THE CONFESSION OF

 A CHILD OF THE CENTURY

 BY

 ALFRED DE MUSSET

 Translated by

 Kendall Warren

 PART I

CHAPTER I

THE life must be lived before the history of a life can be written, henceit is not my life that I am writing. 

Having been attacked in early youth by an abominable moral malady, Irelate what has happened to me during three years. If I were the onlyvictim of this disease, I would say nothing, but as there are many otherswho suffer from the same evil, I write for them, although I am not surethat they will pay any attention to it; in case my warning is unheeded, Ishall still have derived this benefit from my words in having curedmyself, and, like the fox caught in a trap, I shall have devoured mycaptive foot. 

CHAPTER II

DURING the wars of the Empire, while the husbands and brothers were inGermany, the anxious mothers brought forth an ardent, pale, nervousgeneration. Conceived between two battles, educated amidst the noises ofwar, thousands of children looked about them with a somber eye whiletesting their puny muscles. From time to time their blood-stained fatherswould appear, raise them on their gold-laced bosoms, then place them onthe ground and remount their horses. 

The life of Europe was centered in one man; all were trying to fill theirlungs with the air which he had breathed. Every year France presentedthat man with three hundred thousand of her youth; it was the tax paid toCaesar, and, without that troop behind him, he could not follow hisfortune. It was the escort he needed that he might traverse the world, and then perish in a little valley in a deserted island, under theweeping willow. 

Never had there been so many sleepless nights as in the time of that man;never had there been seen, hanging over the ramparts of the cities, sucha nation of desolate mothers; never was there such a silence about thosewho spoke of death. And yet there was never such joy, such life, suchfanfares of war, in all hearts. Never was there such pure sunlight asthat which dried all this blood. God made the sun for this man, theysaid, and they called it the Sun of Austerlitz. But he made this sunlighthimself with his ever-thundering cannons which dispelled all clouds butthose which succeed the day of battle. 

It was this air of the spotless sky, where shone so much glory, whereglistened so many swords, that the youth of the time breathed. They wellknew that they were destined to the hecatomb; but they regarded Murat asinvulnerable, and the emperor had been seen to cross a bridge where somany bullets whistled that they wondered if he could die. And even if onemust die, what did it matter? Death itself was so beautiful, so noble, soillustrious, in his battle-scarred purple! It borrowed the color of hope, it reaped so many ripening harvests that it became young, and there wasno more old age. All the cradles of France, as all its tombs, were armedwith shield and buckler; there were no more old men, there were corpsesor demi-gods. 

Nevertheless, the immortal emperor stood one day on a hill watching sevennations engaged in mutual slaughter; as he did not know whether he wouldbe master of all the world or only half, Azrael passed along, touched himwith the tip of his wing, and pushed him into the Ocean. At the noise ofhis fall, the dying powers sat up in their beds of pain; and stealthilyadvancing with furtive tread, all the royal spiders made the partition ofEurope, and the purple of Caesar became the frock of Harlequin. 

Just as the traveler, sure of his way, hastens night and day through rainand sunlight, regardless of vigils or of dangers; but when he has reachedhis home and seated himself before the fire, he is seized upon by afeeling of extreme lassitude and can hardly drag himself to his bed: thusFrance, the widow of Caesar, suddenly felt her wound. She fell throughsheer exhaustion, and lapsed into a sleep so profound that her old kings, believing her dead, wrapped about her a white shroud. The old army, itshair whitened in service, returned exhausted with fatigue, and thehearths of deserted castles sadly flickered into life. 

Then the men of the Empire, who had been through so much, who had livedin such carnage, kissed their emaciated wives and spoke of their firstlove; they looked into the fountains of their natal prairies and foundthemselves so old, so mutilated, that they bethought themselves of theirsons, in order that they might close their eyes in peace. They askedwhere they were; the children came from the schools, and seeing neithersabers, nor cuirasses, neither infantry nor cavalry, they asked in turnwhere were their fathers. They were told that the war was ended, thatCaesar was dead, and that the portraits of Wellington and of Blucher weresuspended in the antechambers of the consulates and the embassies, withthese two words beneath: _Salvatoribus mundi_. 

Then there seated itself on a world in ruins an anxious youth. All thechildren were drops of burning blood which had inundated the earth; theywere born in the bosom of war, for war. For fifteen years they haddreamed of the snows of Moscow and of the sun of the pyramids. They hadnot gone beyond their native towns; but they were told that through eachgate of these towns lay the road to a capital of Europe. They had intheir heads all the world; they beheld the earth, the sky, the streetsand the highways; all these were empty, and the bells of parish churchesresounded faintly in the distance. 

Pale fantoms shrouded in black robes, slowly traversed the country;others knocked at the doors of houses, and when admitted, drew from theirpockets large well-worn documents with which they drove out the tenants. From every direction came men still trembling with the fear which hadseized them when they fled twenty years before. All began to urge theirclaims, disputing loudly and crying for help; it was strange that asingle death should attract so many crows. 

The king of France was on his throne, looking here and there to see if hecould perchance find a bee in the royal tapestry. Some held out theirhats, and he gave them money; others showed him a crucifix, and he kissedit; others contented themselves with pronouncing in his ear great namesof powerful families, and he replied to these by inviting them into his_grand' salle_, where the echoes were more sonorous; still others showedhim their old cloaks, when they had carefully effaced the bees, and tothese he gave new apparel. 

The children saw all this, thinking that the spirit of Caesar would soonland at Cannes and breathe upon this larva; but the silence was unbrokenand they saw floating in the sky only the paleness of the lily. Whenthese children spoke of glory, they were answered: "Become priests;" whenthey spoke of hope, of love, of power, of life: "Become priests. "

And yet there mounted the rostrum a man who held in his hand a contractbetween the king and the people; he began by saying that glory was abeautiful thing, and ambition and war as well; but there was somethingstill more beautiful, and it was called liberty. 

The children raised their heads and remembered that their grandfathershad spoken thus. They remembered having seen in certain obscure cornersof the paternal home mysterious marble busts with long hair and a Latininscription; they remembered seeing their grandsires shake their headsand speak of a stream of blood more terrible than that of the emperor. There was something in that word liberty that made their hearts beat withthe memory of a terrible past and the hope of a glorious future. 

They trembled at the word; but returning to their homes they encounteredon the street three panniers which were being borne to Clamart; therewere, within, three young men who had pronounced that word liberty toodistinctly. 

A strange smile hovered on their lips at that sad sight; but otherspeakers, mounted on the rostrum, began to publicly estimate whatambition had cost and how very dear was glory; they pointed out thehorror of war and called the hecatombs butcheries. And they spoke sooften and so long that all human illusions, like the trees in autumn, fell leaf by leaf about them, and those who listened passed their handsover their foreheads as though awakened from a feverish dream. 

Some said: "The emperor has fallen because the people wished no more ofhim;" others added: "The people wished the king; no, liberty; no, reason;no, religion; no, the English constitution; no, absolutism;" and the lastone said: "No, none of these things, but repose. "

Three elements entered into the life which offered itself to thesechildren: behind them a past forever destroyed, moving uneasily on itsruins with all the fossils of centuries of absolutism; before them theaurora of an immense horizon, the first gleams of the future; and betweenthese two worlds--something like the Ocean which separates the old worldfrom Young America, something vague and floating, a troubled sea filledwith wreckage, traversed from time to time by some distant sail or someship breathing out a heavy vapor; the present, in a word, which separatesthe past from the future, which is neither the one nor the other, whichresemble both, and where one can not know whether, at each step, one istreading on a seed or a piece of refuse. 

It was in this chaos that choice must be made; this was the aspectpresented to children full of spirit and of audacity, sons of the Empireand grandsons of the Revolution. 

As for the past, they would none of it, they had no faith in it; thefuture, they loved it, but how? As Pygmalion loved Galatea: it was forthem a lover in marble and they waited for the breath of life to animatethat breast, for the blood to color those veins. 

There remained then, the present, the spirit of the time, angel of thedawn who is neither night nor day; they found him seated on a lime sackfilled with bones, clad in the mantle of egoism, and shivering interrible cold. The anguish of death entered into the soul at the sight ofthat specter, half mummy and half fetus; they approached it as thetraveler who is shown at Strasburg the daughter of an old count ofSarvenden, embalmed in her bride's dress: that childish skeleton makesone shudder, for her slender and livid hand wears the wedding-ring andher head falls into dust in the midst of orange blossoms. 

As upon the approach of a tempest there passes through the forests aterrible sound which makes all the trees shudder, to which profoundsilence succeeds, thus had Napoleon, in passing, shaken the world; kingsfelt their crowns vacillate in the storm and, raising their hands tosteady them, they found only their hair, bristling with terror. The popehad traveled three hundred leagues to bless him in the name of God and tocrown him with the diadem; but Napoleon had taken it from his hands. Thuseverything trembled in that dismal forest of old Europe; then silencesucceeded. 

It is said that when you meet a mad dog if you keep quietly on your waywithout turning, the dog will merely follow you a short distance growlingand showing his teeth; but if you allow yourself to be frightened into amovement of terror, if you but make a sudden step, he will leap at yourthroat and devour you; when the first bite has been taken there is noescaping him. 

In European history it has often happened that a sovereign has made thatmovement of terror and his people have devoured him; but if one had doneit, all had not done it at the same time, that is to say, one king haddisappeared, but not all royal majesty. Before the sword of Napoleonmajesty made this movement, this gesture which loses everything, and notonly majesty, but religion, nobility, all power both human and divine. 

Napoleon dead, human and divine power were re-established, but belief inthem no longer existed. A terrible danger lurks in the knowledge of whatis possible, for the mind always goes farther. It is one thing to say:"That may be" and another thing to say: "That has been;" it is the firstbite of the dog. 

The deposition of Napoleon was the last flicker of the lamp of despotism;it destroyed and it parodied kings as Voltaire the Holy Scripture. Andafter him was heard a great noise: it was the stone of St. Helena whichhad just fallen on the ancient world. Immediately there appeared in theheavens the cold star of reason, and its rays, like those of the goddessof the night, shedding light without heat, enveloped the world in a lividshroud. 

There had been those who hated the nobles, who cried out against priests, who conspired against kings; abuses and prejudices had been attacked; butall that was not so great a novelty as to see a smiling people. If anoble or a priest or a sovereign passed, the peasants who had made warpossible began to shake their heads and say: "Ah! when we saw this man atsuch a time and place he wore a different face. " And when the throne andaltar were mentioned, they replied: "They are made of four planks ofwood; we have nailed them together and torn them apart. " And when someone said: "People, you have recovered from the errors which led youastray; you have recalled your kings and your priests, " they replied: "Wehave nothing to do with those prattlers. " And when some one said:"People, forget the past, work and obey, " they arose from their seats anda dull rumbling could be heard. It was the rusty and notched saber in thecorner of the cottage chimney. Then they hastened to add: "Then keepquiet, at least; if no one harms you, do not seek to harm. " Alas! theywere content with that. 

But youth was not content. It is certain that there are in man two occultpowers engaged in a death struggle: the one, clear-sighted and cold, isconcerned with reality, calculation, weight, and judges the past; theother is thirsty for the future and eager for the unknown. When passionsways man, reason follows him weeping and warning him of his danger; butwhen man listens to the voice of reason, when he stops at her request andsays: "What a fool I am; where am I going?" passion calls to him: "Andmust I die?"

A feeling of extreme uneasiness began to ferment in all young hearts. Condemned to inaction by the powers which governed the world, deliveredto vulgar pedants of every kind, to idleness and to ennui, the youth sawthe foaming billows which they had prepared to meet, subside. All thesegladiators, glistening with oil, felt in the bottom of their souls aninsupportable wretchedness. The richest became libertines; those ofmoderate fortune followed some profession and resigned themselves to thesword or to the robe. The poorest gave themselves up with cold enthusiasmto great thoughts, plunged into the frightful sea of aimless effort. Ashuman weakness seeks association and as men are herds by nature, politicsbecame mingled with it. There were struggles with the _garde du corps_ onthe steps of the legislative assembly; at the theater, Talma wore aperuke which made him resemble Caesar; every one flocked to the burial ofa liberal deputy. 

But of the members of the two parties there was not one who, uponreturning home, did not bitterly realize the emptiness of his life andthe feebleness of his hands. 

While life outside was so colorless and so mean, the interior life ofsociety assumed a somber aspect of silence; hypocrisy ruled in alldepartments of conduct; English ideas of devotion, gaiety even, haddisappeared. Perhaps Providence was already preparing new ways, perhapsthe herald angel of future society was already sowing in the hearts ofwomen the seeds of human independence. But it is certain that a strangething suddenly happened: in all the salons of Paris the men passed to oneside and the women to the other; and thus, the one clad in white like abride and the other in black like an orphan began to take measurementswith the eye. 

Let us not be deceived: that vestment of black which the men of our timewear is a terrible symbol; before coming to this, the armor must havefallen piece by piece and the embroidery flower by flower. Human reasonhas overthrown all illusions; but it bears in itself sorrow, in orderthat it may be consoled. 

The customs of students and artists, those customs so free, so beautiful, so full of youth, began to experience the universal change. Men in takingleave of women whispered the word which wounds to the death: contempt. They plunged into the dissipation of wine and courtesans. Students andartists did the same; love was treated as glory and religion: it was anold illusion. The grisette, that class so dreamy, so romantic, so tender, and so sweet in love, abandoned herself to the counting-house and to theshop. She was poor and no one loved her; she wanted dresses and hats andshe sold herself. O, misery! the young man who ought to love her, whomshe loved, who used to take her to the woods of Verrieres andRomainville, to the dances on the lawn, to the suppers under the trees;he who used to talk with her as she sat near the lamp in the rear of theshop on the long winter evenings; he who shared her crust of breadmoistened with the sweat of her brow, and her love at once sublime andpoor; he, that same man, after having abandoned her, finds her after anight of orgie, pale and leaden, forever lost, with hunger on her lipsand prostitution in her heart. 

About this time two poets, whose genius was second only to that ofNapoleon, consecrated their lives to the work of collecting all theelements of anguish and of grief scattered over the universe. Goethe, thepatriarch of a new literature, after having painted in "Werther" thepassion which leads to suicide, traced in his "Faust" the most somberhuman character which has ever represented evil and unhappiness. Hiswritings began to pass from Germany into France. From his studio, surrounded by pictures and statues, rich, happy and at ease, he watchedwith a paternal smile, his gloomy creations marching in dismal processionacross the frontiers of France. Byron replied to him by a cry of griefwhich made Greece tremble, and suspended "Manfred" over the abyss as ifnothingness had been the answer of the hideous enigma, with which heenveloped him. 

Pardon me! O, great poets! who are now but ashes and who sleep in peace!Pardon me; you are demi-gods and I am only a child who suffers. But whilewriting all this I can not help cursing you. Why did you not sing of theperfume of flowers, of the voices of nature, of hope and of love, of thevine and the sun, of the azure heavens and of beauty. You must haveunderstood life, you must have suffered, and the world was crumbling topieces about you, you wept on its ruins and you despaired; and yourmistresses were false; your friends calumniated, your compatriotsmisunderstood; and your heart was empty; death was in your eyes, and youwere the very Colossi of grief. But tell me, you noble Goethe, was thereno more consoling voice in the religious murmur of your old Germanforests? You, for whom beautiful poesy was the sister of science, couldyou with their aid find in immortal nature no healing plant for the heartof their favorite? You, who were a pantheist, and antique poet of Greece, a lover of sacred forms, could you not put a little honey in thebeautiful vases you made; you, who had only to smile and allow the beesto come to your lips? And thou, thou Byron, hadst thou not near Ravenna, under thy orange trees of Italy, under thy beautiful Venetian sky, nearthy dear Adriatic, hadst thou not thy well beloved? O, God! I who speakto you and who am only a feeble child, I have perhaps known sorrows thatyou have never suffered, and yet I believe and I hope, and yet I blessGod. 

When English and German ideas passed thus over our heads there ensueddisgust and mournful silence, followed by a terrible convulsion. For toformulate general ideas is to change saltpeter into powder, and theHomeric brain of the great Goethe had sucked up, as an alembic, all thejuice of the forbidden fruit. Those who did not read him did not believeit, knew nothing of it. Poor creatures! The explosion carried them awaylike grains of dust into the abyss of universal doubt. 

It was a degeneration of all things of heaven and of earth that might betermed disenchantment, or if you preferred, despair; as if humanity inlethargy had been pronounced dead by those who held its place. Like asoldier who was asked: "In what do you believe?" and who replied: "Inmyself. " Thus the youth of France, hearing that question, replied: "Innothing. "

Then they formed into two camps: on one side the exalted spirits, sufferers, all the expansive souls who had need of the infinite, bowedtheir heads and wept; they wrapt themselves in unhealthy dreams and therecould be seen nothing but broken reeds on an ocean of bitterness. On theother side the men of the flesh remained standing, inflexible in themidst of positive joys, and cared for nothing except to count the moneythey had acquired. It was only a sob and a burst of laughter, the onecoming from the soul, the other from the body. 

This is what the soul said:

"Alas! Alas! religion has departed; the clouds of heaven fall in rain; wehave no longer either hope or expectation, not even two little pieces ofblack wood in the shape of a cross before which to clasp our hands. Thestar of the future is loath to rise; it can not get above the horizon; itis enveloped in clouds, and like the sun in winter its disk is the colorof blood, as in '93. There is no more love, no more glory. What heavydarkness over all the earth! And we shall be dead when the day breaks. "

This is what the body said:

"Man is here below to satisfy his senses, he has more or less of white oryellow metal to which he owes more or less esteem. To eat, to drink andto sleep, that is life. As for the bonds which exist between men, friendship consists in loaning money; but one rarely has a friend whom heloves enough for that. Kinship determines inheritance; love is anexercise of the body; the only intellectual joy is vanity. "

Like the Asiatic plague exhaled from the vapors of the Ganges, frightfuldespair stalked over the earth. Already Chateaubriand, prince of poesy, wrapping the horrible idol in his pilgrim's mantle, had placed it on amarble altar in the midst of perfumes and holy incense. Already thechildren were tightening their idle hands and drinking in their bittercup the poisoned brewage of doubt. Already things were drifting towardthe abyss, when the jackals suddenly emerged from the earth. A cadaverousand infected literature which had no form but that of ugliness, began tosprinkle with fetid blood all the monsters of nature. 

