limitsof human endurance. Beyond a certain point I will not answer for theconsequences. All I can do at this moment is to get down on my kneesbefore you and beseech you not to go away."
She knelt down as she spoke. I arose.
"Fool that I am!" I muttered, bitterly; "fool, to try to get thetruth from a woman! He who undertakes such a task will earn naughtbut derision and will deserve it! Truth! Only he who consorts withchambermaids knows it, only he who steals to their pillow and listensto the unconscious utterance of a dream, hears it. He alone knows it whomakes a woman of himself, and initiates himself into the secrets of hercult of inconstancy! But man, who asks for it openly, he who opens aloyal hand to receive that frightful alms, he will never obtain it! Theyare on guard with him; for reply he receives a shrug of the shoulders,and, if he rouses himself in his impatience, they rise in righteousindignation like an outraged vestal, while there falls from their lipsthe great feminine oracle that suspicion destroys love, and they refuseto pardon an accusation which they are unable to meet. Ah! just God! Howweary I am! When will all this cease?"
"Whenever you please," said she, coldly; "I am as tired of it as you."
"At this very moment; I leave you forever, and may time justify you!Time! Time! Oh! what a cold lover! Remember this adieu. Time! and thybeauty, and thy love, and thy happiness, where will they be? Is it thus,without regret, you allow me to go? Ah! the day when the jealous loverwill know that he has been unjust, the day when he shall see proofs,he will understand what a heart he has wounded, is it not so? He willbewail his shame, he will know neither joy nor sleep; he will live onlyin the memory of the time when he might have been happy. But, on thatday, his proud mistress will turn pale as she sees herself avenged; shewill say to herself: 'If I had only done it sooner!' And believe me, ifshe loves him, pride will not console her."
I tried to be calm, but I was no longer master of myself, and I began topace the floor as she had done. There are certain glances that resemblethe clashing of drawn swords; such glances Brigitte and I exchanged atthat moment. I looked at her as the prisoner looks on her at the door ofhis dungeon. In order to break her sealed lips and force her to speak Iwould give my life and hers.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you wish me to tell you?"
"What you have on your heart. Are you cruel enough to make me repeatit?"
"And you, you," she cried, "are you not a hundred times more cruel? Ah!fool, as you say, who would know the truth! Fool that I should be if Iexpected you to believe it! You would know my secret, and my secret isthat I love you. Fool that I am! you will seek another. That pallor ofwhich you are the cause, you accuse it, you question it. Like a fool, Ihave tried to suffer in silence, to consecrate to you my resignation;I have tried to conceal my tears; you have played the spy, and you havecounted them as witnesses against me. Fool that I am! I have thought ofcrossing seas, of exiling myself from France with you, of dying far fromall who have loved me, leaning for sole support on a heart that doubtsme. Fool that I am! I thought that truth had a glance, an accent, thatcould not be mistaken, that would be respected! Ah! when I think of it,tears choke me. Why, if it must ever be thus, induce me to take a stepthat will forever destroy my peace? My head is confused, I do not knowwhere I am!"
She leaned on me weeping. "Fool! Fool!" she repeated, in a heartrendingvoice.
"And what is it you ask?" she continued, "what can I do to meet thosesuspicions that are ever born anew, that alter with your moods? Imust justify myself, you say! For what? For loving, for dying,for despairing? And if I assume a forced cheerfulness, even thatcheerfulness offends you. I sacrifice everything to follow you andyou have not gone a league before you look back. Always, everywhere,whatever I may do, insults and anger!"
"Ah! dear child, if you knew what a mortal chill comes over me, whatsuffering I endure in seeing my simplest words this taken up and hurledback at me with suspicion and sarcasm! By that course you depriveyourself of the only happiness there is in the world--perfect love. Youkill all delicate and lofty sentiment in the hearts of those who loveyou; soon you will believe in nothing except the material and the gross;of love there will remain for you only that which is visible and canbe touched with the finger. You are young, Octave, and you have still along life before you; you will have other mistresses. Yes, as you say,pride is a little thing and it is not to it I look for consolation; butGod wills that your tears shall one day pay me for those which I nowshed for you!"
She arose.
"Must it be said? Must you know that for six months I have not soughtrepose without repeating to myself that it was all in vain, that youwould never be cured; that I have never risen in the morning withoutsaying that another effort must be made; that after every word you havespoken I have felt that I ought to leave you, and that you have notgiven me a caress that I would rather die than endure; that, day by day,minute by minute, hesitating between hope and fear, I have vainly triedto conquer either my love or my grief; that, when I opened my heart toyou, you pierced it with a mocking glance, and that, when I closed it,it seemed to me I felt within it a treasure that none but you coulddispense? Shall I speak of all the frailty and all the mysteries whichseem puerile to those who do not respect them? Shall I tell you thatwhen you left me in anger I shut myself up to read your first letters;that there is a favorite waltz that I never played in vain when I felttoo keenly the suffering caused by your presence? Ah! wretch that I am!How dearly all these unnumbered tears, all these follies, so sweet tothe feeble, are purchased! Weep now; not even this punishment, thissorrow, will avail you."
I tried to interrupt her.
