La confession d'un enfant du siècle. English

  CHAPTER VI. MADAME LEVASSEUR

  The following morning I rode through the Bois de Boulogne; the weatherwas dark and threatening. At the Porte Maillot I dropped the reins onmy horse's back and abandoned myself to revery, revolving in my mind thewords spoken by Desgenais the evening before.

  Suddenly I heard my name called. Turning my head I spied one of myinamorata's most intimate friends in an open carriage. She bade me stop,and, holding out her hand with a friendly air, invited me to dine withher if I had no other engagement.

  This woman, Madame Levasseur by name, was small, stout, and decidedlyblonde; I had never liked her, and my attitude toward her had alwaysbeen one of studied politeness. But I could not resist a desire toaccept her invitation; I pressed her hand and thanked her; I was surethat we should talk of my mistress.

  She sent a servant to lead my horse and I entered her carriage; she wasalone, and we at once took the road to Paris. Rain began to fall, andthe carriage curtains were drawn; thus shut up together we rode on insilence. I looked at her with inexpressible sadness; she was not onlythe friend of my faithless one but her confidante. She had often formedone of our party when I called on my mistress in the evening. With whatimpatience had I endured her presence! How often I counted the minutesthat must elapse before she would leave! That was probably the cause ofmy aversion to her. I knew that she approved of our love; she even wentso far as to defend me in our quarrels. In spite of the services she hadrendered me, I considered her ugly and tiresome. Alas! now I foundher beautiful! I looked at her hands, her clothes; every gesture wentstraight to my heart; all the past was associated with her. She noticedthe change in manner and understood that I was oppressed by sad memoriesof the past. Thus we sped on our way, I looking at her, she smiling atme. When we reached Paris she took my hand:

  "Well?" she said.

  "Well?" I replied, sobbing, "tell her if you wish." Tears rushed from myeyes.

  After dinner we sat before the fire.

  "But tell me," she said, "is it irrevocable? Can nothing be done?"

  "Alas! Madame," I replied, "there is nothing irrevocable except thegrief that is killing me. My condition can be expressed in a few words:I can not love her, I can not love another, and I can not cease loving."

  At these words she moved uneasily in her chair, and I could see anexpression of compassion on her face.

  For some time she appeared to be reflecting, as if pondering over myfate and seeking some remedy for my sorrow. Her eyes were closed and sheappeared lost in revery. She extended her hand and I took it in mine.

  "And I, too," she murmured, "that is just my experience." She stopped,overcome by emotion.

  Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity. I held MadameLevasseur's hand as she began to speak of my mistress, saying all shecould think of in her favor. My sadness increased. What could I reply?Finally she came to speak of herself.

  Not long since, she said, a man who loved her abandoned her. She hadmade great sacrifices for him; her fortune was compromised, as well asher honor and her name. Her husband, whom she knew to be vindictive, hadmade threats. Her tears flowed as she continued, and I began to forgetmy own sorrow in my sympathy for her. She had been married against herwill; she struggled a long time; but she regretted nothing except thatshe had not been able to inspire a more sincere affection. I believe sheeven accused herself because she had not been able to hold her lover'sheart, and because she had been guilty of apparent indifference.

  When she had unburdened her heart she became silent.

  "Madame," I said, "it was not chance that brought about our meeting inthe Bois de Boulogne. I believe that human sorrows are but wanderingsisters and that some good angel unites the trembling hands that arestretched out for aid. Do not repent having told me your sorrow. Thesecret you have confided to me is only a tear which has fallen fromyour eye, but has rested on my heart. Permit me to come again and let ussuffer together."

  Such lively sympathy took possession of me that without reflection Ikissed her; it did not occur to my mind that it could offend her, andshe did not appear even to notice it.

  Our conversation continued in this tone of expansive friendship. Shetold me her sorrows, I told her mine, and between these two experienceswhich touched each other, I felt arise a sweetness, a celestial accordborn of two voices in anguish. All this time I had seen nothing but herface. Suddenly I noticed that her dress was in disorder. It appearedsingular to me that, seeing my embarrassment, she did not rearrangeit, and I turned my head to give her an opportunity. She did nothing.Finally, meeting her eyes and seeing that she was perfectly aware of thestate she was in, I felt as if I had been struck by a thunderbolt, forI now clearly understood that I was the plaything of her monstrouseffrontery, that grief itself was for her but a means of seducing thesenses. I took my hat without a word, bowed profoundly, and left theroom.