Who will dare to recount what was passing in the colleges? Men doubtedeverything: the young men denied everything. The poets sung of despair;the youth came from the schools with serene brow, their faces glowingwith health and blasphemy in their mouths. Moreover, the Frenchcharacter, being by nature gay and open, readily assimilated English andGerman ideas; but hearts too light to struggle and to suffer witheredlike crushed flowers. Thus the principle of death descended slowly andwithout shock from the head to the bowels. Instead of having theenthusiasm of evil we had only the negation of the good; instead ofdespair, insensibility. Children of fifteen seated listlessly underflowering shrubs, conversed for pastime on subjects which would have madeshudder with terror the motionless groves of Versailles. The Communion ofChrist, the host, those wafers that stand as the eternal symbol of divinelove, were used to seal letters; the children spit upon the bread of God. 

Happy they who escaped those times! Happy they who passed over the abysswhile looking up to Heaven. There are such, doubtless, and they will pityus. 

It is unfortunately true that there is in blasphemy a certain dischargeof power which solaces the burdened heart. When an atheist, drawing hiswatch, gave God a quarter of an hour in which to strike him dead, it iscertain that it was a quarter of an hour of wrath and of atrocious joy. It was the paroxysm of despair, a nameless appeal to all celestialpowers; it was a poor wretched creature squirming under the foot that wascrushing him; it was a loud cry of pain. And who knows? In the eyes ofHim who sees all things, it was perhaps a prayer. 

Thus these youth found employment for their idle powers in a fondness ofdespair. To scoff at glory, at religion, at love, at all the world, is agreat consolation for those who do not know what to do; they mock atthemselves and in doing so prove the correctness of their view. And thenit is pleasant to believe oneself unhappy when one is only idle andtired. Debauchery, moreover, the first conclusion of the principle ofdeath, is a terrible millstone for grinding the energies. 

The rich said: "There is nothing real but riches, all else is a dream;let us enjoy and then let us die. " Those of moderate fortune said: "Thereis nothing real but oblivion, all else is a dream; let us forget and letus die. " And the poor said: "There is nothing real but unhappiness, allelse is a dream; let us blaspheme and die. "

This is too black? It is exaggerated? What do you think of it? Am I amisanthrope? Allow me to make a reflection. 

In reading the history of the fall of the Roman Empire, it is impossibleto overlook the evil that the Chustions, so admirable in the desert, didthe state when they were in power. "When I think, " said Montesquieu, "ofthe profound ignorance into which the Greek clergy plunged the laity, Iam obliged to compare them to the Scythians of whom Herodotus speaks, whoput out the eyes of their slaves in order that nothing might distracttheir attention from their work. . . . No affair of state, no peace, notruce, no negotiation, no marriage could be transacted by any one but theclergy. The evils of this system were beyond belief. "

Montesquieu might have added: Christianity destroyed the emperors but itsaved the people. It opened to the barbarians the palaces ofConstantinople, but it opened the doors of cottages to the ministeringangels of Christ. It had much to do with the great ones of earth. Andwhat is more interesting than the death-rattle of an empire corrupt tothe very marrow of its bones, than the somber galvanism under theinfluence of which the skeleton of tyranny danced upon the tombs ofHeliogabalus and Caracalla! What a beautiful thing that mummy of Rome, embalmed in the perfumes of Nero and swathed in the shroud of Tiberius!It had to do, messieurs the politicians, with finding the poor and givingthem life and peace; it had to do with allowing the worms and tumors todestroy the monuments of shame, while drawing from the ribs of this mummya virgin as beautiful as the mother of the Redeemer, hope, the friend ofthe oppressed. 

That is what Christianity did; and now, after many years, what have theywho destroyed it done? They saw that the poor allowed themselves to beoppressed by the rich, the feeble by the strong, because of that saying:"The rich and the strong will oppress me on earth; but when they wish toenter paradise, I shall be at the door and I will accuse them before thetribunal of God. " And so, alas! they were patient. 

The antagonists of Christ therefore said to the poor: "You wait patientlyfor the day of justice: there is no justice; you wait for the lifeeternal to achieve your vengeance: there is no life eternal; you gatherup your tears and those of your family, the cries of children and thesobs of women, to place them at the feet of God at the hour of death:there is no God. "

Then it is certain that the poor man dried his tears, that he told hiswife to check her sobs, his children to come with him, and that he stoodupon the earth with the power of a bull. He said to the rich: "Thou whooppressest me, thou art only man;" and to the priest: "Thou who hastconsoled me, thou hast lied. " That was just what the antagonists ofChrist desired. Perhaps they thought this was the way to achieve man'shappiness, sending him out to the conquest of liberty. 

But, if the poor man, once satisfied that the priests deceive him, thatthe rich rob him, that all men have rights, that all good is of thisworld, and that misery is impiety; the poor man, believing in himself andin his two arms, says to himself some fine day: "War on the rich! for me, happiness here in this life, since there is no other! for me, the earth, since heaven is empty! for me and for all, since all are equal. " Oh!reasoners sublime who have led him to this, what will you say to him ifhe is conquered?

Doubtless you are philanthropists, doubtless you are right about thefuture, and the day will come when you will be blessed; but thus far, wehave not blessed you. When the oppressor said: "This world for me!" theoppressed replied: "Heaven for me!" Now what can he say?

All the evils of the present come from two causes: the people who havepassed through 1793 and 1814, nurse wounds in their hearts. That whichwas is no more; what will be, is not yet. Do not seek elsewhere the causeof our malady. 

Here is a man whose house falls in ruins; he has torn it down in order tobuild another. The rubbish encumbers the spot, and he waits for freshmaterials for his new home. At the moment he has prepared to cut thestone and mix the cement, while standing, pick in hand, with sleevesrolled up, he is informed that there is no more stone, and is advised towhiten the old material and make the best possible use of that. What canyou expect this man to do who is unwilling to build his nest out ofruins? The quarry is deep, the tools too weak to hew out the stones. "Wait!" they say to him, "we will draw out the stones one by one; hope, work, advance, withdraw. " What do they not tell him? And in the meantimehe has lost his old house, and has not yet built the new; he does notknow where to protect himself from the rain, or how to prepare hisevening meal, nor where to work, nor where to sleep, nor where to die;and his children are newly born. 

I am much deceived if we do not resemble that man. O, people of thefuture! when on a warm summer day you bend over your plows in the greenfields of your native land; when you see, in the pure sunlight under aspotless sky, the earth, your fruitful mother, smiling in her matutinalrobe on the workman, her well-beloved child; when drying on your brow theholy baptism of sweat, you cast your eye over the vast horizon, whenthere will not be one blade higher than another in the human harvest, butonly violets and marguerites in the midst of ripening sheafs. Oh! freemen! when you thank God that you were born for that harvest, think ofthose who are no more, tell yourself that we have dearly purchased therepose which you enjoy; pity us more than all your fathers, for we havesuffered the evil which entitled them to pity and we have lost that whichconsoled them. 

CHAPTER III

I MUST explain how I was first taken with the malady of the age. 

I attended a great supper, after a masquerade. About me my friends richlycostumed, on all sides young men and women, all sparkling with beauty andjoy; on the right and on the left exquisite dishes, flagons, splendor, flowers; above my head a fine orchestra, and before me my mistress, asuperb creature, whom I idolized. 

I was then nineteen; I had experienced no great misfortune, I hadsuffered from no disease; my character was at once haughty and frank, myheart full of the hopes of youth. The fumes of wine fermented in my head;it was one of those moments of intoxication when all that one sees andhears, speaks to one of the adored. All nature appeared then a beautifulstone with a thousand facets on which was engraven the mysterious name. One would willingly embrace all who smile, and one feels that he isbrother of all who live. My mistress had granted me a rendezvous for thenight and I was gently raising my glass to my lips while my eyes werefixed on her. 

As I turned to take a napkin, my fork fell. I stooped to pick it up, andnot finding it at first I raised the table-cloth to see where it hadrolled. I then saw under the table my mistress's foot; it rested on thatof a young man seated beside her; from time to time they exchanged agentle pressure. 

Perfectly calm, I asked for another fork and continued my supper. Mymistress and her neighbor were also, on their side, very quiet, talkingbut little and never looking at each other. The young man had his elbowson the table and was chatting with another woman who was showing him hernecklace and bracelets. My mistress sat motionless, her eyes fixed andfilled with languor. I watched both of them during the entire supper andI saw nothing either in their gestures or in their faces that couldbetray them. Finally, at dessert, I dropped my napkin, and stooping downsaw that they were still in the same position. 

I had promised to take my mistress to her home that night. She was awidow and therefore quite at liberty, living alone with an old relativewho served as chaperon. As I was crossing the hall she called to me:

"Come, Octave!" she said; "here I am, let us go. "

I laughed and passed out without replying. After walking a short distanceI sat down on a stone projecting from a wall. I do not know what mythoughts were; I sat as though stupefied by the infidelity of that womanof whom I had never been jealous, whom I had never had cause to suspect. What I had seen left no room for doubt, I was stunned as though by a blowfrom a club. The only thing I remember doing as I sat there, was lookingmechanically up at the sky, and, seeing a star spin across the heavens, Isaluted that fugitive gleam in which poets see a blasted world andgravely took off my hat to it. 

I returned to my home very quietly, experiencing nothing, as thoughdeprived of sensation and reflection. I undressed and retired; hardly hadmy head touched the pillow when the spirit of vengeance seized me withsuch force that I suddenly sat bolt upright against the wall as thoughall my muscles were made of wood. I jumped from my bed with a cry ofpain; I could walk only on my heels, the nerves in my toes were soirritated. I passed an hour in this way, completely foolish and stiff asa skeleton. It was the first burst of passion I had ever experienced. 

The man I had surprised with my mistress was one of my most intimatefriends. I went to his house the next day in company with a young lawyernamed Desgenais; we took pistols, another witness, and repaired to thewoods of Vincennes. On the way I avoided speaking to my adversary or evenapproaching him; thus I resisted the temptation to insult or strike him, a useless form of violence at a time when the law recognized the code. But I could not remove my eyes from him. He was the companion of mychildhood and we had lived in the closest intimacy for many years. Heunderstood perfectly my love for my mistress and had several timesintimated that bonds of this kind were sacred to a friend, and that hewould be incapable of an attempt to supplant me even if he loved the samewoman. In short, I had perfect confidence in him and I had perhaps neverpressed the hand of any human creature more cordially than his. 

My glance was eager and curious as I scrutinized this man whom I hadheard speak of love as an antique hero and whom I had caught caressing mymistress. It was the first time in my life I had seen a monster; Imeasured him with a haggard eye to see how he was made. He whom I hadknown since he was ten years old, with whom I had lived in the mostperfect friendship, it seemed to me I had never seen him. Allow me acomparison. 

There is a Spanish play, familiar to all the world, in which a stonestatue comes to sup with a debauchee, sent thither by divine justice. Thedebauchee puts a good face on the matter and forces himself to affectindifference; but the statue asks for his hand, and when he has extendedit he feels himself seized by a mortal chill and falls in convulsions. 

Whenever I have loved and confided in any one, either friend or mistress, and suddenly discover that I have been deceived, I can only describe theeffect produced on me by comparing it to the clasp of that marble hand. It is the actual impression of marble, it is as though a man of stone hadkissed me. Alas! this horrible apparition has knocked more than once atmy door; more than once we have supped together. 

When the arrangements were all made we placed ourselves in line, facingeach other and slowly advancing. My adversary fired the first shot, wounding me in the right arm. I immediately seized my pistol in the otherhand; but my strength failed, I could not raise it; I fell on one knee. 

Then I saw my enemy running up to me with an expression of great anxietyon his face, and very pale. My seconds hastened to my side, seeing that Iwas wounded; but he pushed them aside and seized my wounded arm. Histeeth were set and I could see that he was suffering intense anguish. Hisagony was the most frightful that man can experience. 

"Go!" he cried, "go dress your wound at the house of--"

He choked, and so did I. 

I was placed in a cab where I found a physician. My wound was notdangerous, the bone being untouched, but I was in such a state ofexcitation that it was impossible to properly dress my wound. As theywere about to drive from the field I saw a trembling hand at the door ofmy cab; it was my adversary. I shook my head in reply; I was in such arage that I could not pardon him, although I felt that his repentance wassincere. 

By the time I reached home I had lost much blood and felt relieved, forfeebleness saved me from the force of anger which was doing me more harmthan my wound. I willingly retired to my bed and called for a glass ofwater, which I quickly swallowed with relish. 

But I was soon attacked by fever. It was then I began to shed tears. Icould understand that my mistress had ceased to love me, but not that shecould deceive me. I could not comprehend why a woman who was forced to itby neither duty nor interest could lie to one man when she loved another. Twenty times a day I asked my friend Desgenais how that could bepossible. 

"If I were her husband, " I said, "or if I supported her I could easilyunderstand how she might be tempted to deceive me; but if she no longerloves me, why deceive me?"

I did not understand how any one could lie for love; I was but a childthen, but I confess that I do not understand it yet. Every time I haveloved a woman I have told her of it, and when I ceased to love her Iconfessed it to her with the same sincerity, having always thought thatin matters of this kind the will was not concerned and that there was nocrime but falsehood. 

To all this Desgenais replied:

"She is unworthy; promise me that you will never see her again. "

I solemnly promised. He advised me, moreover, not to write to her, noteven to reproach her, and if she wrote to me not to reply. I promised allthat with some surprise that he should consider it necessary to exactsuch a promise. 

Nevertheless the first thing I did when I was able to leave my room wasto visit my mistress. I found her alone, seated in the corner of the roomwith an expression of sorrow on her face and an appearance of generaldisorder in her surroundings. I overwhelmed her with violent reproaches;I was intoxicated with despair. In a paroxysm of grief I fell on the bedand gave free course to my tears. 

"Ah! faithless one! wretch!" I cried between my sobs, "you knew that itwould kill me. Did the prospect please you? What have I done to you?"

She threw her arms around my neck, saying that she had been seduced, thatmy rival had intoxicated her at that fatal supper, but that she had neverbeen his; that she had abandoned herself in a moment of forgetfulness;that she had committed a fault but not a crime; but that if I would notpardon her, she, too, would die. All that sincere repentance has oftears, all that sorrow has of eloquence, she exhausted to console me;pale and distressed, her dress deranged and her hair falling over hershoulders she kneeled in the middle of her chamber; never have I seenanything so beautiful and I shuddered with horror as my senses revoltedat the sight. 

I went away crushed, scarcely able to direct my tottering steps. I wishednever to see her again; but in a quarter of an hour I returned. I do notknow what desperate resolve I had formed; I experienced a dull desire topossess her once more, to drain the cup of tears and bitterness to thedregs and then to die with her. In short, I abhorred her and I idolizedher; I felt that her love was my ruin, but that to live without her wasimpossible. I mounted the stairs like a flash; I spoke to none of theservants, but, familiar with the house, opened the door of her chamber. 

I found her seated calmly before her toilet-table, covered with jewels;she held in her hand a piece of crepe which she passed gently over hercheeks. I thought I was dreaming; it did not seem possible that this wasthe woman I had left, just fifteen minutes before, overwhelmed withgrief, abased to the floor; I was as motionless as a statue. She, hearingthe door open, turned her head and smiled:

"Is it you?" she said. 

She was going to the ball and was expecting my rival. As she recognizedme, she compressed her lips and frowned. 

I started to leave the room. I looked at her bare neck, lithe andperfumed, on which rested her knotted hair confined by a jeweled comb;that neck, the seat of vital force, was blacker than Hades; two shiningtresses had fallen there and some light silvern hairs balanced above it. Her shoulders and neck, whiter than milk, displayed a heavy growth ofdown. There was in that knotted head of hair something indescribablyimmodest which seemed to mock me when I thought of the disorder in whichI had seen her a moment before. I suddenly stepped up to her and struckthat neck with the back of my hand. My mistress gave vent to a cry ofterror, and fell on her hands, while I hastened from the room. 

When I reached my room I was again attacked by fever and was obliged totake to my bed. My wound had reopened and I suffered great pain. Desgenais came to see me and I told him what had happened. He listened insilence, then paced up and down the room as though undecided as to hiscourse. Finally he stopped before my bed and burst out laughing. 

"Is she your first mistress?" he asked. 

"No!" I replied, "she is my last. "

Toward midnight, while sleeping restlessly, I seemed to hear in my dreamsa profound sigh. I opened my eyes and saw my mistress standing near mybed with arms crossed, looking like a specter. I could not restrain a cryof fright, believing it to be an apparition conjured up by my diseasedbrain. I leaped from my bed and fled to the farther end of the room; butshe followed me. 

"It is I!" said she; putting her arms around me she drew me to her. 

"What do you want of me?" I cried. "Leave me! I fear I shall kill you!"

"Very well, kill me!" she said. "I have deceived you, I have lied to you, I am an infamous wretch and I am miserable; but I love you, and I can notlive without you. "

I looked at her; how beautiful she was! Her body was quivering; her eyeslanguid with love and moist with voluptuousness; her bosom was bare, herlips burning. I raised her in my arms. 

"Very well, " I said, "but before God who sees us, by the soul of myfather, I swear that I will kill you and that I will die with you. "

I took a knife from the table and placed it under the pillow. 

"Come, Octave, " she said, smiling and kissing me, "do not be foolish. Come, my dear, all these horrors have unsettled your mind; you arefeverish. Give me that knife. "

I saw that she wished to take it. 