"Allow me to continue," she said; "the time has come when I must speak.Let us see, why do you doubt me? For six months, in thought, in body,and in soul, I have belonged to no one but you. Of what do you daresuspect me? Do you wish to set out for Switzerland? I am ready, as yousee. Do you think you have a rival? Send him a letter that I will signand you will direct. What are we doing? Where are we going? Let usdecide. Are we not always together? Very well then, why would you leaveme? I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment. Itis necessary to have confidence in those we love. Love is either good orbad: if good, we must believe in it; if evil, we must cure ourselves ofit. All this, you see, is
a game we are playing; but our hearts and ourlives are the stakes, and it is horrible! Do you wish to die? That wouldperhaps be better. Who am I that you should doubt me?"
She stopped before the glass.
"Who am I?" she repeated, "who am I? Think of it. Look at this face ofmine."
"Doubt thee!" she cried, addressing her own image; "poor, pale face,thou art suspected! poor, thin cheeks, poor, tired eyes, thou and thytears are in disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering; letthose kisses that have wasted thee close thy lids! Descend into the coldearth, poor trembling body that can no longer support its own weight.When thou art there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believesin death. O sorrowful spectre! On the banks of what stream wilt thouwander and groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a longjourney and thou hast one foot in the grave!
"Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried to love. Ah! what wealthof love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what dreams thou hast had,what poisons thou hast drunk! What evil hast thou committed that thereshould be placed in thy breast a fever that consumes! What fury animatesthat blind creature who pushes thee into the grave with his foot, whilehis lips speak to thee of love? What will become of you if you live? Isit not time to end it all? Is it not enough? What proof canst thou givethat will satisfy when thou, poor, living proof, art not believed? Towhat torture canst thou submit that thou hast not already endured? Bywhat torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appease insatiable love? Thouwilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing to excite laughter; thouwilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the finger of scorn. Thouwilt lose all shame and even that appearance of virtue which has beenso dear to you; and the man for whom you have disgraced yourself will bethe first to punish you. He will reproach you for living for him alone,for braving the world for him, and while your friends are whisperingabout you, he will listen to assure himself that no word of pity isspoken; he will accuse you of deceiving him if another hand even thenpresses yours, and if, in the desert of life, you find some one who canspare you a word of pity in passing.
"O God! dost thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed onmy head? Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand thathung it on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, to dust!Oh, my native valley! Oh, my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace! Oh, mylindens, my little white goat, my dear peasants who loved me so much!You remember when I was happy, proud, and respected? Who threw in mypath that stranger who took me away from all this? Who gave him theright to enter my life? Ah! wretch! why didst thou turn the first dayhe followed you? Why didst thou receive him as a brother? Why didst thouopen thy door, and why didst thou hold out thy hand? Octave, Octave, whyhave you loved me if all is to end thus?"
She was about to faint as I led her to a chair where she sank downand her head fell on my shoulder. The terrible effort she had made inspeaking to me so bitterly had broken her down. Instead of an outragedwoman I found now only a suffering child. Her eyes closed and she wasmotionless.
When she regained consciousness she complained of extreme languor, andbegged to be left alone that she might rest. She could hardly walk; Icarried her gently to her room and placed her on the bed. There was nomark of suffering on her face: she was resting from her sorrow asfrom great fatigue, and seemed not even to remember it. Her feeble anddelicate body yielded without a struggle; the strain had been too great.She held my hand in hers; I kissed her; our lips met in loving union,and after the cruel scene through which she had passed, she sleptsmilingly on my heart as on the first day.
CHAPTER VI. SELF-SACRIFICE THE SOLUTION
Brigitte slept. Silent, motionless, I sat near her. As a husbandman,when the storm has passed, counts the sheaves that remain in hisdevastated field, thus I began to estimate the evil I had done.
The more I thought of it, the more irreparable I felt it to be. Certainsorrows, by their very excess, warn us of their limits, and the moreshame and remorse I experienced, the more I felt that after such ascene, nothing remained for us to do but to say adieu. Whatever courageBrigitte had shown, she had drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of her sadlove; unless I wished to see her die, I must give her repose. She hadoften addressed cruel reproaches to me, and had, perhaps, on certainother occasions shown more anger than in this scene; but what she hadsaid this time was not dictated by offended pride; it was the truth,which, hidden closely in her heart, had broken it in escaping.
Our present relations, and the fact that I had refused to go away withher, destroyed all hope; she desired to pardon me, but she had not thepower. This slumber even, this deathlike sleep of one who could sufferno more, was conclusive evidence; this sudden silence, the tendernessshe had shown in the final moments, that pale face, and that kiss,confirmed me in the belief that all was over, and that I had brokenforever whatever bond had united us. As surely as she slept now, as soonas I gave her cause for further suffering she would sleep in eternalrest. The clock struck and I felt that the last hour had carried away mylife with hers.
Unwilling to call any one, I lighted Brigitte's lamp; I watched itsfeeble flame and my thoughts seemed to flicker in the darkness like itsuncertain rays.
Whatever I had said or done, the idea of losing Brigitte had neveroccurred to me up to this time. A hundred times I wished to leave her,but who has loved and is ready to say just what is in his heart? Thatwas in times of despair or of anger. So long as I knew that she lovedme, I was sure of loving her; stern necessity had just arisen between usfor the first time. I experienced a dull languor and could distinguishnothing clearly. What my mind understood, my soul recoiled fromaccepting. "Come," I said to myself, "I have desired it and I have doneit; there is not the slightest hope that we can live together; I amunwilling to kill this woman, so I have no alternative but to leave her.It is all over; I shall go away tomorrow."