"Listen to me, " I then said; "I do not know what comedy you are playing, but as for me I am in earnest. I have loved you as only a man can loveand to my sorrow I love you still. You have just told me that you loveme, and I hope it is true; but, by all that is sacred, if I am your loverto-night, no one shall take my place to-morrow. Before God, before God, "I repeated, "I would not take you back as my mistress, for I hate you asmuch as I love you. Before God, if you consent to stay here to-night Iwill kill you in the morning. "

When I had spoken these words I fell into a delirium. She threw her cloakover her shoulders and fled from the room. 

When I told Desgenais about it he said:

"Why did you do that? You must be very much disgusted, for she is abeautiful woman. "

"Are you joking?" I asked. "Do you think such a woman could be mymistress? Do you think I would ever consent to share her with another? Doyou know that she confesses that another possesses her and do you expectme, loving her as I do, to share my love? If that is the way you love, Ipity you. "

Desgenais replied that he was not so particular. 

"My dear Octave, " he added, "you are very young. You want many things, beautiful things, which do not exist. You believe in a singular sort oflove; perhaps you are capable of it; I believe you are, but I do not envyyou. You will have other mistresses, my friend, and you will live toregret what happened last night. If that woman came to you it is certainthat she loved you; perhaps she does not love you at this moment, indeedshe may be in the arms of another; but she loved you last night in thatroom; and what should you care for the rest? You will regret it, believeme, for she will not come again. A woman pardons everything except such aslight. Her love for you must have been something terrible when she cameto you knowing and confessing herself guilty, risking rebuff and contemptat your hands. Believe me, you will regret it, for I am satisfied thatyou will soon be cured. "

There was such an air of simple conviction about my friend's words, sucha despairing certainty based on experience, that I shuddered as Ilistened. While he was speaking I felt a strong desire to go to mymistress, or to write to her to come to me. I was so weak that I couldnot leave my bed and that saved me from the shame of finding her waitingfor my rival or perhaps in his company. But I could write to her; inspite of myself I doubted whether she would come if I should write. 

When Desgenais left me I became so desperate that I resolved to put anend to my trouble. After a terrible struggle horror got the better oflove. I wrote my mistress that I would never see her again and begged hernot to try to see me unless she wished to be exposed to the shame ofbeing refused admittance. I called a servant and ordered him to deliverthe letter at once. He had hardly closed the door when I called him back. He did not hear me; I did not dare call again; covering my face with myhands I yielded to an overwhelming sense of despair. 

CHAPTER IV

THE following morning the first question that occurred to my mind was:"What shall I do?"

I had no occupation. I had studied medicine and law without being able todecide on either of the two professions; I had worked for a banker forsix months and my services were so unsatisfactory that I was obliged toresign to avoid being discharged. My studies had been varied butsuperficial; my memory was active but not retentive. 

My only treasure after love, was independence. In my childhood I haddevoted myself to a morose cult, and had, so to speak, consecrated myheart to it. One day my father, solicitous about my future, spoke to meof several careers between which he allowed me to choose. I was leaningon the window-sill, looking at a solitary poplar-tree that was swaying inthe breeze down in the garden. I thought over all the various occupationsand wondered which one I should choose. I turned them all over, one afteranother, in my mind, and then not feeling inclined to any of them Iallowed my thoughts to wander. Suddenly it seemed to me that I felt theearth move and that a secret invisible force was slowly dragging me intospace and becoming tangible to my senses; I saw it mount into the sky; Iseemed to be on a ship; the poplar near my window resembled a mast; Iarose, stretched out my arms, and cried:

"It is little enough to be a passenger for one day on this ship floatingthrough space; it is little enough to be a man, a black point on thatship; I will be a man but not any particular kind of man. "

Such was the first vow that, at the age of fourteen, I pronounced in theface of nature, and since then I have tried to do nothing except inobedience to my father, never being able to overcome my repugnance. 

I was therefore free, not through indolence but by choice; loving, moreover, all that God had made and very little that man had made. Oflife I knew nothing but love, of the world only my mistress, and I didnot care to know anything more. So falling in love upon leaving college Isincerely believed that it was for life and every other thoughtdisappeared. 

My life was sedentary. I was accustomed to pass the day with my mistress;my greatest pleasure was to lead her through the fields on beautifulsummer days, the sight of nature in her splendor having ever been for methe most powerful incentive to love. In winter, as she enjoyed society, we attended numerous balls and masquerades, and because I thought of noone but her I fondly imagined her equally true to me. 

To give you an idea of my state of mind I can not do better than compareit to one of those rooms such as we see in these days where are collectedand confounded all the furniture of all times and all countries. Our agehas no form of its own. We have impressed the seal of our time on neitherour houses nor our gardens nor anything that is ours. On the street maybe seen men who have their beards cut as in the time of Henry III, otherswho are clean shaven, others who have their hair arranged as in the timeof Raphael, others as in the time of Christ. So the homes of the rich arecabinets of curiosities: the antique, the Gothic, the taste of theRenaissance, that of Louis XIII, all pell-mell. In short, we have everycentury except our own--a thing which has never been seen at any otherepoch: eclecticism is our taste; we take everything we find, this forbeauty, that for utility, this other for antiquity, such another for itsugliness even, so that we live surrounded by debris as though the end ofthe world were at hand. 

Such was the state of my mind; I had read much; moreover I had learned topaint. I knew by heart a great many things, but nothing in order, so thatmy head was like a sponge, swollen but empty. I fell in love with all thepoets one after another; but being of an impressionable nature the lastcomer always disgusted me with the rest. I had made of myself a greatwarehouse of ruins, so that having no more thirst after drinking of thenovel and the unknown, I became a ruin myself. 

Nevertheless, about that ruin there was still something of youth: it wasthe hope of my heart which was still childlike. 

That hope, which nothing had withered or corrupted and that love hadexalted to excess, had now received a mortal wound. The perfidy of mymistress had struck deep, and when I thought of it, I felt in my soul aswooning away, a convulsive flutter as of a wounded bird in agony. 

Society which works so much evil is like that serpent of the Indies whosedwelling is the leaf of a plant which cures its sting; it presents, innearly every case, the remedy by the side of the suffering it has caused. For example, the man whose life is one of routine, who has his businesscares to claim his attention upon rising, visits at such an hour, lovesat another, can lose his mistress and suffer no evil effects. Hisoccupations and his thoughts are like impassive soldiers ranged in lineof battle; a single shot strikes one down, his neighbors fill up the gapand the line is intact. 

I had not that resource since I was alone: nature, the kind mother, seemed, on the contrary, more vast and more empty than ever. If I hadbeen able to forget my mistress I would have been saved. How many thereare who can be cured with even less than that. Such men are incapable ofloving a faithless woman and their conduct, under the circumstances, isadmirable in its firmness. But is it thus that one loves at nineteenwhen, knowing nothing of the world, desiring everything, the young manfeels within him the germ of all the passions? On the right, on the left, below, on the horizon, everywhere some voice which calls him. All isdesire, all is reverie. There is no reality which holds him when theheart is young; there is no oak so gnarled that it may not give birth toa dryad; and if one had a hundred arms one need not fear to open them;one has but to clasp his mistress and all is well. 

As for me I did not understand what else there was to do besides love, and when any one spoke to me of another occupation I did not reply. Mypassion for my mistress had something fierce about it, as all my life hadbeen severely monachal. I wish to cite a single example. She gave me herportrait in miniature in a medallion; I wore it over my heart, a practisemuch affected by men; but one day while idly rummaging about a shopfilled with curiosities I found an iron "discipline whip, " such as wasused by the mediaeval flagellants; at the end of this whip was a metalplate bristling with sharp iron points; I had the medallion riveted tothis plate and then returned it to its place over my heart. The sharppoints pierced my bosom with every movement and caused such a strangevoluptuous anguish that I sometimes pressed it down with my hand in orderto intensify the sensation. I knew very well that I was committing folly;love is responsible for many others. 

When that woman deceived me I removed the cruel medallion. I can not tellwith what sadness I detached that iron girdle and what a sigh escaped mewhen it was gone. 

"Ah! poor wounds!" I said, "you will soon heal, but what balm is therefor that other deeper wound?"

I had reason to hate that woman, she was, so to speak, mingled with theblood of my veins; I cursed her but I dreamed of her. What could I dowith a dream? By what effort of the will could I drown memory of fleshand blood? Macbeth having killed Duncan saw that the ocean would not washhis hands clean again; it would not have washed away my wounds. I said toDesgenais: "When I sleep, her head is on my pillow. "

My life had been wrapped up in that woman; to doubt her was to doubt all;to deny her, to curse all; to lose her, to renounce all. I no longer wentout; the world seemed to be peopled with monsters, with horned deer andcrocodiles. To all that was said to distract my mind I replied:

"Yes, that is all very well, but you may rest assured I shall do nothingof the kind. "

I sat in my window and said:

"She will come, I am sure of it, she is coming, she is turning the cornerat this moment, I can feel her approach. She can no more live without methan I without her. What shall I say? How shall I receive her?"

Then the thought of her perfidy recurred to me. 

"Ah! let her come! I will kill her!"

Since my last letter I had heard nothing of her. 

"What is she doing?" I asked myself. "She loves another? Then I will loveanother also. Whom shall I love?"

While casting about I heard a far distant voice crying:

"Thou, love another? Two beings who love, who embrace, and who are notthou and I! Is such a thing possible? Are you a fool?"

"Coward!" said Desgenais, "when will you forget that woman? Is she such agreat loss? Take the first comer and console yourself. "

"No, " I replied, "it is not such a great loss. Have I not done what Iought? Have I not driven her away from here? What have you to say tothat? The rest concerns me; the bull wounded in the arena is at libertyto go to sleep in a corner with the sword of the matador in his shoulder, and die in peace. What can I do, tell me? What do you mean by firstcomer? You will show me a cloudless sky, trees and houses, men who talk, drink, sing, women who dance and horses that gallop. All that is notlife, it is the noise of life. Go, go, leave me in peace. "

CHAPTER V

WHEN Desgenais saw that my despondency was incurable, that I wouldneither listen to any advice nor leave my room, he took the matterseriously. I saw him enter one evening with an expression of gravity onhis face; he spoke of my mistress and continued in his tone of sadness, saying all manner of evil of women. While he was speaking I was leaningon my elbow, and, rising in my bed, I listened attentively. 

It was one of those somber evenings when the sighing of the windresembles the moans of a dying man; a storm was brewing, and between thesplashes of rain on the windows there was the silence of death. Allnature suffers in such moments; the trees writhe in pain and twist theirheads; the birds of the fields cower under the bushes; the streets ofcities are deserted. I was suffering from my wound. But a short timebefore I had a mistress and a friend. The mistress had deceived me andthe friend had stretched me on a bed of pain. I could not clearlydistinguish what was passing in my head; it seemed to me that I was underthe influence of a horrible dream and that I had but to awake to findmyself cured; at times it seemed that my entire life had been a dream, ridiculous and childish, the falseness of which had just been disclosed. Desgenais was seated near the lamp at my side; he was firm and serious, although a smile hovered about his lips. He was a man of heart, but asdry as a pumice-stone. An early experience had made him bald before histime; he knew life and had suffered; but his grief was a cuirass; he wasa materialist and he waited for death. 

"Octave, " he said, "after what has happened to you I see that you believein love such as the poets and romancers have represented; in a word, youbelieve in what is said here below and not in what is done. That isbecause you do not reason soundly and it may lead you into greatmisfortune. 

"The poets represent love as the sculptors design beauty, as themusicians create melody; that is to say, endowed with an exquisitenervous organization, they gather up with discerning ardor the purestelements of life, the most beautiful lines of matter, and the mostharmonious voices of nature. There was, it is said, at Athens a greatnumber of beautiful girls; Praxiteles designed them all, one afteranother; then from all these diverse types of beauty, each one of whichhad its defects, he formed a single faultless beauty and created Venus. The first man who created a musical instrument and who gave to that artits rules and its laws, had for a long time listened to the murmuring ofreeds and the singing of birds. Thus the poets who understand life, afterhaving known much of love, more or less transitory, after having feltthat sublime exaltation which passion can for the moment inspire, deducting from human nature all elements which degrade it, created themysterious names which through the ages are passed from lip to lip:Daphne and Chloe, Hero and Leander, Pyramus and Thisbe. 

"To try to find in real life such love as this, eternal and absolute, isthe same thing as to seek on the public squares such a woman as Venus orto expect nightingales to sing the symphonies of Beethoven. 

"Perfection does not exist; to comprehend it is the triumph of humanintelligence; to desire to possess it, the most dangerous of follies. Open your window, Octave; do you not see the infinite? You try to formsome idea of a thing that has no limits, you who were born yesterday andwho will die to-morrow? This spectacle of immensity in every country inthe world, produces the wildest illusions. Religions are born of it; itwas to possess the infinite that Cato cut his throat, that the Christiansdelivered themselves to lions, the Huguenots to the Catholics; all thepeople of the earth have stretched out their hands to that immensity andhave longed to plunge into it. The fool wishes to possess heaven; thesage admires it, kneels before it, but does not desire it. 

"Perfection, my friend, is no more made for us than infinity. We mustseek for nothing in it, demand nothing of it, neither love nor beauty, happiness nor virtue; but we must love it if we would be virtuous, if wewould attain the greatest happiness of which man is capable. 

"Let us suppose you have in your study a picture by Raphael that youconsider perfect; let us suppose that upon a close examination youdiscover in one of the figures a gross defect of design, a limbdistorted, or a muscle that belies nature, such as has been discovered, they say, in one of the arms of an antique gladiator; you wouldexperience a feeling of displeasure, but you would not throw that picturein the fire; you would merely say that it is not perfect but that it hasqualities that are worthy of admiration. 

"There are women whose natural singleness of heart and sincerity are suchthat they could not have two lovers at the same time. You believed yourmistress such a one; that is best, I admit. You have discovered that shehas deceived you; does that oblige you to despise and to abuse her, tobelieve her deserving of your hatred?

"Even if your mistress had never deceived you, even if at this moment sheloved none other than you, think, Octave, how far her love would still befrom perfection, how human it would be, how small, how restrained by thehypocrisies and conventionalities of the world; remember that another manpossessed her before you, that many others will possess her after you. 

"Reflect: what drives you at this moment to despair is the idea ofperfection in your mistress, the idea that has been shattered. But whenyou understand that the first idea itself was human, small andrestricted, you will see that it is little more than a round in therotten ladder of human imperfection. 

"I think you will readily admit that your mistress has had other admirersand that she will have still others in the future; you will doubtlessreply that it matters little, so long as she loved you. But I ask you, since she has had others, what difference does it make whether it wasyesterday or two years ago? Since she loves but one at a time what doesit matter whether it is during an interval of two years or the course ofa single night? Are you a man, Octave? Do you see the leaves falling fromthe trees, the sun rising and setting? Do you hear the ticking of theclock of time with each pulsation of your heart? Is there, then, such adifference between the love of a year and the love of an hour? Ichallenge you to answer that, you fool, as you sit there looking out atthe infinite through a window not larger than your hand. 

"You consider that woman faithful who loves you two years; you must havean almanac that will indicate just how long it takes for an honest man'skisses to dry on a woman's lips. You make a distinction between the womanwho sells herself for money and the one who gives herself for pleasure, between the one who gives herself through pride and the one who givesherself through devotion. Among women who are for sale, some cost morethan others; among those who are sought for pleasure some inspire moreconfidence than others; and among those who are worthy of devotion thereare some who receive a third of a man's heart, others a quarter, others ahalf, depending upon her education, her manner, her name, her birth, herbeauty, her temperament, according to the occasion, according to what issaid, according to the time, according to what you have had to drink fordinner. 

"You love women, Octave, because you are young, ardent, because yourfeatures are regular and your hair dark and glossy, but you do not, forall that, understand woman. 

"Nature, having all, desires the reproduction of beings; everywhere, fromthe summit of the mountain to the bottom of the sea, life is opposed todeath. God, to conserve the work of his hands, has established this lawthat the greatest pleasure of all loving beings shall be the act ofgeneration. 

"Oh! my friend, when you feel bursting on your lips the vow of eternallove, do not be afraid to yield, but do not confound wine withintoxication; do not think the cup divine because the draft is ofcelestial flavor; do not be astonished to find it broken and empty in theevening. It is but woman, it is a fragile vase, made of earth by apotter. 

"Thank God for giving you a glimpse of heaven, but do not imagineyourself a bird because you can flap your wings. The birds themselves cannot escape the clouds; there is a sphere where air fails them and thelark rising with its song into the morning fog, sometimes falls back deadin the field. 

"Take love as a sober man takes wine; do not become a drunkard. If yourmistress is sincere and faithful, love her for that; but if she is not, if she is merely young and beautiful, love her for that; if she isagreeable and spirituelle, love her for that; if she is none of thesethings but merely loves you, love her for that. Love does not come to usevery day. 

"Do not tear your hair and stab yourself because you have a rival. Yousay that your mistress deceives you for another; it is your pride thatsuffers; but change the words, say that it is for you that she deceiveshim, and behold you are happy. 

"Do not make a rule of conduct and do not say that you wish to be lovedexclusively, for in saying that, as you are a man and inconstantyourself, you are forced to add tacitly: 'As far as possible. '

"Take time as it comes, the wind as it blows, woman as she is. TheSpaniards first, among women, love faithfully; their heart is sincere andviolent, but they wear a dagger just above it. Italian women arelascivious. The English are exalted and melancholy, cold and unnatural. The German women are tender and sweet, but colorless and monotonous. TheFrench are spirituelle, elegant, and voluptuous, but they lie likedemons. 

"Above all, do not accuse women of being what they are; we have made themthus, undoing the work of nature. 

"Nature, who thinks of everything, made the virgin for love; but with herfirst child her bosom loses its form, her beauty its freshness. Woman ismade for motherhood. Man would perhaps abandon her, disgusted by the lossof beauty; but his child clings to him and weeps. Behold the family, thehuman law; everything that departs from this law is monstrous. 

"Civilization thwarts the ends of nature. In our cities, according to ourcustoms, the virgin destined by nature for the open air, made to bask inthe sunlight, to admire the nude wrestlers, as in Lacedemonia, to choose, and to love, is shut up in close confinement and bolted in; yet she hidesromance under her cross; pale and idle she fades away and loses in thesilence of the nights that beauty that stifles her and which has need ofthe open air. Then she is suddenly taken from this solitude, knowingnothing, loving nothing, desiring everything; an old woman instructs her, a mysterious word is whispered in her ear, and she is thrown into thearms of a stranger. There you have marriage--that is to say, thecivilized family. A child is born. This poor creature has lost her beautyand she has never loved. The child is brought to her with the words: 'Youare a mother. ' She replies: 'I am not a mother; take that child to somewoman who can nurse it. I can not. ' Her husband tells her that she isright, that her child would be disgusted with her. She receives carefulattention and is soon cured of the disease of maternity. A month latershe may be seen at the Tuileries, at the ball, at the opera: her child isat Chaillot, at Auxerre; her husband with another woman. Then young menspeak to her of love, of devotion, of sympathy, of all that is in theheart. She takes one, draws him to her bosom; he dishonors her andreturns to the Bourse. She cries all night, but discovers that tears makeher eyes red. She takes a consoler, for the loss of whom another consolesher; thus up to the age of thirty or more. Then, blase and corrupted, with no human sentiment, not even disgust, she meets a fine youth withraven locks, ardent eye and hopeful heart; she recalls her own youth, sheremembers what she has suffered, and telling him the story of her life, she teaches him to shun love. 

"That is woman as we have made her; such are your mistresses. But you saythey are women and there is something good in them!

"But if your character is formed, if you are truly a man, sure ofyourself and confident of your strength, you may taste of life withoutfear and without reserve; you may be sad or joyous, deceived orrespected; but be sure you are loved, for what matters the rest?

"If you are mediocre and ordinary, I advise you to consider your coursevery carefully before deciding, but do not expect too much of yourmistress. 

"If you are weak, dependent upon others, inclined to allow yourself to bedominated by opinion, to take root wherever you see a little soil, makefor yourself a shield that will resist everything, for if you yield toyour weaker nature you will not grow, you will dry up like a dead plant, and you will bear neither fruit nor flowers. The sap of your life willdissipate into the formation of a useless bark; all your actions will beas colorless as the leaves of the willow; you will have no tears to wateryou, but those from your own eyes, to nourish you, no heart but your own. 

"But if you are of exalted nature, believing in dreams and wishing torealize them, I say to you plainly. Love does not exist. 

"For to love is to give body and soul, or, better, it is to make a singlebeing of two; it is to walk in the sunlight, in the open air through theboundless prairies with a body having four arms, two heads and twohearts. Love is faith, it is the religion of earthly happiness, it is aluminous triangle suspended in the temple of the world. To love is towalk freely through that temple and to have at your side a being capableof understanding why a thought, a word, a flower makes you pause andraise your eyes to that celestial triangle. To exercise the noblefaculties of man is a great good, and that is why genius is glorious; butto double those faculties, to place a heart and an intelligence upon aheart and an intelligence--that is supreme happiness. God has nothingbetter for man; that is why love is better than genius. But tell me, isthat the love of our women? No, no, it must be admitted. Love, for them, is another thing; it is to go out veiled, to write in secret, to maketrembling advances, to heave chaste sighs under a starched and unnaturalrobe, then to draw bolts and throw it aside, to humiliate a rival, todeceive a husband, to render a lover desolate; to love, for our women, isto play at lying, as children play at hide and seek, the hideousdebauchee of a heart, worse than all the lubricity of the Romans, or theSaturnalia of Priapus; bastard parody of vice itself as well as ofvirtue; loathsome comedy where all is whispering and oblique glances, where all is small, elegant and deformed like the porcelain monstersbrought from China; lamentable derision of all that is beautiful andugly, divine and infernal; a shadow without a body, a skeleton of allthat God has made. "

Thus spoke Desgenais; and the shadows of night began to fall. 

CHAPTER VI

THE next morning I rode through the Bois de Boulogne; the day was darkand threatening. At the Porte Maillot I dropped the reins on the back ofmy horse and abandoned myself to reverie, revolving in my mind the wordsspoken by Desgenais the evening before. 

Suddenly I heard my name called. Turning my head I spied one of mymistress's most intimate friends in an open carriage. She called to me tostop, and, holding out her hand with a friendly air, invited me to dinewith her 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 always beenone of studied politeness. But I could not resist a desire to accept herinvitation; I pressed her hand and thanked her; I was sure we would talkof 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, and thecarriage curtains were drawn; thus shut up together we rode on insilence. I looked at her with inexpressible sadness; she was not only thefriend of my faithless one but her confidante. She had often formed oneof 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 for 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 found herbeautiful! 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 rode 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 the griefthat is killing me. My condition can be expressed in a few words: I cannot 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 seemed to bereflecting, as though pondering over my fate and seeking some remedy formy sorrow. Her eyes were closed and she appeared lost in reverie. Sheextended 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 had abandoned her. She hadmade great sacrifices for him; her fortune was compromised as well as herhonor and her name. Her husband, whom she knew to be vindictive, had madethreats. Her tears flowed as she continued, and I began to forget my ownsorrow in my sympathy for her. She had been married against her will; shestruggled a long time; but she regretted nothing except that she had notbeen able to inspire a more sincere affection. I believe she even accusedherself because she had not been able to hold her lover's heart, andbecause 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 from youreye, 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 and shedid not appear even to notice it. 

Our conversation continued in this tone of great friendship. She told meher sorrows, I told her mine, and between those two experiences whichtouched each other, I felt arise a sweetness, as of 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 rearrange it, and I turned my head to give her an opportunity. She did nothing. Finallymeeting her eyes and seeing that she was perfectly aware of the state shewas in, I felt as though I had been struck by a thunderbolt, for Iclearly understood that I was the plaything of her monstrous effrontery, that grief itself was for her but a means of seducing the senses. I tookmy hat without a word, bowed profoundly and left the room. 

CHAPTER VII

UPON returning to my apartments I found a large box in the center of theroom. One of my aunts had died and I was one of the heirs to her fortune, which was not large. The box contained, among other things, a number ofmusty old books. Not knowing what to do and being affected with ennui, Ibegan to read one of them. They were for the most part romances of thetime of Louis XV; my pious aunt had probably inherited them herself andnever read them, for they were, so to speak, catechisms of vice. 

I was singularly disposed to reflect on everything that came to mynotice, to give everything a mental and moral significance; I treatedevents as pearls in a necklace which I tried to string together. 

It struck me that there was something significant about the arrival ofthese books at this time. I devoured them with a bitterness and a sadnessborn of despair. "Yes, you are right, " I said to myself, "you alonepossess the secret of life, you alone dare to say that nothing is trueand real but debauchery, hypocrisy and corruption. Be my friends, throwon the wound in my soul your corrosive poisons, teach me to believe inyou. "

While buried in these shadows I allowed my favorite poets and text-booksto accumulate dust. I even ground them under my feet in excess of wrath. "You wretched dreamers, " I said to them; "you who teach me onlysuffering, miserable shufflers of words, charlatans if you knew thetruth, fools if you speak in good faith, liars in either case, who makefairy tales of the human heart, I will burn every one of you!"

Then tears came to my aid and I perceived that there was nothing real butmy grief. "Very well, " I cried, in my delirium, "tell me, good and badgenii, counsellors for good or evil, tell me what to do! Choose anarbiter and let him speak. "

I seized an old Bible which lay on my table and read the first passagethat caught my eye. 

"Reply to me, thou book of God, " I said, "what word have you for me?" Myeye fell on this passage in Ecclesiastes, chapter ix:

 I pondered all these things in my heart, and I sought diligently for wisdom. There are just and wise men and their works are in the hands of God; nevertheless man does not know whether he is worthy of love or hatred. 

 And the future is unknown, for there is one event to the righteous and to the wicked; to the good, and to the clean, and to the unclean; to him that sacrificeth and him that sacrificeth not. The righteous is treated as the sinner and the perjurer as him who speaks the truth. 

 There is an evil among all things that are done under the sun, and there is one event to all. Therefore the hearts of the children of men are full of evil and madness while they live, and after that they go to the dead. 

When I read these words I was astounded; I did not know that there wassuch a sentiment in the Bible. "And thou, too, as all others, thou bookof hope!"

What do the astronomers think when they predict at a given hour and placethe passage of a comet, that most eccentric of celestial travelers? Whatdo the naturalists think when they reveal the myriad forms of lifeconcealed in a drop of water? Do they think they have invented what theysee and that their microscopes and lenses make the law of nature? Whatdid the first lawgiver think when, seeking for the corner-stone in thesocial edifice, angered doubtless by some idle importunity, he struck thetables of brass and felt in his bowels the yearning for a law ofretaliation? Did he then invent justice? And the first who plucked thefruit planted by his neighbor and who fled cowering under his mantle, didhe invent shame? And he who, having overtaken that same thief who hadrobbed him of the product of his toil, forgave him his sin, and insteadof raising his hand to smite him, said, "Sit thou down and eat thy fill";when after having thus returned good for evil he raised his eyes towardHeaven and felt his heart quivering, tears welling from his eyes, and hisknees bending to the earth, did he invent virtue? Oh! Heaven! here is awoman who speaks of love and who deceives me, here is a man who speaks offriendship, and who counsels me to seek consolation in debauchery; hereis another woman who weeps and would console me with the flesh; here is aBible that speaks of God and says: "Perhaps; there is one event to therighteous and to the wicked. "

I ran to the open window: "Is it true that you are empty?" I cried, looking up at the pale expanse of sky which spread above me. "Reply, reply! Before I die grant that I may clasp in these arms of minesomething more than a dream!"

Profound silence reigned. As I stood with arms outstretched, eyes lost inspace, a swallow uttered a plaintive cry; in spite of myself I followedit with my eyes; while the swallow disappeared from sight like a flash, alittle girl passed, singing. 

CHAPTER VIII

YET I was not willing to yield. Before taking life on its pleasant sideafter having seen its evil side so dearly, I resolved to test everything. I remained thus for some time a prey to countless sorrows, tormented byterrible dreams. 

The great obstacle to my cure was my youth. Wherever I happened to be, whatever my occupation, I could think of nothing but women; the sight ofa woman made me tremble. 

I had been so fortunate as to give to love my virginity. But the resultof this was that all my senses were united in the idea of love; there wasthe cause of my unhappiness. For not being able to think of anything butwomen, I could not help turning over in my head, day and night, all theideas of debauchery, of false love and of feminine treason with which mymind was filled. To possess a woman was for me to love her; for I thoughtof nothing but women and I did not believe in the possibility of truelove. 

All this suffering inspired me with a sort of rage, and at times I wastempted to imitate the monks and murder myself in order to conquer mysenses; at times I felt like going out into the street and throwingmyself at the feet of the first woman I met and vowing eternal love. 

God is my witness that I did all in my power to cure myself. Preoccupiedfrom the first with the idea that the society of men was the haunt ofvice and hypocrisy, where all were like my mistress, I resolved toseparate myself from them and live in complete isolation. I resumed myneglected studies, I plunged into history, poetry, and anatomy. Therehappened to be on the fourth floor of the same house an old German whowas well versed in lore. I determined to learn his tongue; the German waspoor and friendless and willingly accepted the task of instructing me. Myperpetual state of distraction worried him. How many times seated nearhim with a smoking lamp between us, he waited in patient astonishmentwhile I sat with my arms crossed on my book, lost in reverie, obliviousof his presence and of his pity. 

"My dear sir, " said I to him one day, "all this is useless, but you arethe best of men. What a task you have undertaken! You must leave me to myfate; we can do nothing, neither you nor I. "

I do not know that he understood my meaning, but he grasped my hand andthere was no more talk of German. 

I soon realized that solitude instead of curing me was doing me harm, andso completely changed my system. I went to the country and gallopedthrough the woods with the huntsmen; I rode until I was out of breath, Itried to break myself with fatigue, and when after a day of sweat in thefields, I reached my bed in the evening smelling of powder and thestable, I buried my head in the pillow, I rolled about under the coversand I cried: "Fantom, fantom! are you not tired? Will you leave me forone night?"

But why these vain efforts? Solitude sent me to nature, and nature tolove. When I stood in the street of Observation I saw myself surroundedby corpses, and, drying my hands on my bloody apron, stifled by the odorof putrefaction, I turned my head in spite of myself, and I saw floatingbefore my eyes green harvests, balmy fields and the pensive harmony ofthe evening. "No, " I said, "science can not console me; I can not plungeinto dead nature, I would die there myself and float about like a lividcorpse amidst the debris of shattered hopes. I would not cure myself ofmy youth; I will live where there is life, or I will at least die in thesun. " I began to mingle with the throngs at Sevres and Chaville; I laydown in the midst of a flowery dale, in a secluded part of Chaville. Alas! all these forests and prairies cried to me:

"What do you seek here? We are green, poor child, we wear the colors ofhope. "

Then I returned to the city; I lost myself in its obscure streets; Ilooked up at the lights in all its windows, all those mysterious familynests; I watched the passing carriages; I saw man jostling against man. Oh! what solitude! How sad the smoke on those roofs! What sorrow in thosetortuous streets where all are hurrying hither and thither, working andsweating, where thousands of strangers rub against your elbows; a cloacawhere there is only society of bodies, while souls are solitary andalone, where all who hold out a hand to you are prostitutes! "Becomecorrupt, corrupt, and you will cease to suffer!" This has been the cry ofall cities to man; it is written with charcoal on city walls, on itsstreets with mud, on its faces with extravasated blood. 

And at times, when seated in the corner of some salon I watched the womenas they danced, some rosy, some blue, and others white, their arms bareand hair clustered gracefully about their shapely heads, looking likecherubim drunk with light, floating in their spheres of harmony andbeauty, I would think: "Ah, what a garden, what flowers to gather, tobreathe! Ah! Marguerites, Marguerites! What will your last petal say tohim who plucks it? A little, a little, but not all. That is the moral ofthe world, that is the end of your smiles. It is over this terrible abyssthat you are walking in your flower-strewn gauze; it is on this hideoustruth you run like gazelles on the tips of your little toes!"

"But why take things so seriously?" said Desgenais. "That is somethingthat is never seen. You complain because bottles become empty? There aremany casks in the vaults, and many vaults in the hills. Make me a goodfish-hook gilded with sweet words, with a drop of honey for bait, andquick! catch for me in the stream of oblivion a pretty consoler, as freshand slippery as an eel; you will still have the hook when the fish shallhave glided from your hands. Youth must pass away, and if I were you Iwould carry off the queen of Portugal rather than study anatomy. "

Such was the advice of Desgenais. I made my way home with swollen heart, my face concealed under my cloak. I kneeled at the side of my bed and mypoor heart dissolved in tears. What vows! what prayers! Galileo struckthe earth, crying: "Nevertheless it moves!" Thus I struck my heart. 

CHAPTER IX

SUDDENLY, in the midst of greatest despair youth and chance led me tocommit an act that decided my fate. 

I had written my mistress saying that I never wished to see her again; Ikept my word, but I passed the nights under her window, seated on a benchbefore her door. I could see the lights in her room, I could hear thesound of her piano, at times I saw something that looked like a shadowthrough the partially drawn curtains. 

One night, as I was seated on the bench, plunged in frightful melancholy, I saw a belated workman staggering along the street. He muttered a fewwords in a dazed manner and then began to sing. He was so much under theinfluence of liquor that he walked at times on one side of the gutter andthen on the other. Finally he fell on a bench facing another houseopposite me. There he lay still, supported on his elbows, and sleptprofoundly. 

The street was deserted, a dry wind swept the dust here and there; themoon shone through a rift in the clouds and lighted the spot where theman slept. So I found myself tete-a-tete with this man who, notsuspecting my presence, was sleeping on that stone bench as peacefully asthough in his own bed. 

He served to divert my grief; I arose to leave him in full possession, then returned and resumed my seat. I could not leave that door at which Iwould not have knocked for an empire. Finally, after walking up and downfor a few times I stopped before the sleeper. 

"What sleep!" I said. "Surely this man does not dream. His clothes are intatters, his cheeks are wrinkled, his hands hardened with toil; he issome unfortunate who does not have bread every day. A thousand gnawingcares, a thousand mortal sorrows await his return to consciousness;nevertheless, this evening he had a piece of money in his pocket, heentered a tavern where he purchased oblivion; he has earned enough in aweek to enjoy a night of slumber and he has perhaps purchased it at theexpense of his children's supper. Now his mistress can betray him, hisfriend can glide like a thief into his hut; I could shake him by theshoulder and tell him that he is being murdered, that his house is onfire; he would turn over and continue to sleep. 

"And I, I do not sleep, " I continued pacing up and down the street, "I donot sleep, I who have enough in my pocket at this moment to purchasesleep for a year; I am so proud and so foolish that I dare not enter atavern, and I do not understand that if all unfortunates enter there, itis in order that they may come out happy. Oh! God! the juice of a grapecrushed under the foot suffices to dissipate the deepest sorrow and tobreak all the invisible threads that the fates weave about our pathway. We weep like women, we suffer like martyrs; in our despair it seems thatthe world is crumbling under our feet and we sit down in our tears as didAdam at Eden's gate. And in order to cure our wound we have but to make amovement of the hand and moisten our throats. How pitiable our griefsince it can be thus assuaged. We are surprised that Providence does notsend angels to grant our prayers; it need not take the trouble, for ithas seen our woes, it knows our desires, our pride and bitterness, theocean of evil that surrounds us, and is content to hang a small blackfruit along our paths. Since that man sleeps so soundly on his bench whydo not I sleep on mine? My rival is doubtless passing the night with mymistress; he will leave her at daybreak; she will accompany him to thedoor and they will see me asleep on my bench. Their kisses will notawaken me, and they will shake me by the shoulder; I will turn over onthe other side and sleep on. "

Thus, inspired by a fierce joy, I set out in quest of a tavern. As it waspast midnight some were closed; that put me in a fury. "What!" I cried, "even that consolation is refused me!" I ran hither and thither knockingat the doors of taverns crying: "Wine! Wine!"