And all the while I was thinking neither of my responsibility, nor ofthe past, nor future; I thought neither of Smith nor his connection withthe affair; I could not say who had led me there, or what I had doneduring the last hour. I looked at the walls of the room and thought thatall I had to do was to wait until to-morrow and decide what carriage Iwould take.
I remained for a long time in this strange calm, just as the man whoreceives a thrust from a poignard feels at first only the cold steel andcan often travel some distance ere he becomes weak, and his eyes startfrom their sockets and he realizes what has happened. But drop by dropthe blood flows, the ground under his feet becomes red, death comes; theman, at its approach, shudders with horror and falls as though struckby a thunderbolt. Thus, apparently calm, I awaited the coming ofmisfortune; I repeated in a low voice what Brigitte had said, and Iplaced near her all that I supposed she would need for the night; thenI looked at her, then went to the window and pressed my forehead againstthe pane peering out at a sombre and lowering sky; then I returned tothe bedside. That I was going away tomorrow was the only thought in mymind, and little by little the word "depart" became intelligible to me."Ah! God!" I suddenly cried, "my poor mistress, I am about to lose you,and I have not known how to love you!"
I trembled at these words as if it had been another who had pronouncedthem; they resounded through all my being as resounds the string of theharp that has been plucked to the point of breaking. In an instanttwo years of suffering again racked my breast, and after them as theirconsequence and as their last expression, the present seized me. Howshall I describe such woe? By a single word, perhaps, for those who haveloved. I had taken Brigitte's hand, and, in a dream, doubtless, she hadpronounced my name.
I arose and went to my room; a torrent of tears flowed from my eyes. Iheld out my arms as if to seize the past which was escaping me. "Is itpossible," I repeated, "that I am going to lose you? I can love no onebut you. What! you are going away? And forever? What! you, my life, myadored mistress, you flee me, I shall never see you more? Never! never!"I said aloud; and, addressing myself to the slumbering Brigitte as ifshe could hear me, I added: "Never, never; do not think of it; I willn
ever consent to it. And why so much pride? Are there no means ofatoning for the offense I have committed? I beg of you, let us seek someexpiation. Have you not pardoned me a thousand times? But you love me,you will not be able to go, for courage will fail you. What shall wedo?"
A horrible madness seized me; I began to run here and there in searchof some instrument of death. At last I fell on my knees and beat myhead against the bed. Brigitte stirred, and I remained quiet, fearing Ishould waken her.
"Let her sleep until to-morrow," I said to myself; "I have all night towatch her."
I resumed my place; I was so frightened at the idea of waking Brigitte,that I scarcely dared breathe. Gradually I became more calm and lessbitter tears began to course gently down my cheeks. Tenderness succeededfury. I leaned over Brigitte and looked at her as if, for the last time,my better angel were urging me to grave on my soul the lines of thatdear face!
How pale she was! Her large eyes, surrounded by a bluish circle, weremoist with tears; her form, once so lithe, was bent as if beneath aburden; her cheek, wasted and leaden, rested on a hand that was spareand feeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thornswhich is the diadem of resignation. I thought of the cottage. How youngshe was six months ago! How cheerful, how free, how careless! What had Idone with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an oldromance that I had long since forgotten:
Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' e rossa com' un flore, Ma ora no. Non son piu biele Consumatis dal' amore.
My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began towalk the floor. "Yes," I continued, "look at her; think of those whoare consumed by a grief that is not shared with another. The evils youendure others have suffered, and nothing is singular or peculiar to you.Think of those who have no mother, no relatives, no friends; of thosewho seek and do not find, of those who love in vain, of those who dieand are forgotten."
"Before thee, there on that bed, lies a being that nature, perchance,formed for thee. From the highest circles of intelligence to the deepestand most impenetrable mysteries of matter and of form, that soul andthat body are thy affinities; for six months thy mouth has not spoken,thy heart has not beat, without a responsive word and heart-beat fromher; and that woman, whom God has sent thee as He sends the rose to thefield, is about to glide from thy heart. While rejoicing in each other'spresence, while the angels of eternal love were singing before you, youwere farther apart than two exiles at the two ends of the earth. Look ather, but be silent. Thou hast still one night to see her, if thy sobs donot awaken her."
Little by little, my thoughts mounted and became more sombre, until Irecoiled in terror.
"To do evil! Such was the role imposed upon me by Providence. I, to doevil! I, to whom my conscience, even in the midst of my wildest follies,said that I was good! I, whom a pitiless destiny was dragging swiftlytoward the abyss and whom a secret horror unceasingly warned of theawful fate to come! I, who, if I had shed blood with these hands, couldyet repeat that my heart was not guilty; that I was deceived, that itwas not I who did it, but my destiny, my evil genius, some unknown beingwho dwelt within me, but who was not born there!
"I do evil! For six months I had been engaged in that task, not a dayhad passed that I had not worked at that impious occupation, and I hadat that moment the proof before my eyes. The man who had loved Brigitte,who had offended her, then insulted her, then abandoned her only totake her back again, trembling with fear, beset with suspicion, finallythrown on that bed of sorrow, where she now lay extended, was I!"
I beat my breast, and, although looking at her, I could not believe it.I touched her as if to assure myself that it was not a dream. My face,as I saw it in the glass, regarded me with astonishment. Who was thatcreature who appeared before me bearing my features? Who was thatpitiless man who blasphemed with my mouth and tortured with my hands?Was it he whom my mother called Octave? Was it he who, at fifteen,leaning over the crystal waters of a fountain, had a heart not less purethan they? I closed my eyes and thought of my childhood days. As a rayof light pierces a cloud, a gleam from the past pierced my heart.
"No," I mused, "I did not do that. These things are but an absurddream."
I recalled the time when I was ignorant of life, when I was taking myfirst steps in experience. I remembered an old beggar who used to siton a stone bench before the farm gate, to whom I was sometimes sent withthe remains of our morning meal. Holding out his feeble, wrinkled handshe would bless me as he smiled upon me. I felt the morning wind blowingon my brow and a freshness as of the rose descending from heaven intomy soul. Then I opened my eyes and, by the light of the lamp, saw thereality before me.
"And you do not believe yourself guilty?" I demanded, with horror. "Onovice of yesterday, how corrupt art thou today! Because you weep, youfondly imagine yourself innocent? What you consider the evidence of yourconscience is only remorse; and what murderer does not experience it? Ifyour virtue cries out, is it not because it feels the approach of death?O wretch! those far-off voices that you hear groaning in your heart, doyou think they are sobs? They are perhaps only the cry of the sea-mew,that funereal bird of the tempest, whose presence portends shipwreck.Who has ever told the story of the childhood of those who have diedstained with human blood? They, also, have been good in their day; theysometimes bury their faces in their hands and think of those happydays. You do evil, and you repent? Nero did the same when he killed hismother. Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt?
"And even if it were true that a part of your soul is not devoted toevil forever, what will you do with the other part that is not yours?You will touch with your left hand the wounds that you inflict withyour right; you will make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury yourcrimes; you will strike, and like Brutus you will engrave on your swordthe prattle of Plato! Into the heart of the being who opens her armsto you, you will plunge that blood-stained but repentant arm; you willfollow to the cemetery the victim of your passion, and you will plant onher grave the sterile flower of your pity. You will say to those who seeyou 'What could you expect? I have learned how to kill, and observe thatI already, weep; learn that God made me better than you see me.' Youwill speak of your youth, and you will persuade yourself that heavenought to pardon you, that your misfortunes are involuntary, and you willimplore sleepless nights to grant you a little repose.
"But who knows? You are still young. The more you trust in your heart,the farther astray you will be led by your pride. To-day you standbefore the first ruin you are going to leave on your route. If Brigittedies to-morrow you will weep on her tomb; where will you go when youleave her? You will go away for three months perhaps, and you willtravel in Italy; you will wrap your cloak about you like a spleneticEnglishman, and you will say some beautiful morning, sitting in your innwith your glasses before you, that it is time to forget in order to liveagain.
"You who weep too late, take care lest you weep more than one day. Whoknows? When the present which makes you shudder shall have become thepast, an old story, a confused memory, may it not happen some night ofdebauchery that you will overturn your chair and recount, with a smileon your lips, what you witnessed with tears in your eyes? It is thusthat one drinks away shame. You have begun by being good, you willbecome weak, and you will become a monster.
"My poor friend," said I, from the bottom of my heart, "I have a word ofadvice for you, and it is this: I believe that you must die. While thereis still some virtue left, profit by it in order that you may not becomealtogether bad; while a woman you love lies there dying on that bed, andwhile you have a horror of yourself, strike the decisive blow; she stilllives; that is enough; do not attend her funeral obsequies for fear thaton the morrow you will not be consoled; turn the poignard against yourown heart while that heart yet loves the God who made it. Is it youryouth that gives you pause? And would you spare those youthful locks?Never allow them to whiten if they are not white to-night.
"And then what would you
do in the world? If you go away, where will yougo? What can you hope for if you remain? Ah! in looking at that womanyou seem to have a treasure buried in your heart. It is not merely thatyou lose her; it is less what has been than what might have been. Whenthe hands of the clock indicated such and such an hour, you might havebeen happy. If you suffer why do you not open your heart? If you love,why do you not say so? Why do you die of hunger, clasping a pricelesstreasure in your hands? You have closed the door, you miser; you debatewith yourself behind locks and bolts. Shake them, for it was your handthat forged them.
"O fool! who desired and have possessed your desire, you have notthought of God! You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle,and you do not reflect how rare and fragile a thing you hold in yourhands; you treat it with disdain, you smile at it and you continue toamuse yourself with it, forgetting how many prayers it has cost yourgood angel to preserve for you that shadow of daylight! Ah! if there isin heaven one who watches over you, what is he doing at this moment? Heis seated before an organ; his wings are half-folded, his hands extendedover the ivory keys; he begins an eternal hymn; the hymn of love andimmortal rest, but his wings droop, his head falls over the keys; theangel of death has touched him on the shoulder, he disappears into theNirvana.