At last I found one open; I called for a bottle and without caringwhether it was good or bad I gulped it down; a second followed and then athird. I dosed myself as with medicine, and I forced the wine down asthough it had been prescribed by a physician to save my life. 

The heavy fumes of the liquor, which was doubtless adulterated, mountedto my head. As I had gulped it down at a breath, drunkenness seized mepromptly; I felt that I was becoming muddled, then I experienced a lucidmoment, then confusion followed. Then consciousness left me, I leaned myelbows on the table and said adieu to myself. 

But I had a confused idea that I was not alone in the tavern. At theother end of the room stood a hideous group with haggard faces and harshvoices. Their dress indicated that they belonged to the poorer class butwere not bourgeois; in short they belonged to that ambiguous class, thevilest of all, which has neither fortune nor occupation, which neverworks except at some criminal plot, which is neither poor nor rich andcombines the vices of one class with the misery of the other. 

They were disputing over a dirty pack of cards; among them I saw a girlwho appeared to be very young and very pretty, decently clad, andresembling her companions in no way, except in the harshness of hervoice, which was rough and broken as though it had performed the officeof public crier. She looked at me closely as though astonished to see mein such a place, for I was elegantly attired. Little by little sheapproached my table, and seeing that all the bottles were empty, smiled. I saw that she had fine teeth of brilliant whiteness; I took her hand andbegged her to be seated; she consented with good grace and asked what weshould have for supper. 

I looked at her without saying a word, while my eyes began to fill withtears; she observed my emotion and inquired the cause. I could not reply. She understood that I had some secret sorrow and forebore any attempt tolearn the cause; drawing her handkerchief she dried my tears from time totime as we dined. 

There was something about that girl that was at once repulsive and sweet, a singular impudence mingled with pity, that I could not understand. Ifshe had taken my hand in the street she would have inspired a feeling ofhorror in me, but it seemed so strange that a creature I had never seenshould come to me, and without a word, proceed to order supper and dry mytears with her handkerchief that I was rendered speechless, revolted andyet charmed. What I had done had been done so quickly that I seemed tohave obeyed some impulse of despair. Perhaps I was a fool or the victimof some supernal caprice. 

"Who are you?" I suddenly cried out; "what do you want of me? How do youknow who I am? Who told you to dry my tears? Is this your vocation and doyou think I desire you? I would not touch you with the tip of my finger. What are you doing here? Reply at once. Is it money you want? What pricedo you put on your pity?"

I arose and tried to go out, but my feet refused to support me. At thesame time my eyes failed me, a mortal weakness took possession of me andI fell over a chair. 

"You are not well, " she said, taking me by the arm, "you have drunk, likethe child that you are, without knowing what you were doing. Sit down inthis chair and wait until a cab passes. You will tell me where you liveand I will order the driver to take you home to your mother, since, " sheadded, "you really find me ugly. "

As she spoke I raised my eyes. Perhaps my drunkenness deceived me, orperhaps I had not seen her face clearly before, but suddenly I detectedin that unfortunate a fatal resemblance to my mistress. I shuddered atthe sight. There is a certain shudder that affects the hair; some say itis death passing over the head, but it was not death that passed overmine. 

It was the malady of the age, or rather that girl was it herself; and itwas she who, with her pale, half-mocking features, came and seatedherself before me near the door of the tavern. 

CHAPTER X

THE instant I noticed her resemblance to my mistress a frightful ideaoccurred to me; it took irresistible possession of my muddled mind and Iput it into execution at once. 

I took that girl home with me, I arranged my room just as I wasaccustomed to do when my mistress was with me. I was dominated by acertain recollection of past joys. 

Having arranged my room to my satisfaction I gave myself up to theintoxication of despair. I probed my heart to the bottom in order tosound its depths. A Tyrolean song that my mistress used to sing began torun through my head:

 Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch 'e rossa com' un flore; Ma ora no. Non son piu biele, Consumatis dal' amore. *

 * Once I was beautiful, white and rosy as a flower; but now I am not. I am no longer beautiful, consumed by the fire of love. 

I listened to the echo of that song as it reverberated through my heart. I said: "Behold the happiness of man; behold my little Paradise; beholdmy queen Mab, a girl from the streets. My mistress is no better. Beholdwhat is found at the bottom of the glass when the nectar of the gods hasbeen drained; behold the corpse of love. "

The unfortunate creature heard me singing and began to sing herself. Iturned pale; for that harsh and rasping voice, coming from the lips ofone who resembled my mistress, seemed to be a symbol of my experience. Itsounded like a gurgle in the throat of debauchery. It seemed to me thatmy mistress, having been unfaithful, must have such a voice. I wasreminded of Faust who, dancing at Brocken with a young sorceress, saw ared mouse come from her throat. 

"Stop!" I cried. I arose and approached her. 

Let me ask you, O, you men of the time, who are bent upon pleasure, whoattend the balls and the opera and who upon retiring this night will seekslumber with the aid of some threadbare blasphemy of old Voltaire, somesensible badinage of Paul Louis Courier, some essay on economics, you whodally with the cold substance of that monstrous water-lily that Reasonhas planted in the hearts of our cities; I beg of you, if by some chancethis obscure book falls into your hands, do not smile with noble disdain, do not shrug your shoulders; do not be too sure that I complain of animaginary evil; do not be too sure that human reason is the mostbeautiful of faculties, that there is nothing real here below butquotations on the Bourse, gambling in the salon, wine on the table, ahealthy body, indifference toward others, and the orgies, which come withthe night. 

For some day, across your stagnant life, a gust of wind will blow. Thosebeautiful trees that you water with the stream of oblivion, Providencewill destroy; you will be reduced to despair, messieurs the impassive, there will be tears in your eyes. I will not say that your mistresseswill deceive you; that would not grieve you so much as the loss of yourhorse; but I do tell you that you will lose on the Bourse; your moneyedtranquillity, your golden happiness are in the care of a banker who mayfail; in short I tell you, all frozen as you are, you are capable ofloving something; some fiber of your being will be torn and you will givevent to a cry that will resemble a moan of pain. Some day, wanderingabout the muddy streets, when daily material joys shall have failed, youwill find yourself seated disconsolately on a deserted bench at midnight. 

O! men of marble, sublime egoists, inimitable reasoners who have nevergiven way to despair or made a mistake in arithmetic, if this everhappens to you, at the hour of your ruin you will remember Abelard whenhe lost Heloise. For he loved her more than you love your horses, yourmoney or your mistresses; for he lost in losing her more than your princeSatan would lose in falling again from the battlements of Heaven; for heloved her with a certain love of which the gazettes do not speak, theshadow of which your wives and your daughters do not perceive in ourtheaters and in our books; for he passed half of his life kissing herwhite forehead, teaching her to sing the psalms of David and thecanticles of Saul; for he did not love her on earth alone; and Godconsoled him. 

Believe me, when in your distress you think of Abelard you will not lookwith the same eye upon the sweet blasphemy of Voltaire and the badinageof Courier; you will feel that the human reason can cure illusions butnot sorrows; that God has use for Reason but He has not made her thesister of Charity. You will find that when the heart of man said: "Ibelieve in nothing, for I see nothing, " it did not speak the last word onthe subject. You will look about you for something like hope, you willshake the doors of churches to see if they still swing, but you will findthem walled up; you will think of becoming Trappists, and destiny willmock at you and for reply give you a bottle of wine and a courtesan. 

And if you drink the wine, if you take the courtesan, you will havelearned how such things come about. 

 PART II

CHAPTER I

AWAKENING the next morning I experienced a feeling of such deep disgustwith myself, I felt so degraded in my own eyes that a horrible temptationassailed me. I leaped from bed and ordered the creature to leave my roomas quickly as possible. Then I sat down and looked gloomily about theroom, my eyes resting mechanically on a brace of pistols that decoratedthe walls. 

When the suffering mind advances its hands, so to speak, towardannihilation, when our soul forms a violent resolution, there seems to bean independent physical horror in the act of touching the cold steel ofsome deadly weapon; the fingers stiffen in anguish, the arm grows coldand hard. Nature recoils as the condemned walks to death. I can notexpress what I experienced while waiting for that girl to go, unless itwas as though my pistol had said to me "Think what you are about to do. "

Since then I have often wondered what would have happened to me if thegirl had departed immediately. Doubtless the first flush of shame wouldhave subsided; sadness is not despair, and God has joined them in orderthat one should not leave us alone with the other. Once relieved of thepresence of that woman, my heart would have become calm. There wouldremain only repentance, for the angel of pardon has forbidden man tokill. But I was doubtless cured for life; debauchery was once for alldriven from my door and I would never again know the feeling of disgustwith which its first visit had inspired me. 

But it happened otherwise. The struggle which was going on within, thepoignant reflections which overwhelmed me, the disgust, the fear, thewrath, even (for I experienced all these emotions at the same time), allthese fatal powers nailed me to my chair, and, while I was thus a prey tothe most dangerous delirium, the creature, standing before my mirror, thought of nothing but how best to arrange her dress and fix her hair, smiling the while. This lasted more than a quarter of an hour, duringwhich I had almost forgotten her. Finally, some slight noise attracted myattention to her, and turning about with impatience I ordered her toleave the room in such a tone that she at once opened the door and threwme a kiss before going out. 

At the same moment some one rang the bell of the outer door. I arosehastily and had only time to open the closet door and motion the creatureinto it when Desgenais entered the room with two friends. 

The great currents that are found in the middle of the ocean resemblecertain events in life. Fatality, Chance, Providence, what matters thename? Those who quarrel over the word, admit the fact. Such are not thosewho, speaking of Napoleon or Caesar, say: "He was a man of Providence. "They apparently believe that heroes merit the attention which Heavenshows them and that the color of purple attracts gods as well as bulls. 

What decides the course of these little events, what objects andcircumstances, in appearance the least important, lead to changes infortune, there is not, to my mind, a deeper abyss for the thought. Thereis something in our ordinary actions that resembles the little bluntedarrows we shoot at targets; little by little we make of our successiveresults an abstract and regular entity that we call our prudence or ourwill. Then a gust of wind passes, and behold the smallest of thesearrows, the very lightest and most futile, is carried beyond our vision, beyond the horizon, to the dwelling-place of God himself. 

What a strange feeling of unrest seizes us then! What becomes of thosefantoms of tranquil pride, the will and prudence? Force itself, thatmistress of the world, that sword of man in the combat of life, in vaindo we brandish it over our heads in wrath, in vain do we seek to ward offwith it a blow which threatens us; an invisible power turns aside thepoint, and all the impetus of our effort, deflected into space, servesonly to precipitate our fall. 

Thus at the moment I was hoping to cleanse myself from the sin I hadcommitted, perhaps to inflict the penalty, at the very instant when agreat horror had taken possession of me, I learned that I had to sustaina dangerous intervention. 

Desgenais was in good humor; stretching out on my sofa he began to chaffme about the appearance of my face which looked, he said, as though I hadnot slept well. As I was little disposed to indulge in pleasantry Ibegged him to spare me. 

He appeared to pay no attention to me, but warned by my tone he soonbroached the subject that had brought him to me. He informed me that mymistress had not only two lovers at a time, but three, that is to say shehad treated my rival as badly as she had treated me; the poor boy havingdiscovered her inconstancy made a great ado and all Paris knew it. Atfirst I did not catch the meaning of Desgenais' words as I was notlistening attentively; but when he had repeated his story three times indetail I was so stupefied that I could not reply. My first impulse was tolaugh, for I saw that I had loved the most unworthy of women; but it wasno less true that I loved her still. "Is it possible?" was all I couldsay. 

Desgenais' friends confirmed all he had said. My mistress had beensurprised in her own house between two lovers, and a scene that all Parisknew by heart ensued. She was disgraced, obliged to leave Paris or remainexposed to the most bitter taunts. 

It was easy for me to see that in all, the ridicule expended on thesubject of this woman, on my unreasonable passion for her, waspremeditated. To say that she deserved severest censure, that she hadperhaps committed worse sins than those with which she was charged, thatwas to make me feel that I had been merely one of her dupes. 

All that did not please me; but Desgenais had undertaken the task ofcuring me of my love and was prepared to treat my disease heroically. Along friendship founded on mutual services gave him rights, and as hismotive appeared praiseworthy I allowed him to have his way. 

Not only did he not spare me, but when he saw my trouble and my shameincrease, he pressed me the harder. My impatience was so obvious that hecould not continue, so he stopped and remained silent, a course thatirritated me still more. 

In my turn I began to ask questions; I paced to and fro in my room. Although the recital of that story was insupportable, I wanted to hear itagain. I tried to assume a smiling face and tranquil air, but in vain. Desgenais suddenly became silent after having shown himself to be a mostvirulent gossip. While I was pacing up and down my room he looked at mecalmly as though I was a caged fox. 

I can not express my feeling. A woman who had so long been the idol of myheart and who, since I had lost her, had caused me such deep affliction, the only one I had ever loved, she for whom I would weep till death, become suddenly a shameless wretch, the subject of coarse jests, ofuniversal censure and scandal! It seemed to me that I felt on my shoulderthe impression of a heated iron and that I was marked with a burningstigma. 

The more I reflected, the more the darkness thickened about me. From timeto time I turned my head and saw a cold smile or a curious glance. Desgenais did not leave me, he knew very well what he was doing, he knewthat I might go to any length in my present desperate condition. 

When he found that he had brought me to the desired point he did nothesitate to deal the finishing stroke. 

"Does that story displease you?" he asked. "The best is yet to come. Mydear Octave, the scene I have described took place on a certain nightwhen the moon was shining brightly; while the two lovers were quarrelingover their fair one and talking of cutting her throat as she sat beforethe fire, down in the street a certain shadow was seen to pass up anddown before the house, a shadow that resembled you so closely that it wasdecided that it must be you. "

"Who says that, " I asked, "who has seen me in the street?"

"Your mistress herself; she has told every one about it who cared tolisten, just as cheerfully as we tell you her story. She claims that youlove her still, that you keep guard at her door, in short--everything youcan think of; but you should know that she talks about you publicly. "

I have never been able to lie, for whenever I have tried to disguise thetruth my face betrayed me. Amour propre, the shame of confessing myweakness before witnesses induced me, however, to make the effort. "It isvery true that I was in the street, " I thought, "but if I had known thatmy mistress was as bad as she was, I would not have been there. "

Finally I persuaded myself that I had not been seen distinctly; Iattempted to deny it. A deep blush suffused my face and I felt thefutility of my feint. Desgenais smiled. 

"Take care, " said he, "take care, do not go too far. "

"But, " I protested, "how did I know it, how could I know--"

Desgenais compressed his lips as though to say:

"You knew enough. "

I stopped short, mumbling the remnant of my sentence. My blood became sohot that I could not continue. 

"I, in the street bathed in tears, in despair; and during that time thatencounter within! What! that very night! Mocked by her! Surely Desgenaisyou are dreaming. Is it true? Can it be possible? What do you know aboutit?"

Thus talking at random, I lost my head, and an irresistible feeling ofwrath began to rise within me. Finally I sat down exhausted. 

"My friend, " said Desgenais, "do not take the thing so seriously. Thesolitary life you have been leading for the last two months has made youill, I see you have need of distraction. Come to supper with me thisevening, and to-morrow morning we will go to the country. "

The tone in which he said this hurt me more than anything else; in vain Itried to control myself. "Yes, " I thought, "deceived by that woman, poisoned by horrible suggestions, having no refuge either in work or infatigue, having for my only safeguard against despair and ruin, a sacredbut frightful grief. O God! it is that grief, that sacred relic of mysorrow that has just crumbled in my hands! It is no longer my love, it ismy despair that is insulted. Mockery! She mocks at me as I weep!" Thatappeared incredible to me. All the memories of the past clustered aboutmy heart when I thought of it. I seemed to see, one after the other, thespecters of our nights of love; they hung over a bottomless eternalabyss, black as chaos, and from the bottom of that abyss there burstforth a shriek of laughter, sweet but mocking, that said: "Behold yourreward!"

If I had been told that the world mocked at me I would have replied: "Somuch the worse for it, " and I would not be angry; but at the same time Iwas told that my mistress was a shameless wretch. Thus, on one side, theridicule was public, vouched for, stated by two witnesses who, beforetelling what they knew, must have felt that the world was against me;and, on the other hand, what reply could I make? How could I escape? Whatcould I do when the center of my life, my heart itself, was ruined, killed, annihilated. What could I say when that woman for whom I hadbraved all, ridicule as well as blame, for whom I had borne a mountain ofmisery, when that woman whom I loved and who loved another, of whom Idemanded no love, of whom I desired nothing but permission to weep at herdoor, no favor but that of vowing my youth to her memory and writing hername, her name alone, on the tomb of my hopes! Ah! when I thought of it, I felt the hand of death heavy upon me; that woman mocked me, it was shewho first pointed her finger at me, singling me out to the idle crowdwhich surrounded her; it was she, it was those lips so many times pressedto mine, it was that body, that soul of my life, my flesh and my blood, it was from that source the injury came; yes, the last of all, the mostcowardly and the most bitter, the pitiless laugh that spits in the faceof grief. 

The more I thought of it the more enraged I became. Did I say enraged? Ido not know what passion controlled me. What I do know is that aninordinate desire for vengeance took possession of me. How could Irevenge myself on a woman? I would have paid any price for a weapon thatcould be used against her. But I had none, not even the one she hademployed; I could not pay her in her own coin. 

Suddenly I noticed a shadow moving behind the curtain before the closet. I had forgotten her. 

"Listen to me!" I cried, rising. "I have loved, I have loved like a fool. I deserve all the ridicule you have subjected me to. But, by Heaven! Iwill show you something that will prove to you that I am not such a foolas you think. "

With these words I pulled aside the curtain and exposed the interior ofthe closet. The girl was trying to conceal herself in a corner. 