"And you, at the age of twenty-two, when a noble and exalted passion,when the strength of youth might perhaps have made something of you whenafter so many sorrows and bitter disappointments, a youth so dissipated,you saw a better time shining in the future; when your life, consecratedto the object of your adoration, gave promise of new strength, atthat moment the abyss yawns before you! You no longer experience vaguedesires, but real regrets; your heart is no longer hungry, it is broken!And you hesitate? What do you expect? Since she no longer cares for yourlife, it counts for nothing! Since she abandons you, abandon yourself!
"Let those who have loved you in your youth weep for you! They are notmany. If you would live, you must not only forget love, but you mustdeny that it exists; not only deny what there has been of good in you,but kill all that may be good in the future; for what will you do if youremember? Life for you would be one ceaseless regret. No, no, you mustchoose between your soul and your body; you must kill one or the other.The memory of the good drives you to the evil, make a corpse of yourselfunless you wish to become your own spectre. O child, child! die whileyou can! May tears be shed over your grave!"
I threw myself on the foot of the bed in such a frightful state ofdespair that my reason fled and I no longer knew where I was or what Iwas doing. Brigitte sighed.
My senses stirred within me. Was it grief or despair? I do not know.Suddenly a horrible idea occurred to me.
"What!" I muttered, "leave that for another! Die, descend into theground, while that bosom heaves with the air of heaven? Just God!another hand than mine on that fine, transparent skin! Another mouth onthose lips, another love in that heart! Brigitte happy, loving, adored,and I in a corner of the cemetery, crumbling into dust in a ditch! Howlong will it take her to forget me if I cease to exist to-morrow? Howmany tears will she shed? None, perhaps! Not a friend who speaks toher but will say that my death was a good thing, who will not hasten toconsole her, who will not urge her to forget me! If she weeps, they willseek to distract her attention from her loss; if memory haunts her, theywill take her away; if her love for me survives me, they will seek tocure her as if she had been poisoned; and she herself, who will perhapsat first say that she desires to follow me, will a month later turnaside to avoid the weeping-willow planted over my grave!
"How could it be otherwise? Who, as beautiful as she, wastes life inidle regrets? If she should think of dying of grief, that beautifulbosom would urge her to live, and her mirror would persuade her; and theday when her exhausted tears give place to the first smile, who will notcongratulate her on her recovery? When, after eight days of silence, sheconsents to hear my name pronounced in her presence, then she will speakof it herself as if to say: 'Console me;' then little by little she willno longer refuse to think of the past but will speak of it, and she willopen her window some beautiful spring morning when the birds are singingin the garden; she will become pensive and say: 'I have loved!' Who willbe there at her side? Who will dare to tell her that she must continueto love?
"Ah! then I shall be no more! You will listen to him, faithless one! Youwill blush as does the budding rose, and the blood of youth will mountto your face. While saying that your heart is sealed, you will allowit to escape through that fresh aureole of beauty, each ray of whichallures a kiss. How much they desire to be loved who say they love nomore! And why should that astonish you? You are a woman; that body,that spotless bosom, you know what they are worth; when you conceal themunder your dress you do not believe, as do the virgins, that all arealike, and you know the price of your modesty. How can a woman who hasbeen praised resolve to be praised no more? Does she think she is livingwhen she remains in the shadow and there is silence round about herbeauty? Her beauty itself is the admiring glance of her lover. No, no,there can be no doubt of it; she who has loved, can not live withoutlove; she who has seen death clings to life. Brigitte loves me and willperhaps die of love; I will kill myself and another will have her.
"Another, another!" I repeated, bending over her until my head touchedher shoulder. "Is she not a widow? Has she not already seen death? Havenot these little hands prepared the dead for burial? Her tears forthe second will not flow as long as those shed for the first. Ah! Godforgive me! While she sleeps why should I not kill her? If I shouldawaken her now and tell her that her hour had come, and that we weregoing to die with a last kiss, she would consent. What does it matter?Is it certain that all does not end with that?"
I found a knife on the table and I picked it up.
"Fear, cowardice, superstition! What do they know about it who talkof something else beyond? It is for the ignorant common people thata future life has been invented, but who really believes in it?What watcher in the cemetery has seen Death leave his tomb and holdconsultation with a priest? In olden times there were phantoms; theyare interdicted by the police in civilized cities, and no cries are nowheard issuing from the earth except from those buried in haste. Who hassilenced death, if it has ever spoken? Because funeral processions areno longer permitted to encumber our streets, does the celestial spiritlanguish?
"To die, that is the final purpose, the end. God has established it, mandiscusses it; but over every door is written: 'Do what thou wilt, thoushalt die.' What will be said if I kill Brigitte? Neither of us willhear. In to-morrow's journal would appear the intelligence that Octavede T-----had killed his mistress, and the day after no one would speakof it. Who would follow us to the grave? No one who, upon returning tohis home, could not enjoy a hearty dinner; and when we were extendedside by side in our narrow, bed, the world could walk over our graveswithout disturbing us.
"Is it not true, my well-beloved, is it not true that it would be wellwith us? It is a soft bed, that bed of earth; no suffering can reach usthere; the occupants of the neighboring tombs will not gossip about us;our bones will embrace in peace and without pride, for death is solace,and that which binds does not also separate. Why should annihilationfrighten thee, poor body, destined to corruption? Every hour thatstrikes drags thee on to thy doom, every step breaks the round on whichthou hast just rested; thou art nourished by the dead; the air of heavenweighs upon and crushes thee, the earth on which thou treadest attractsthee by the soles of thy feet.