"Go in, if you choose, " I said to Desgenais; "you who call me a fool forloving a woman, see how your teaching has affected me. Do you think Ipassed last night under the windows of -----? But that is not all, " Iadded, "that is not all I have to say. You give a supper to-night, andto-morrow go to the country; I am with you, and shall not leave you fromnow on. We shall not separate, but pass the entire day together. Are youwith me? Agreed! I have tried to make of my heart the mausoleum of mylove, but I will bury my love in another tomb. "

With these words I sat down, marveling how indignation can solace griefand restore happiness. Whoever is astonished to learn that from that dayI completely changed my course of life does not know the heart of man, and he does not understand that a young man of twenty may hesitate beforetaking a step, but does not retreat when he has once taken it. 

CHAPTER II

THE apprenticeship to debauchery resembles vertigo, for one feels atfirst a sort of terror mingled with sensuous delight as though peeringdown from some dizzy height. While shameful secret dissipation ruins thenoblest of men, in frank and open irregularities there is some palliationeven for the most depraved. He who goes at nightfall, muffled in hiscloak, to sully his life incognito, and to clandestinely shake off thehypocrisy of the day, resembles an Italian who strikes his enemy frombehind, not daring to provoke him to open quarrel. There areassassinations in the dark corners of the city under shelter of thenight. He who goes his way without concealment says: "Every one does itand conceals it; I do it and do not conceal it. " Thus speaks pride, andonce that cuirass has been buckled on, it glitters with the refulgentlight of day. 

It is said that Damocles saw a sword suspended over his head. Thuslibertines seem to have something over their heads which says "Go on, butI hold the thread. " Those masked carriages that are seen during carnivalare the faithful images of their life. A dilapidated open wagon, flamingtorches lighting up painted faces; such laugh and sing. Among them yousee what appears to be women; they are in fact the remains of women, withhuman semblance. They are caressed and insulted; no one knows who theyare or what their names. All that floats and staggers under the flamingtorch in an intoxication that thinks of nothing, and over which, it issaid, a god watches. 

But if the first impression is astonishment, the second is horror, andthe third pity. There is displayed there so much force, or rather such anabuse of force, that it often happens that the noblest characters and thestrongest constitutions are ruined. It appears hardy and dangerous tothese; they would make prodigies of themselves; they bind themselves todebauchery as did Mazeppa to his horse; they gallop, they make Centaursof themselves, and they see neither the bloody trail that the shreds oftheir flesh leave, nor the eyes of the wolves that gleam in hungrypursuit, nor the desert, nor the vultures. 

Launched into that life by the circumstances that I have recounted, Imust now describe what I saw there. 

The first time I had a close view of one of those famous gatheringscalled theatrical masked balls I heard the debauchery of the Regencyspoken of, and the time when a queen of France was disguised as a flowermerchant. I found there flower merchants disguised as camp-followers. Iexpected to find libertinism there, but in fact I found none at all. Itis only the scum of libertinism, some blows and drunken women lying indeathlike stupor on broken bottles. 

The first time I saw debauchery at table I heard of the suppers ofHeliogabalus and of the philosophy of Greece which made the pleasure ofthe senses a kind of religion of nature. I expected to find oblivion orsomething like joy; I found there the worst thing in the world, ennuitrying to live, and an Englishman who said: "I do this or that, thereforeI amuse myself. I have spent so many pieces of gold, therefore Iexperience so much pleasure. " And they wear out their life on thatgrindstone. 

The first time I saw courtesans I heard of Aspasia who sat on the kneesof Alcibiades while discussing philosophy with Socrates. I expected tofind something bold and insolent, but gay, free, and vivacious, somethingof the sparkle of champagne; I found a yawning mouth, a fixed eye andhooked hands. 

The first time I saw titled courtesans I read Boccaccio and Andallo;tasting of everything, I read Shakespeare. I had dreamed of thosebeautiful triflers; of those cherubim of hell. A thousand times I haddrawn those heads so poetically foolish, so enterprising in audacity, heads of harebrained mistresses who spoil a romance with a glance and whowalk through life by waves and by shocks like the undulating sirens; Ithought of the fairies of the modern tales who are always drunk with loveif not with wine. I found, instead, writers of letters, arrangers ofprecise hours who practise lying as an art and cloak their baseness underhypocrisy, whose only thought is to give themselves and forget. 

The first time I looked on the gaming table I heard of floods of gold, offortunes made in the quarter of an hour, and of a lord of the court ofHenry IV who won on one card a hundred thousand _louis_. I found a narrowroom where workmen who had but one shirt, rented a suit for the eveningfor twenty _sous_, police stationed at the door and starving wretchesstaking a crust of bread against a pistol-shot. 

The first time I saw an assembly, public or other, open to one of thosethirty thousand women who are permitted to sell themselves in Paris, Iheard of the saturnalia of all times, of every imaginable orgy, fromBabylon to Rome, from the temple of Priapus to the _Parc-aux-Cerfs_, andI have always seen written on the sill of that door the word, "Pleasure. "I found nothing suggestive of pleasure but in its place the word, "Prostitution;" and it has always appeared ineffaceable, not graven inthat metal that takes the sun's light, but in the palest of all, that ofthe cold light whose colors seem tinted by the somber hues of night, silver. 

The first time I saw the people--it was a frightful morning of AshWednesday, near Courtille. A cold fine rain had been falling since theevening before; the streets were covered with pools of water. Maskedcarriages filed hither and thither, crowding between hedges of hideousmen and women standing on the sidewalks. That sinister wall of spectatorshad tiger eyes, red with wine, gleaming with hatred. The carriage wheelssplashed mud over this wall, but it did not move. I was standing on thefront seat of an open carriage; from time to time a man in rags wouldstep out from the wall, hurl a torrent of abuse at us, then cover us witha cloud of flour. Mud would soon follow; yet we kept on our way towardthe Isle of Love and the pretty wood of Romainville consecrated by somany sweet kisses. One of my friends fell from his seat into the mud, narrowly escaping death on the paving. The people threw themselves on himto overpower him and we were obliged to hasten to his assistance. One ofthe trumpeters who preceded us on horseback was struck on the shoulder bya paving stone; the flour had given out. I had never heard of anythinglike that. 

I began to understand the time and comprehend the spirit of the age. 

CHAPTER III

DESGENAIS had planned a reunion of young people at his country house. Thebest wines, a splendid table, gaming, dancing, hunting, nothing waslacking. Desgenais was rich and generous. He combined antique hospitalitywith modern custom. Moreover one could always find in his house the bestbooks; his conversation was that of a man of learning and culture. He wasa problem. 

I took with me a taciturn humor that nothing could overcome; he respectedit scrupulously. I did not reply to his questions and he dropped thesubject; he was satisfied that I had forgotten my mistress. Nevertheless, I went to the chase and appeared at the table and was as convivial as thebest; he asked no more. 

One of the most unfortunate proclivities of inexperienced youth is tojudge of the world from first impressions; but it must be confessed thatthere is a race of men who are very unfortunate; it is that race whichsays to youth: "You are right in believing in evil, and we know what itis. " I have heard, for example, a curious thing spoken of, a mediumbetween good and evil, a certain arrangement between heartless women andmen worthy of them; they call love the passing sentiment. They speak ofit as of an engine constructed by a wagon builder or a buildingcontractor. They said to me: "This and that are agreed upon, such andsuch phrases are spoken and certain others are repeated in reply; lettersare written in a prescribed manner, the knees adjusted in a certainattitude. " All that was regulated as a parade; these fine fellows hadgray hair. 

That made me laugh. Unfortunately for me I can not tell a woman whom Idespise that I love her, even when I know that it is only a conventionand that she will not be deceived by it. I have never bent my knee to theground when my heart did not go with it. So that class of women known aseasy is unknown to me, or if I allow myself to be taken with them, it iswithout knowing it, and through simplicity. 

I can understand that one's soul can be put aside but not that it shouldbe handled. That there is some pride in this, I confess, but I do notintend either to boast or to lower myself. Above all things I hate thosewomen who laugh at love and I permit them to reciprocate the sentiment;there will never be any dispute between us. 

Such women are beneath the courtesans, for courtesans may lie as well asthey; but courtesans are capable of love and those women are not. Iremember a woman who loved me and who said to a man many times richerthan I with whom she was living: "I am weary of you, I am going to mylover. " That woman is worth more than many others who are not despised bysociety. 

I passed the entire season with Desgenais, and learned that my mistresshad left France; that news left in my heart a feeling of languor which Icould not overcome. 

At the sight of that world which surrounded me, so new to me, Iexperienced at first a kind of bizarre curiosity, at once sad andprofound, that caused me to look at things as does a restless horse. Anincident occurred which made a deep impression on me. 

Desgenais had with him a very beautiful mistress who loved him much. Oneevening as I was walking with him I told him that I considered her suchas she was, that is to say, admirable, as much on account of herattachment for him as because of her beauty. In short, I praised herhighly and with warmth, giving him to understand that he ought to behappy. 

He made no reply. It was his manner, for he was the driest of men. Thatnight when all had retired and I had been in bed some fifteen minutes Iheard a knock at my door. I supposed it was some one of my friends whocould not sleep and invited him to enter. 

There appeared before my astonished eyes a woman, very pale, carrying abouquet in her hands to which was attached a piece of paper bearing thesewords: "To Octave, from his friend Desgenais. "

I had no sooner read these words when a flash of light came to me. Iunderstood the meaning of this action of Desgenais in making me thisTurk's gift. It was intended for a lesson in love. That woman loved him, I had praised her and he wished to tell me that I ought not to love her, whether I refused her or accepted her. 

That made me think. The poor woman was weeping and did not dare dry hertears for fear I would see them. What threat had he used to make hercome? I did not know. I said to her:

"You may return and fear nothing. "

She replied that if she should return Desgenais would send her back toParis. 

"Yes, " I replied, "you are beautiful and I am susceptible to temptation;but you weep, and your tears not being shed for me, I care nothing forthe rest. Go, therefore, and I will see to it that you are not sent backto Paris. "

One of my peculiarities is that meditation, which with the great numberis a firm and constant quality of the mind, is in my case an instinctindependent of the will and it seizes me like an access of passion. Itcomes to me at intervals in its own good time, in spite of me and inalmost any place. But when it comes I can do nothing against it. It takesme whither it pleases by whatever route seems good to it. 

When the woman had left, I sat up. 

"My friend, " I said to myself, "behold what has been sent you. IfDesgenais had not seen fit to send you his mistress he would not havebeen mistaken, perhaps, in supposing that you might fall in love withher. 

"Have you well considered it? A sublime and divine mystery isaccomplished. Such a being costs nature the most vigilant maternal care;yet man who would cure you, can think of nothing better than to offer youlips which belong to him in order to teach you how to cease to love. 

"How was it accomplished? Others than you have doubtless admired her, butthey ran no risk. She might employ all the seduction she pleased; youalone were in danger. 

"It must be that Desgenais has a heart, since he lives. In what respectdoes he differ from you? He is a man who believes in nothing, fearsnothing, who knows no care or ennui, perhaps, and yet it is clear that ascratch on the finger would fill him with terror, for if his bodyabandons him, what becomes of him? He lives only in the body. What sortof creature is that who treats his soul as the flagellants treat theirbodies? Can one live without a head?

"Think of it. Here is a man who possesses the most beautiful woman in theworld; he is young and ardent; he finds her beautiful and tells her so;she replies that she loves him. Some one touches him on the shoulder andsays to him 'She is unfaithful. ' Nothing more, he is sure of himself. Ifsome one had said: 'She is a poisoner, ' he would, perhaps, have continuedto love her, he would not have given her a kiss less; but she isunfaithful and it is no more a question of love with him than of the starof Saturn. 

"What is there in that word? A word that is merited, positive, withering, it is agreed. But why? It is still but a word. Can you kill a body with aword?

"And if you love that body? Some one pours a glass of wine and says toyou: 'Do not love that, for you can get four for six francs. ' And if youbecome intoxicated?

"But that Desgenais loves his mistress, since he keeps her; he must, therefore, have a peculiar fashion of loving? No, he has not; his fashionof loving is not love, and he cares no more for the woman who meritsaffection than for her who is unworthy. He loves no one, simply andtruly. 

"What has led him to that? Was he born thus? To love is as natural as toeat and to drink. He is not a man. Is he a dwarf or a giant? What! alwaysthat impassive body? Upon what does he feed, what brew does he drink?Behold him at thirty as old as the senile Mithridates; the poisons ofvipers are his familiar friends. 

"There is the great secret, my child, the key to which you must seize. Bywhatever process of reasoning debauchery may be defended, it will beproven that it is natural at a given day, hour or evening, but notto-morrow nor every day. There is not a people on earth which has notconsidered woman either the companion and consolation of man or thesacred instrument of life, and has not under these two forms honored her. And yet here is an armed warrior who leaps into the abyss that God hasdug with his own hands between man and brute; as well might he deny thefact. What mute Titian is this who dares repress under the kisses of thebody the love of the thought, and place on human lips the stigma of thebrute, the seal of eternal silence?

"There is a word that should be studied. There breathes under the wind ofthose dismal forests that are called secrets of the body, one of thosemysteries that the angels of destruction whisper in the ear of night asit descends upon the earth. That man is better or worse than God has madehim. His bowels are like those of sterile women, where nature has notcompleted her work, or there is distilled in the shadow some venomouspoison. 

"Ah! yes, neither occupation nor study have been able to cure you, myfriend. To forget and to learn, that is your device. You finger theleaves of dead books; you are too young for ruins. Look about you, thepale herd of men surrounds you. The eyes of the sphinx glitter in themidst of divine hieroglyphics; decipher the book of life! Courage, scholar, launch out on the Styx, the invulnerable flood, and let thewaves of sorrow waft you to death or to God. "

CHAPTER IV

"ALL there was of good in that, supposing there was some good in it, wasthat false pleasures were the seeds of sorrow and of bitterness whichfatigued me to the point of exhaustion. " Such are the simple words spokenwith reference to his youth by that man who was the most a man of any whohave lived, Saint Augustine. Of those who have done as I, few would saythose words, all have them in their hearts; I have found no others inmine. 

Returning to Paris in the month of December I passed the winter attendingpleasure parties, masquerades, suppers, rarely leaving Desgenais, who wasdelighted with me; I was not with him. The more I went about, the moreunhappy I became. It seemed to me after a short enough time, that theworld, which had at first appeared so strange, would tie me up, so tospeak, at every step; where I had expected to see a specter, Idiscovered, upon closer inspection, a shadow. 

Desgenais asked what was the matter with me. 

"And you?" I asked. "What is the matter with you? You have lost somerelative? Or do you suffer from some wound?"

At times he seemed to understand me and did not question me. We sat downbefore a table and drank until we lost our heads; in the middle of thenight we took horses and rode ten or twelve leagues into the country;returning we went to the bath, then to table, then to gambling, then tobed; and when I reached mine, I fell on my knees and wept. That was myevening prayer. 

Strange to say, I took pride in passing for what I was not, I boasted ofbeing worse than I really was, and experienced a sort of melancholypleasure in doing so. When I had actually done what I claimed, I feltnothing but ennui, but when I invented an account of some folly, somestory of debauchery or recital of an orgy with which I had nothing to do, it seemed to me that my heart was better satisfied, although I know notwhy. 

Whenever I joined a party of pleasure-seekers and we visited some spotmade sacred by tender associations I became stupid, went off by myself, looked gloomily at the trees and bushes as though I would like to crushthem under my feet. Upon my return I would remain silent for hours. 

The baleful idea that truth is nudity beset me on every occasion. 

"The world, " I said to myself, "is accustomed to call his disguisevirtue, his chaplet religion, his flowing mantle convenience. Honor andMorality are his chamber-maids; he drinks in his wine the tears of thepoor in spirit who believe in him; while the sun is high in the heavenshe walks about with downcast eye; he goes to church, to the ball, to theassembly, and when evening has come he removes his mantle and thereappears a naked bacchante with hoofs of a goat. "

But such thoughts aroused a feeling of horror, for I felt that if thebody was under the clothing, the skeleton was under the body. "Is itpossible that that is all?" I asked in spite of myself. Then I returnedto the city, I saw a little girl take her mother's arm and I became likea child. 

Although I had followed my friends into all manner of dissipation, I hadno desire to resume my place in the world of society. The sight of womencaused me intolerable pain; I could not touch a woman's hand withouttrembling. I had decided never to love again. 

Nevertheless I returned from the ball one evening so sick at heart that Ifeared that it was love. I happened to have beside me at supper the mostcharming and the most distinguished woman whom it had ever been my goodfortune to meet. When I closed my eyes to sleep I saw her image beforeme. I thought I was lost, and I at once resolved that I would avoidmeeting her again. A sort of fever seized me and I lay on my bed forfifteen days, repeating over and over the lightest words I had exchangedwith her. 

As there is no spot on earth where one is so well known by his neighborsas at Paris, it was not long before people of my acquaintance who hadseen me with Desgenais began to accuse me of being a great libertine. Inthat I admired the discernment of the world: in proportion as I hadpassed for inexperienced and sensitive at the time of my rupture with mymistress, I was now considered insensible and hardened. Some one had justtold me that it was clear I had never loved that woman, that I haddoubtless merely played at love, thereby paying me a compliment which Ireally did not deserve; but the most of it was that I was so swollen withvanity that I was charmed with that view. 

My desire was to pass for blase, even while I was filled with desires andmy exalted imagination was carrying me beyond all limits. I began to saythat I could not make any headway with the women; my head was filled withchimeras which I preferred to realities. In short, my unique pleasureconsisted in altering the nature of facts. If a thought were butextraordinary, if it shocked common sense, I became its ardent championat the risk of advocating the most dangerous sentiments. 