"Down with thee! Why art thou affrighted? Dost thou tremble at a word?Merely say: 'We will not live.' Is not life a burden that we long to laydown? Why hesitate when it is merely a question of a little sooner or alittle later? Matter is indestructible, and the physicists, we aretold, grind to infinity the smallest speck of dust without being able toannihilate it. If matter is the property of chance, what harm can it doto change its form since it can not cease to be matter? Why should Godcare what form I have received and with what livery I invest my grief?Suffering lives in my brain; it
belongs to me, I kill it; but my bonesdo not belong to me and I return them to Him who lent them to me: maysome poet make a cup of my skull from which to drink his new wine!
"What reproach can I incur and what harm can that reproach do me? Whatstern judge will tell me that I have done wrong? What does he know aboutit?
"Was he such as I? If every creature has his task to perform, and ifit is a crime to shirk it, what culprits are the babes who die on thenurse's breast! Why should they be spared? Who will be instructed by thelessons which are taught after death? Must heaven be a desert in orderthat man may be punished for having lived? Is it not enough to havelived? I do not know who asked that question, unless it were Voltaireon his death-bed; it is a cry of despair worthy of the helpless oldatheist.
"But to what purpose? Why so many struggles? Who is there above us whodelights in so much agony? Who amuses himself and wiles away an idlehour watching this spectacle of creation, always renewed and alwaysdying, seeing the work of man's hands rising, the grass growing; lookingupon the planting of the seed and the fall of the thunderbolt; beholdingman walking about upon his earth until he meets the beckoning fingerof death; counting tears and watching them dry upon the cheek of pain;noting the pure profile of love and the wrinkled face of age; seeinghands stretched up to him in supplication, bodies prostrate before him,and not a blade of wheat more in the harvest!
"Who is it, then, that has made so much for the pleasure of knowing thatit all amounts to nothing! The earth is dying--Herschel says it is ofcold; who holds in his hand the drop of condensed vapor and watches itas it dries up, as a fisher watches a grain of sand in his hand? Thatmighty law of attraction that suspends the world in space, tormentsit--and consumes it in endless desire--every planet that carries itsload of misery and groans on its axle--calls to each other across theabyss, and each wonders which will stop first. God controls them; theyaccomplish assiduously and eternally their appointed and useless task;they whirl about, they suffer, they burn, they become extinct and theylight up with new flame; they descend and they reascend, they followand yet they avoid one another, they interlace like rings; they carryon their surface thousands of beings who are ceaselessly renewed; thebeings move about, cross one another's paths, clasp one another for anhour, and then fall, and others rise in their place.
"Where life fails, life hastens to the spot; where air is wanting, airrushes; no disorder, everything is regulated, marked out, written downin lines of gold and parables of fire; everything keeps step with thecelestial music along the pitiless paths of life; and all for nothing!And we, poor nameless dreams, pale and sorrowful apparitions, helplessephemera, we who are animated by the breath of a second in order thatdeath may exist, we exhaust ourselves with fatigue in order to provethat we are living for a purpose, and that something indefinable isstirring within us.
"We hesitate to turn against our breasts a little piece of steel, or toblow out our brains with a little instrument no larger than our hands;it seems to us that chaos would return again; we have written andrevised the laws both human and divine, and we are afraid of ourcatechisms; we suffer thirty years without murmuring and imagine that weare struggling; finally suffering becomes the stronger, we send a pinchof powder into the sanctuary of intelligence, and a flower pierces thesoil above our grave."
As I finished these words I directed the knife I held in my hand againstBrigitte's bosom. I was no longer master of myself, and in my deliriouscondition I know not what might have happened; I threw back thebed-clothing to uncover the heart, when I discovered on her white bosoma little ebony crucifix.
I recoiled, seized with sudden fear; my hand relaxed, my weapon fell tothe floor. It was Brigitte's aunt who had given her that littlecrucifix on her deathbed. I did not remember ever having seen it before;doubtless, at the moment of setting out, she had suspended it about herneck as a preserving charm against the dangers of the journey. SuddenlyI joined my hands and knelt on the floor.
"O Lord, my God," I said, in trembling tones, "Lord, my God, thou artthere!"
Let those who do not believe in Christ read this page; I no longerbelieved in Him. Neither as a child, nor at school, nor as a man, haveI frequented churches; my religion, if I had any, had neither ritenor symbol, and I believed in a God without form, without a cult, andwithout revelation. Poisoned, from youth, by all the writings of thelast century, I had sucked, at an early hour, the sterile milk ofimpiety. Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed my mouth againstprayer, while my affrighted soul took refuge in the hope of nothingness.I was as if drunken or insensate when I saw that effigy of Christ onBrigitte's bosom; while not believing in Him myself, I recoiled, knowingthat she believed in Him.
It was not vain terror that arrested my hand. Who saw me? I was aloneand it was night. Was it prejudice? What prevented me from hurling outof my sight that little piece of black wood? I could have thrown it intothe fire, but it was my weapon I threw there. Ah! what an experiencethat was and still is for my soul! What miserable wretches are men whomock at that which can save a human being! What matters the name, theform, the belief? Is not all that is good sacred? How dare any one touchGod?