My greatest fault was imitation of everything that struck me, not by itsbeauty but by its strangeness, and not wishing to confess myself animitator I resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original. According to my idea nothing was good or even tolerable; nothing wasworth the trouble of turning the head, and yet when I had become warmedup in a discussion it seemed as if there was no expression in the Frenchlanguage violent enough to sustain my cause; but my warmth would subsideas soon as my opponents ranged themselves on my side. 

It was a natural consequence of my conduct. Although disgusted with thelife I was leading I was unwilling to change it:

 Simigliante a quella 'nferma Che non puo trovar posa in su le piume, Ma con dar volta suo dolore scherma. --DANTE. 

Thus I tortured my mind to give it change and I fell into all thesevagaries in order to get out of myself. 

But while my vanity was thus occupied, my heart was suffering, so thatthere was always within me a man who laughed and a man who wept. It was aperpetual counter-stroke between my head and my heart. My own mockeriesfrequently caused me great pain and my deepest sorrows aroused a desireto burst into laughter. 

One day a man boasted of being proof against superstitious fears, infact, fear of every kind; his friends put a human skeleton in his bed andthen concealed themselves in an adjoining room to wait for his return. They did not hear any noise, but in the morning they found him dressedand sitting on the bed playing with the bones; he had lost his reason. 

There would be in me something that resembled that man but for the factthat my favorite bones were those of a well-beloved skeleton; they werethe debris of my love, all that remained of the past. 

But it must not be supposed that there were no good moments in all thisdisorder. Among Desgenais's companions were several young men ofdistinction, a number of artists. We sometimes passed together delightfulevenings under pretext of being libertines. One of them was infatuatedwith a beautiful singer who charmed us with her fresh and melancholyvoice. How many times we sat listening while supper was served andwaiting! How many times, when the flagons had been emptied, one of usheld a volume of Lamartine and read in a voice choked by emotion! Everyother thought disappeared. The hours passed by unheeded. What strangelibertines we were! We did not speak a word and there were tears in oureyes. 

Desgenais especially, habitually the coldest and driest of men, wasinexplicable on such occasions; he delivered himself of suchextraordinary sentiments that he might have been considered a poet indelirium. But after these effusions he would be seized with furious joy. He would break everything within reach when warmed by wine; the genius ofdestruction stalked forth armed to the teeth. I have seen him pick up achair and hurl it through a closed window. 

I could not help making a study of that singular man. He appeared to methe marked type of a class which ought to exist somewhere but which wasunknown to me. One could never tell whether his outbursts were thedespair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a spoiled child. 

During the fete, in particular, he was in such a state of nervousexcitation that he acted like a schoolboy. He persuaded me to go out onfoot with him one day, muffled in grotesque costumes, with masks andinstruments of music. We promenaded gravely all night, in the midst of amost frightful din of horrible sounds. We found a driver asleep on hisbox and unhitched his horses; then pretending we had just come from theball, set up a great cry. The coachman started up, cracked his whip andhis horses started off on a trot, leaving him seated on the box. The sameevening we passed through the Champs Elysees; Desgenais, seeing anothercarriage passing, stopped it after the manner of a highwayman; heintimidated the coachman by threats and forced him to climb down and lieflat on his stomach. He then opened the carriage door and found within ayoung man and lady motionless with fright. Whispering to me to imitatehim, we began to enter one door and go out the other, so that in theobscurity the poor young people thought they saw a procession of banditsgoing through their carriage. 

As I understand it, the men who say that the world gives experience oughtto be astonished if they are believed. The world is merely a number ofwhirlpools, each one whirling independent of the others; they float aboutin groups like flocks of birds. There is no resemblance between thedifferent quarters of the same city, and the denizen of the Chauseed'Antin has as much to learn at Marais as at Lisbon. It is true thatthese whirlpools are traversed, and have been since the beginning of theworld, by seven personages who are always the same: the first is calledhope; the second, conscience; the third, opinion; the fourth, desire; thefifth, sorrow; the sixth, pride; and the seventh, man. 

We were, therefore, my companions and I, a flock of birds, and weremained together until springtime, sometimes singing, sometimes flying. 

"But, " the reader objects, "where are the women in all this? I seenothing of debauchery here. "

O! creatures who bear the name of women and who have passed like dreamsthrough a life that was itself a dream, what shall I say of you? Wherethere is no shadow of hope can there be memory? Where shall I seek formemory's meed? What is there more dumb in human memory? What is theremore completely forgotten than you?

If I must speak of women I will mention two; here is one of them:

I ask what would be expected of a poor sewing-girl, young and pretty, about eighteen, with a romantic affair on her hands that is purely aquestion of love; with little knowledge of life and no idea of morals;eternally sewing near a window before which processions were not allowedto pass, by order of the police, but near which a dozen women prowled whowere licensed and recognized by these same police; what could you expectof her, when, after having tired her hands and eyes all day long on adress or a hat, she leans out of that window as night falls? That dressshe has sewed, that hat she has trimmed with her poor and honest hands inorder to earn a supper for the household, she sees passing along thestreet on the head or on the body of a public woman. Thirty times a day ahired carriage stops before the door and there steps out a prostitute, numbered as is the hack in which she rides, who stands before a glass andprimps, taking off and putting on the results of many days' work on thepart of the poor girl who watches her. She sees that woman draw from herpocket six pieces of gold, she who has but one a week; she looks at herfeet and her head, she examines her dress, and eyes her as she steps intoher carriage; and then, what could you expect? When night has fallen, after a day when work has been scarce, when her mother is sick, she opensher door, stretches out her hand and stops a passer-by. 

Such was the story of a girl I have known. She could play the piano, knewsomething of accounts, a little designing, even a little history andgrammar, and thus a little of everything. How many times have I regardedwith poignant compassion that sad sketch made by nature and mutilated bysociety! How many times have I followed in the darkness the pale andvacillating gleam of a spark flickering in abortive life! How many timeshave I tried to revive the fire that smoldered under those ashes! Alas!her long hair was the color of ashes and we called her Cendrillon. 

I was not rich enough to help her; Desgenais, at my request, interestedhimself in the poor creature; he made her learn over again all of whichshe had a slight knowledge. But she could make no appreciable progress. When her teacher left her she would fold her arms and for hours looksilently across the public square. What days! What misery! One day Ithreatened that if she did not work she should have no money; shesilently resumed her task and I learned that she stole out of the house afew minutes later. Where did she go? God knows. Before she left I askedher to embroider a purse for me. I still have that sad relic, it hangs inmy room a monument of the ruin that is wrought here below. 

But here is another case:

It was about ten in the evening when, after a riotous day, we repaired toDesgenais, who had left us some hours before to make his preparations. The orchestra was ready and the room filled when we arrived. 

Most of the dancers were girls from the theaters. As soon as we entered Iplunged into the giddy whirl of the waltz. That delightful exercise hasalways been dear to me; I know of nothing more beautiful, more worthy ofa beautiful woman and a young man; all dances compared with the waltz arebut insipid conventions or pretexts for insignificant converse. It istruly to possess a woman, in a certain sense, to hold her for a half hourin your arms, and to draw her on in the dance, palpitating in spite ofherself, in such a way that it can not be positively asserted whether sheis being protected or seduced. Some deliver themselves up to the pleasurewith such modest voluptuousness, with such sweet and pure abandon thatone does not know whether he experiences desire or fear, and whether, ifpressed to the heart they would faint or break in pieces like the rose. Germany, where that dance was invented, is surely the land of love. 

I held in my arms a superb danseuse from an Italian theater who had cometo Paris for the carnival; she wore the costume of a bacchante, with adress of panther's skin. Never have I seen anything so languishing asthat creature. She was tall and slender, and while dancing with extremerapidity, had the appearance of allowing herself to be led; to see herone would think that she would tire her partner, but such was not thecase, for she moved as though by enchantment. 

On her bosom rested an enormous bouquet, the perfume of which intoxicatedme. She yielded to my encircling arms as does the Indian liana, with agentleness so sweet and so sympathetic that I seemed surrounded with aperfumed veil of silk. At each turn there could be heard a light tinklingfrom her metal girdle; she moved so gracefully that I thought I beheld abeautiful star, and her smile was that of a fairy about to vanish fromhuman sight. The tender and voluptuous music of the dance seemed to comefrom her lips, while her head, covered with a wilderness of blacktresses, bent backward as though her neck was too slender to support itsweight. 

When the waltz was over I threw myself on a chair; my heart beat wildly. "O, Heaven!" I murmured, "how can it be possible! O, superb monster! O, beautiful reptile! How you writhe, how you coil in and out, sweet adder, with supple and spotted skin! Thy cousin the serpent has taught thee tocoil about the tree of life, holding between thy lips the apple oftemptation. O, Melusina! Melusina! The hearts of men are thine. You knowit well, enchantress, with your soft languor that seems to suspectnothing! You know very well that you ruin, that you destroy, you knowthat he who touches you will suffer; you know that he dies who basks inyour smile, who breathes the perfume of your flowers and comes under themagic influence of your charms; that is why you abandon yourself sofreely, that is why your smile is so sweet, your flowers so fresh; thatis why you so gently place your arms on our shoulders. O, Heaven! what isyour will with us?"

Professor Halle has said a terrible thing: "Woman is the nervous part ofhumanity, man the muscular. " Humboldt himself, that serious thinker, hassaid that an invisible atmosphere surrounds the human nerves. I do notquote the dreamers who watch the flight of Spallanzani's bat, and whothink they have found a sixth sense in nature. Such as nature is, hermysteries are terrible enough, her powers mighty enough, that naturewhich creates us, mocks at us, and kills us, without deepening theshadows that surround us. But where is the man who has lived who willdeny woman's power over us, if he has ever taken leave of a beautifuldancer with trembling hands. If he has ever felt that indefinableenervating magnetism which, in the midst of the dance, under theinfluence of the sound of music, and the warmth that makes all else seemcold, that comes from a young woman, that electrifies her and leaps fromher to him as the perfume of aloes from the swinging censer? I was struckwith stupor. I was familiar with a certain sensation similar todrunkenness, which characterizes love; I knew that it was the aureolewhich crowned the well-beloved. But that she should excite suchheart-throbs, that she should evoke such fantoms with nothing but herbeauty, her flowers, her motley costume, and a certain trick of turningshe had learned from some merry-andrew; and that without a word, withouta thought, without even appearing to know it! What was chaos if itrequired seven days to transform it?

It was not love, however, that I felt, and I do not know how to describeit unless I call it thirst. For the first time I felt vibrating in mybody a cord that was not attuned to my heart. The sight of that beautifulanimal had aroused a responsive roar from another animal in my bowels. Ifelt sure I would never tell that woman that I loved her or that shepleased me or even that she was beautiful; there was nothing on my lipsbut a desire to kiss her, and say to her: "Make a girdle of thoselistless arms and lean that head on my breast; place that sweet smile onmy lips. " My body loved hers, I was under the influence of beauty as ofwine. 

Desgenais passed and asked what I was doing there. 

"Who is that woman?" I asked. 

"What woman? Of whom do you speak?" I took his arm and led him into thehall. The Italian saw us coming and smiled. I stopped and stepped back. 

"Ah!" said Desgenais, "you have danced with Marco?"

"Who is Marco?" I asked. 

"Why, that idle creature who is laughing over there. Does she pleaseyou?"

"No, " I replied, "I have waltzed with her and wanted to know her name; Ihave no further interest in her. "

Shame led me to speak thus, but when Desgenais turned away I followedhim. 

"You are very prompt, " he said, "Marco is no ordinary woman. She wasalmost the wife of M. De -----, ambassador to Milan. One of his friendsbrought her here. Yet, " he added, "you may rest assured I shall speak toher. We shall not allow you to die so long as there is any hope for youor any resource left untried. It is possible that she will remain tosupper. "

He left me, and I was alarmed to see him approach her. But they were soonlost in the crowd. 

"Is it possible, " I murmured, "have I come to this? O, heavens! is thiswhat I am going to love? But after all, " I thought, "my senses havespoken, but not my heart. "

Thus I tried to calm myself. A few minutes later Desgenais tapped me onthe shoulder. 

"We shall go to supper at once, " said he. "You will give your arm toMarco; she knows that she has pleased you and it is all arranged. "

"Listen, " I said; "I hardly know what I experienced. It seems to me I seelimping Vulcan covering Venus with kisses while his beard smokes with thefumes of the forge. He fixes his affrighted eyes on the dazzling skin ofhis prey. His happiness in the possession of his prize causes him tolaugh for joy, and at the same time shudder with happiness, and then heremembers his father, Jupiter, who is seated up on high among the gods. "

Desgenais looked at me but made no reply; taking me by the arm he led meaway. 

"I am tired, " he said, "and I am sad; this noise wearies me. Let us go tosupper, that will refresh us. "

The supper was splendid, but I could not touch it. 

"What is the matter with you?" asked Marco. 

But I sat like a statue, making no reply and looking at her from head tofoot with amazement. 

She began to laugh, and Desgenais, who could see us from his table, joined her. Before her was a large crystal glass, cut in the shape of achalice, which reflected the glittering lights on its thousand sparklingfacets, shining like the prism and revealing the seven colors of therainbow. She listlessly extended her arm and filled it to the brim withCyprian and a sweetened Oriental wine which I afterward found so bitteron the deserted Lido. 

"Here, " she said, presenting it to me, "_per voi, bambino mio_. "

"For you and for me, " I said, presenting her my glass in turn. 

She moistened her lips while I emptied my glass, unable to conceal thesadness she seemed to read in my eyes. 

"Is it not good?" she asked. 

"No, " I replied. 

"Perhaps your head aches?"

"No. "

"Or you are tired?"

"No. "

"Ah! then it is the ennui of love?"

With these words she became serious, for in spite of herself, in speakingof love, her Italian heart beat the faster. 

A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becoming heated, cheeks were assumingthat purple hue with which wine colors the face as though to preventshame from appearing there; a confused murmur like to that of a risingsea could be heard all over the room, here and there eyes would becomeinflamed, then fixed and empty; I know not what wind stirred above thisdrunkenness. A woman rose, as in a tranquil sea the first wave that feelsthe tempest's breath, and rises to announce it; she makes a sign with herhand to command silence, empties her glass at a gulp, and with the samemovement undoes her hair, which falls in shining tresses over hershoulders; she opens her mouth as though to start a drinking song; hereyes were half closed. She breathed with an effort; twice a harsh soundcame from her throat; a mortal pallor overspread her features and shedropped into her chair. 

Then came an uproar which lasted an hour. It was impossible todistinguish anything, either laughter, songs or cries. 

"What do you think of it?" asked Desgenais. 

"Nothing, " I replied. "I have stopped my ears and am looking at it. "

In the midst of that bacchanal the beautiful Marco remained mute, drinking nothing and leaning quietly on her bare arm. She seemed neitherastonished nor affected by it. 

"Do you not wish to do as they?" I asked. "You have just offered meCyprian wine; why do you not drink some yourself?"

With these words I poured out a large glass full to the brim. She raisedit to her lips, and then placed it on the table and resumed her listlessattitude. 

The more I studied that Marco, the more singular she appeared; she tookpleasure in nothing and did not seem to be annoyed by anything. Itappeared as difficult to anger her as to please her; she did what wasasked of her, but no more. I thought of the genius of eternal repose, andI imagined that if that pale statue should become somnambulant it wouldresemble Marco. 

"Are you good or bad?" I asked. "Are you sad or gay? Are you loved? Doyou wish to be loved? Are you fond of money, of pleasure, of what?Horses, the country, balls? What pleases you? Of what are you dreaming?"

To all these questions the same smile on her part, a smile that expressedneither joy nor sorrow, but which seemed to say, "What does it matter?"and nothing more. 

I held my lips to hers; she gave me a listless kiss and then passed herhandkerchief over her mouth. 

"Marco, " I said, "woe to him who loves you. "

She turned her dark eyes on me, then turned them upward, and raising herfinger with that Italian gesture which can not be imitated, shepronounced that characteristic feminine word of her country:

"_Forse_!"

And then dessert was served. Some of the party had departed, some weresmoking, others gambling, and a few still at table; some of the womendanced, others slept. The orchestra returned; the candles paled andothers were lighted. I recalled a supper of Petronius where the lightswent out around the drunken masters, and the slaves entered and stole thesilver. All the while songs were being sung in various parts of the room, and three Englishmen, three of those gloomy figures for whom thecontinent is a hospital, kept up a most sinister ballad that must havebeen born of the fogs of their marshes. 

"Come, " said I to Marco, "let us go. "

She arose and took my arm. 

"To-morrow!" cried Desgenais to me, as we left the hall. 

When approaching Marco's house, my heart beat violently and I could notspeak. I could not understand such a woman; she seemed to experienceneither desire nor disgust, and could think of nothing but the fact thatmy hand was trembling and hers motionless. 

Her room was, like her, somber and voluptuous; it was dimly lighted by analabaster lamp. 

The chairs and sofa were as soft as beds, and there was everywheresuggestion of down and silk. Upon entering I was struck with the strongodor of Turkish pastilles, not such as are sold here on the streets, butthose of Constantinople, which are more nervous and more dangerous. Sherang and a maid appeared. She entered an alcove without a word, and a fewminutes later I saw her leaning on her elbow in her habitual attitude ofnonchalance. 

I stood looking at her. Strange to say, the more I admired her, the morebeautiful I found her, the more rapidly I felt my desires subside. I donot know whether it was some magnetic influence or her silence andlistlessness. I lay down on a sofa opposite the alcove and the coldnessof death settled on my soul. 

The pulsation of the blood in the arteries is a sort of clock, theticking of which can be heard only at night. Man, abandoned by exteriorobjects, falls back upon himself; he hears himself live. In spite of myfatigue I could not close my eyes; those of Marco were fixed on me; welooked at each other in silence, gently, so to speak. 

"What are you doing there?" she asked. 

She heaved a gentle sigh that was almost a plaint. I turned my head andsaw that first gleams of morning light were shining through the window. 

I arose and opened the window; a bright light penetrated every corner ofthe room. The sky was clear. 