As at a glance from the sun the snows descend the mountains, and theglaciers that threatened heaven melt into streams in the valley, sothere descended into my heart a stream that overflowed its banks.Repentance is a pure incense; it exhaled from all my suffering. AlthoughI had almost committed a crime when my hand was arrested, I felt thatmy heart was innocent. In an instant, calm, self-possession, reasonreturned; I again approached the bed; I leaned over my idol and kissedthe crucifix.
"Sleep in peace," I said to her, "God watches over you! While your lipswere parting in a smile, you were in greater danger than you have everknown before. But the hand that threatened you will harm no one; I swearby the faith you profess I will not kill either you or myself! I am afool, a madman, a child who thinks himself a man. God be praised! Youare young and beautiful. You live and you will forget me. You willrecover from the evil I have done you, if you can forgive me. Sleepin peace until day, Brigitte, and then decide our fate; to whateversentence you pronounce I will submit without complaint.
"And thou, Lord, who hast saved me, grant me pardon. I was born in animpious century, and I have many crimes to expiate. Thou Son of God,whom men forget, I have not been taught to love Thee. I have neverworshipped in Thy temples, but I thank heaven that where I find Thee,I tremble and bow in reverence. I have at least kissed with my lips aheart that is full of Thee. Protect that heart so long as life lasts;dwell within it, Thou Holy One; a poor unfortunate has been braveenough to defy death at the sight of Thy suffering and Thy death; thoughimpious, Thou hast saved him from evil; if he had believed, Thou wouldsthave consoled him.
"Pardon those who have made him incredulous since Thou hast made himrepentant; pardon those who blaspheme! When they were in despair theydid not see Thee! Human joys are a mockery; they are scornful andpitiless; O Lord! the happy of this world think they have no need ofThee! Pardon them. Although their pride may outrage Thee, they will be,sooner or later, baptized in tears; grant that they may cease to believein any other shelter from the tempest than Thy love, and spare themthe severe lessons of unhappiness. Our wisdom and scepticism are inour hands but children's toys; forgive us for dreaming that we can defyThee, Thou who smilest at Golgotha. The worst result of all our vainmisery is that it tempts us to forget Thee.
"But Thou knowest that it is all but a shadow which a glance from Theecan dissipate. Hast not Thou Thyself been a man? It was sorrow that madeThee God; sorrow is an instrument of torture by which Thou hast mountedto the very throne of God, Thy Father, and it is sorrow that leads us toThee with our crown of thorns to kneel before Thy mercy-seat; we touchThy bleeding feet with our bloodstained hands, for Thou hast sufferedmartyrdom to be loved by the unfortunate."
The first rays of dawn began to appear: man and nature were rousingthemselves from sleep and the air was filled with the confusion ofdistant sounds. Weak and exhausted, I was about t
o leave Brigitte, andseek a little repose. As I was passing out of the room, a dress thrownon a chair slipped to the floor near me, and in its folds I spieda piece of paper. I picked it up; it was a letter, and I recognizedBrigitte's hand. The envelope was not sealed. I opened it and read asfollows:
23 December, 18--
"When you receive this letter I shall be far away from you, and shall perhaps never see you again. My destiny is bound up with that of a man for whom I have sacrificed everything; he can not live without me, and I am going to try to die for him. I love you; adieu, and pity us."
I turned the letter over when I had read it, and saw that it wasaddressed to "M. Henri Smith, N------, poste restante."
On the morrow, a clear December day, a young man and a woman who restedon his arm, passed through the garden of the Palais-Royal. Theyentered a jeweler's store where they chose two similar rings whichthey smilingly exchanged. After a short walk they took breakfast at theFreres-Provencaux, in one of those little rooms which are, all thingsconsidered, the most beautiful spots in the world. There, when thegarcon had left them, they sat near the windows hand in hand.
The young man was in travelling dress; to see the joy which shone onhis face, one would have taken him for a young husband showing his youngwife the beauties and pleasures of Parisian life. His happiness was calmand subdued, as true happiness always is. The experienced would haverecognized in him the youth who merges into manhood. From time to timehe looked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered inhis eyes, but he heeded them not, but smiled as he wept. The woman waspale and thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man. On her face weretraces of sorrow which she could not conceal, although evidently touchedby the exalted joy of her companion.
When he smiled, she smiled too, but never alone; when he spoke, shereplied, and she ate what he served her; but there was about her asilence which was only broken at his instance. In her languor couldbe clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, that lethargy of theweaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only in the other andresponds to him as does the echo. The young man was conscious of it, andseemed proud of it and grateful for it; but it could be seen even by hispride that his happiness was new to him.
When the woman became sad and her eyes fell, he cheered her with hisglance; but he could not always succeed, and seemed troubled himself.That mingling of strength and weakness, of joy and sorrow, of anxietyand serenity, could not have been understood by an indifferentspectator; at times they appeared the most happy of living creatures,and the next moment the most unhappy; but, although ignorant of theirsecret, one would have felt that they were suffering together, and,whatever their mysterious trouble, it could be seen that they had placedon their sorrow a seal more powerful than love itself-friendship. Whiletheir hands were clasped their glances were chaste; although they werealone they spoke in low tones. As if overcome by their feelings, theysat face to face, although their lips did not touch. They looked at eachother tenderly and solemnly. When the clock struck one, the woman heaveda sigh and said:
"Octave, are you sure of yourself?"
"Yes, my friend, I am resolved. I shall suffer much, a long time,perhaps forever; but we will cure ourselves, you with time, I with God."
"Octave, Octave," repeated the woman, "are you sure you are notdeceiving yourself?"
"I do not believe we can forget each other; but I believe that we canforgive, and that is what I desire even at the price of separation."
"Why could we not meet again? Why not some day--you are so young!"
Then she added, with a smile:
"We could see each other without danger."
"No, my friend, for you must know that I could never see you againwithout loving you. May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of you!Smith is brave, good, and honest, but however much you may love him, yousee very well that you still love me, for if I should decide to remain,or to take you away with me, you would consent."
"It is true," replied the woman.
"True! true!" repeated the young man, looking into her eyes with all hissoul. "Is it true that if I wished it you would go with me?"
Then he continued, softly:
"That is the reason why I must never see you again. There are certainloves in life that overturn the head, the senses, the mind, the heart;there is among them all but one that does not disturb, that penetrates,and that dies only with the being in which it has taken root."
"But you will write to me?"
"Yes, at first, for what I have to suffer is so keen that the absence ofthe habitual object of my love would kill me. When I was unknown to you,I gradually approached closer and closer to you, until--but let us notgo into the past. Little by little my letters will become less frequentuntil they cease altogether. I shall thus descend the hill that I havebeen climbing for the past year. When one stands before a freshgrave, over which are engraved two cherished names, one experiencesa mysterious sense of grief, which causes tears to trickle down one'scheeks; it is thus that I wish to remember having once lived."
At these words the woman threw herself on the couch and burst intotears. The young man wept with her, but he did not move and seemedanxious to appear unconscious of her emotion. When her tears ceased toflow, he approached her, took her hand in his and kissed it.
"Believe me," said he, "to be loved by you, whatever the name of theplace I occupy in your heart, will give me strength and courage. Restassured, Brigitte, no one will ever understand you better than I;another will love you more worthily, no one will love you more truly.Another will be considerate of those feelings that I offend, he willsurround you with his love; you will have a better lover, you will nothave a better brother. Give me your hand and let the world laugh ata sentence that it does not understand: Let us be friends, and partforever. Before we became such intimate friends there was somethingwithin that told us we were destined to mingle our lives. Let our soulsnever know that we have parted upon earth; let not the paltry chance ofa moment undo our eternal happiness!"
He held the woman's hand; she arose, tears streaming from her eyes, and,stepping up to the mirror with a strange smile on her face, she cutfrom her head a long tress of hair; then she looked at herself thusdisfigured and deprived of a part of her beautiful crown, and gave it toher lover.
The clock struck again; it was time to go; when they passed out theyseemed as joyful as when they entered.
"What a beautiful sun!" said the young man.
"And a beautiful day," said Brigitte, "the memory of which shall neverfade."
They hastened away and disappeared in the crowd.
Some time later a carriage passed over a little hill behindFontainebleau. The young man was the only occupant; he looked for thelast time upon his native town as it disappeared in the distance, andthanked God that, of the three beings who had suffered through hisfault, there remained but one of them still unhappy.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
A terrible danger lurks in the knowledge of what is possible Accustomed to call its disguise virtue Adieu, my son, I love you and I die All philosophy is akin to atheism All that is not life, it is the noise of life And when love is sure of itself and knows response Because you weep, you fondly imagine yourself innocent Become corrupt, and you will cease to suffer Began to forget my own sorrow in my sympathy for her Beware of disgust, it is an incurable evil Can any one prevent a gossip Cold silence, that negative force Contrive to use proud disdain as a shield Death is more to be desired than a living distaste for life Despair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a spoiled child Do they think they have invented what they see Each one knows what the other is about to say Fool who destroys his own happiness Force itself, that mistress of the world Funeral processions are no longer permitted Galileo struck the earth, crying: "Nevertheless it moves!" Good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly Great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--they lis
ten Grief itself was for her but a means of seducing Happiness of being pursued He who is loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow He lives only in the body How much they desire to be loved who say they love no more Human weakness seeks association I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment I can not love her, I can not love another I boasted of being worse than I really was I neither love nor esteem sadness I do not intend either to boast or abase myself Ignorance into which the Greek clergy plunged the laity In what do you believe? Indignation can solace grief and restore happiness Is he a dwarf or a giant Is it not enough to have lived? It is a pity that you must seek pastimes Make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer Men doubted everything: the young men denied everything No longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity Perfection does not exist Pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation Reading the Memoirs of Constant Resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original Sceptic regrets the faith he has lost the power to regain Seven who are always the same: the first is called hope She pretended to hope for the best Sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness Speak to me of your love, she said, "not of your grief" St. Augustine Suffered, and yet took pleasure in it Suspicions that are ever born anew Terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me There are two different men in you Ticking of which (our arteries) can be heard only at night "Unhappy man!" she cried, "you will never know how to love" We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum What you take for love is nothing more than desire What human word will ever express thy slightest caress When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame appearing there You believe in what is said here below and not in what is done You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle You turn the leaves of dead books Your great weapon is silence Youth is to judge of the world from first impressions
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