I motioned to her to wait. Considerations of prudence had led her tochoose an apartment some distance from the center of the city; perhapsshe had other quarters, for she sometimes received a number of visitors. Her lover's friends sometimes visited her, and this room was doubtlessonly a _petite maison_; it overlooked the Luxembourg, the garden of whichextended as far as my eye could reach. 

As a cork held under water seems restless under the hand which holds it, and slips through the fingers to rise to the surface, thus there stirredin me a sentiment that I could neither overcome nor escape. The garden ofthe Luxembourg made my heart leap and banished every other thought. Howmany times had I stretched out on one of those little mounds, a sortsylvan school, while I read in the cool shade some book filled withfoolish poetry! For such, alas! were the debauches of my childhood. I sawmany souvenirs of the past among those leafless trees and faded lawns. There, when ten years of age, I had walked with my brother and my tutor, throwing bits of bread to some of the poor benumbed birds; there, seatedunder a tree, I had watched a group of little girls as they danced; Ifelt my heart beat in unison with the refrain of their childish song;there, returning from school, I had followed a thousand times the samepath, lost in contemplation of some verse of Virgil and kicking thepebbles at my feet. "Oh! my childhood! You are there!" I cried. "O, Heaven! now I am here. "

I turned around. Marco was asleep, the lamp had gone out, the light ofday had changed the aspect of the room; the hangings, which had at firstappeared blue, were now a faded yellow, and Marco, the beautiful statue, was livid as death. 

I shuddered in spite of myself; I looked at the alcove, then at thegarden; my head became drowsy and fell on my breast. I sat down before anopen secretary near one of the windows. A piece of paper caught my eye;it was an open letter, and I looked at it mechanically. I read it severaltimes before I thought what I was doing. Suddenly a gleam of intelligencecame to me, although I could not understand everything. I picked up thepaper and read what follows, written in an unskilled hand and filled witherrors in spelling:

"She died yesterday. She began to fail at twelve, the night before. Shecalled me and said: 'Louison, I am going to join my companion; go to thecloset and take down the cloth that hangs on a nail; it is the mate ofthe other. ' I fell on my knees and wept, but she took my hand and said:'Do not weep, do not weep!' And she heaved such a sigh--"

The rest was torn. I can not describe the impression, that sad lettermade on me; I turned it over and saw on the other side Marco's addressand the date, that of the evening previous. 

"Is she dead? Who is dead?" I cried, going to the alcove. "Dead! Who?"

Marco opened her eyes. She saw me with the letter in my hand. 

"It is my mother, " she said, "who is dead. You are not coming?"

As she spoke she extended her hand. 

"Silence!" I said; "sleep and leave me to myself. "

She turned over and went to sleep. I looked at her for some time toassure myself that she would not hear me, and then quietly left thehouse. 

CHAPTER V

ONE evening I was seated by the fire with Desgenais. The window was open;it was one of the early days in March, a harbinger of spring. It had beenraining and a sweet odor came from the garden. 

"What shall we do this spring?" I asked. "I do not care to travel. "

"I shall do what I did last year, " replied Desgenais. "I shall go to thecountry when the time comes. "

"What!" I replied. "Do you do the same thing every year? Are you going tobegin life over again this year?"

"What would you expect me to do?"

"What would I expect you to do?" I cried, jumping to my feet. "That isjust like you. Ah! Desgenais, how all this wearies me! Do you never tireof this sort of life?"

"No, " he replied. 

I was standing before an engraving of the Madeleine. Involuntarily Ijoined my hands. 

"What are you doing?" asked Desgenais. 

"If I were an artist, " I replied, "and wished to represent Melancholy, Iwould not paint a dreamy girl with a book in her hands. "

"What is the matter with you this evening?" he asked, smiling. 

"No, in truth, " I continued, "that Madeleine, in tears, has the spark ofhope in her bosom; that pale and sickly hand on which she supports herhead, is still sweet with the perfume with which she anointed the feet ofher Lord. You do not understand that in that desert there are thinkingpeople who pray. This is not Melancholy. "

"It is a woman who reads, " he replied dryly. 

"And a happy woman, " I continued, "and a happy book. "

Desgenais understood me; he saw that a profound sadness had takenpossession of me. He asked if I had some secret cause of sorrow. Ihesitated, but did not reply. 

"My dear Octave, " he said, "if you have any trouble, do not hesitate toconfide in me. Speak freely and you will find that I am your friend!"

"I know it, " I replied, "I know I have a friend; that is not my trouble. "

He urged me to explain. 

"But what will it avail, " I asked, "since neither of us can help matters?Do you want the bottom of my heart or merely a word and an excuse?"

"Be frank!" he said. 

"Very well, " I replied, "you have seen fit to give me advice in the pastand now I ask you to listen to me as I have listened to you. You ask whatis in my heart and I am about to tell you. 

"Take the first comer and say to him: 'Here are people who pass theirlives drinking, riding, laughing, gambling, enjoying all kinds ofpleasures; no barrier restrains them, their law is their pleasure, womenare their playthings; they are rich. They have no cares, not one. Alltheir days are days of feasting. ' What do you think of it? Unless thatman happened to be a severe bigot he would probably reply that that wasthe greatest happiness that could be imagined. 

"Then take that man into the thick of the action, place him at a tablewith a woman on either side, a glass in his hand, a handful of gold everymorning and say to him: 'This is your life. While you sleep near yourmistress, your horses neigh in the stables; while you drive your horsesalong the boulevards, your wines are ripening in your vaults; while youpass away the night drinking, the bankers are increasing your wealth. Youhave but to express a wish and your desires are gratified. You are thehappiest of men. But take care lest some night of carousal you drink toomuch and destroy the capacity of your body for enjoyment. That would be aserious misfortune, for all the ills that afflict human flesh can becured, except that. You ride some night through the woods with joyouscompanions; your horse falls and you are thrown into a ditch filled withmud, and it may be that your companions, in the midst of their happyfanfares, will not hear your cry of anguish; it may be that the sound oftheir trumpets will die away in the distance while you drag your brokenlimbs through the deserted forest. Some night you will lose at the gamingtable; Fortune has its bad days. When you return to your home and areseated before the fire, do not strike your forehead with your hands, anddo not allow sorrow to moisten your cheeks with tears, do not bitterlycast your eyes about here and there as though seeking for a friend; donot, under any circumstances, think of those who, under some thatchedroof, enjoy a tranquil life and who sleep holding each other by the hand;for before you, on your luxurious bed, will sit a pale creature wholoves--your money. You will seek from her consolation for your grief, andshe will remark that you are very sad and ask if your loss wasconsiderable; the tears from your eyes will concern her deeply, for theymay be the cause of allowing her dress to grow old or the rings to dropfrom her fingers. Do not name him who won your money that night for shemay meet him on the morrow, and she may make sweet eyes at him that woulddestroy your remaining happiness. That is what is to be expected of humanfrailty; have you the strength to endure it? Are you a man? Beware ofdisgust, it is an incurable evil; death is more to be desired than aliving distaste for life. Have you a heart? Beware of love, for it isworse than disease for a debauchee and it is ridiculous. Debauchees paytheir mistresses, and the woman who sells herself has no right but thatof contempt for the purchaser. Are you passionate? Take care of yourface. It is shameful for a soldier to throw down his arms and for adebauchee to appear to hold to anything; his glory consists in touchingnothing except with hands of marble that have been bathed in oil in orderthat nothing may stick to them. Are you hot-headed? If you desire tolive, learn how to kill, for wine is a wrangler. Have you a conscience?Take care of your slumber, for a debauchee who repents too late is like aship that leaks: it can neither return to land nor continue on itscourse; the winds can with difficulty move it, the ocean yawns for it, itcareens and disappears. If you have a body, look out for suffering; ifyou have a soul, despair awaits you. O, unhappy one! beware of men; whilethey walk along the same path with you, you will seem to see a vast plainstrewn with garlands where a happy throng of dancers trip the gladsome_furandole_ standing in a circle, each a link in an endless chain; it isbut a mirage; those who look down know that they are dancing on a silkenthread stretched over an abyss that swallows up all who fall and showsnot even a ripple on its surface. What foot is sure? Nature herself seemsto deny you her divine consolation; trees and flowers are yours no more;you have broken your mother's laws, you are no longer one of herfoster-children, the birds of the field become silent when you appear. You are alone! Beware of God! You are face to face with Him, standinglike a cold statue upon the pedestal of will. The rain from heaven nolonger refreshes you, it undermines and weakens you. The passing wind nolonger gives you the kiss of life, the benediction on all that lives andbreathes; it buffets you and makes you stagger. Every woman who kissesyou, takes from you a spark of life and gives you none in return; youexhaust yourself on fantoms; wherever falls a drop of our sweat, theresprings up one of those sinister weeds that grow in graveyards. Die! Youare the enemy of all, who love; blot yourself from the face of the earth, do not wait for old age; do not leave a child behind you, do notfecundate a drop of your corrupted blood; vanish as does the smoke, donot deprive a single blade of living grass of a ray of sunlight!'"

When I had spoken these words, I fell back in my chair and a flood oftears streamed from my eyes. 

"Ah! Desgenais, " I cried, sobbing, "this is not what you told me. Did younot know it? And if you did, why did you not tell me of it?"

But Desgenais sat still with folded hands; he was as pale as a shroud anda long tear trickled down his cheek. 

A moment of silence ensued. The clock struck; I suddenly remembered thatit was this hour and this day, one year ago, that my mistress deceivedme. 

"Do you hear that clock?" I cried, "do you hear it? I do not know what itmeans at this moment, but it is a terrible hour and one that will countin my life. "

I was beside myself and scarcely knew what I was saying. But that instanta servant rushed into the room; he took my hand and led me aside, whispering in my ear:

"Sir, I have come to inform you that your father is dying; he has justbeen seized with an attack of apoplexy and the physicians despair of hislife. "

 PART III

CHAPTER I

MY father lived in the country, some miles from Paris. When I arrived, Ifound a physician at the door who said to me:

"You are too late; your father expressed a desire to see you before hedied. "

I entered and saw my father dead. "Sir, " I said to the physician, "pleasehave every one retire that I may be alone here; my father had somethingto say to me, and he will say it. "

In obedience to my order the servants left the room. I approached the bedand raised the shroud which already covered the face. But when my eyesfell on that face, I stooped to kiss it and lost consciousness. 

When I recovered, I heard some one say:

"If he requests it, you must refuse him on some pretext or other. "

I understood that they wanted to get me away from the bed of death and soI feigned that I had heard nothing. When they saw that I was restingquietly, they left me. I waited until the house was quiet and then took acandle and made my way to my father's room. I found there a young priestseated near the bed. 

"Sir, " I said, "to dispute with an orphan the last vigil at a father'sside, is a bold enterprise. I do not know what your orders may be. Youmay remain in the adjoining room; if anything happens, I alone amresponsible. "

He retired. A single candle on the table shone on the bed. I sat down inthe chair the priest had just left and again uncovered those features Iwas to see for the last time. 

"What do you wish to say to me, father?" I asked. "What was your lastthought concerning your child?"

My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to daythe record of his life. That book lay on the table and I saw that it wasopen; I kneeled before it; on the open page were these words and no more:

"Adieu, my son, I love you and I die. "

I did not shed a tear, not a sob came from my lips; my throat was swollenand my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving. 

He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow andanxiety. He did not refer to my future, to my youth and my follies. Hisadvice had often saved me from some evil course, and had influenced myentire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue and kindness. Isupposed that before dying he wished to see me, to try once more to turnme from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly; he felt thathe could express all he had to say in one word and he wrote in his bookthat he loved me. 

CHAPTER II

A SMALL wooden railing was placed around my father's grave. According tohis expressed wish, he was buried in the village cemetery. Every day Ivisited his tomb and passed part of the day on a little bench in theinterior of the vault. The rest of the time I lived alone in the house inwhich he died and I kept with me only one servant. 

Whatever sorrows the passions may cause, the woes of life are not to becompared with those of death. My first thought, as I sat beside myfather's bedside, was that I was a helpless child, knowing nothing, understanding nothing; I can not say that my heart felt physical pain, but I sometimes bent over and wrung my hands as one who wakens from along sleep. 

During the first months of my life in the country I had no thought ofeither the past or the future. It did not seem to be I who had lived upto that time; what I felt was not despair, and in no way resembled theterrible grief I had experienced in the past; there was a sort of languorin every action, a sense of fatigue with all of life, a poignantbitterness that was eating out my heart. I held a book in my hand all daylong but I did not read, I did not even know what I dreamed about. I hadno thoughts; within, all was silence; I had received such a violent blow, and yet one that was so prolonged in its effect, that I remained a purelypassive being and there seemed to be no reaction. 

My servant, Larive by name, had been much attached to my father; he was, after my father himself, probably the best man I have ever known. He wasthe same height and wore the clothes my father had left him, having nolivery. 

He was about the same age, that is, his hair was turning gray, and duringthe twenty years he had lived with my father, he had learned some of hisways. While I was pacing up and down the room after dinner, I heard himdoing the same in the hall; although the door was open, he did not enterand not a word was spoken; but from time to time we would look at eachother and weep. The entire evening would pass thus, and it would be latein the night before I would ask for a light, or get one myself. 

Everything about the house was left unchanged, not a piece of paper wasmoved. The great leather armchair in which my father sat, stood near thefire; his table and his books, just as he left them; I respected even thedust on these articles, which in life, he never liked to see disturbed. The walls of that solitary house, accustomed to silence and the mosttranquil life, seemed to look down on me in pity as I sat in my father'schair, enveloped in his dressing-gown. A feeble voice seemed to whisper:"Where is the father? It is plain to see that this is an orphan. "

I received several letters from Paris and replied to each that I desiredto pass the summer alone in the country, as my father was accustomed todo. I began to realize that in all evil there is some good, and thatsorrow, whatever else may be said of it, is a means of repose. Whateverthe message brought by those who are sent by God, they always accomplishthe happy result of awakening us from the sleep of the world, and whenthey speak, all are silent. Passing sorrows blaspheme and accuse Heaven;great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme, they listen. 

In the morning, I passed entire hours in the contemplation of nature. Mywindows overlooked a valley in the midst of which arose the villagesteeple; all was plain and calm. Spring, with its budding leaves andflowers, did not produce on me the sinister effect of which the poetsspeak, who find in the contrasts of life the mockery of death. I lookedupon that frivolous idea, if it was serious and not a simple antithesismade in pleasantry, as the conceit of a heart that has known no realexperience. The gambler who leaves the table at break of day, his eyesburning and hands empty, may feel that he is at war with nature like thetorch at some hideous vigil; but what can the budding leaves say to achild who mourns a lost father? The tears of his eyes are sisters of therose; the leaves of the willow are themselves tears. It is when I look atthe sky, the woods and the prairies, that I understand men who seekconsolation. 

Larive had no more desire to console me than to console himself. At thetime of my father's death he feared I would sell the property and takehim to Paris. I did not know what he had learned of my past life, but Ihad noticed his anxiety, and, when he saw me settle down in the old home, he gave me a glance that went to my heart. One day I had a large portraitof my father sent from Paris, and placed it in the dining-room. WhenLarive entered the room to serve me, he saw it; he hesitated, looked atthe portrait, and then at me, in his eyes there shone a melancholy joythat I could not fail to understand. It seemed to say: "What happiness!We are to suffer here in peace!"

I gave him my hand which he covered with tears and kisses. 

He looked upon my grief as the mistress of his own. When I visited myfather's tomb in the morning I found him there watering the flowers; whenhe saw me he went away and returned home. He followed me in my rambles;when I was on my horse I did not expect him to follow me, but when I sawhim trudging down the valley, wiping the sweat from his brow, I bought asmall horse from a peasant and gave it to him; thus we rode through thewoods together. 

In the village were some people of our acquaintance who frequentlyvisited my father. My door was closed to them, although I regretted it;but I could not see any one, with patience. Some time, when sure to befree from interruption, I hoped to examine my father's papers. Finally, Larive brought them to me, and untying the package with trembling hand, spread them before me. 

Upon reading the first pages, I felt in my heart that vivifying freshnessthat characterizes the air near a lake of cool water; the sweet serenityof my father's soul exhaled as a perfume from the dusty leaves I wasunfolding. The journal of his life lay open before me; I could count thediurnal throbbings of that noble heart. I began to yield to the influenceof a dream that was both sweet and profound, and in spite of the seriousfirmness of his character, I discovered an ineffable grace, the flower ofkindness. While I read, the recollection of his death mingled with thenarrative of his life, I can not tell with what sadness I followed thatlimpid stream until its waters mingled with those of the ocean. 

"Oh! just man, " I cried, "fearless and stainless! what candor in thyexperience! Thy devotion to thy friends, thy admiration for nature, thysublime love of God, this is thy life, there is no place in thy heart foranything else. The spotless snow on the mountain's summit is not morepure than thy saintly old age, thy white hair resembles it. Oh! father, father! Give thy snowy locks to me, they are younger than my blond head. Let me live and die as thou hast lived and died. I wish to plant in thesoil over your grave the green branch of my young life, I will water itwith my tears, and the God of orphans will protect that sacred twignourished by the grief of youth and the memory of age. "

After having read these precious papers I classified them and arrangedthem in order. I formed a resolution to write a journal myself. I had onemade just like that of my father's, and, carefully searching out theminor details of his life, I tried to conform my life to his. Thuswhenever I heard the clock strike the hour, tears came to my eyes:"This, " said I, "is what my father did at this hour, " and whether it wasreading, walking, or eating, I never failed to follow his example. Thus Iaccustomed myself to a calm and regular life; there was an indefinablecharm about this orderly life that did me good. I went to bed with asense of comfort and happiness, such as I had not known for a long time. My father spent much of his time about the garden; the rest of the daywas devoted to walking and study, a nice adjustment of bodily and mentalexercise. 

At the same time, I followed his example in doing little acts ofbenevolence among the unfortunate. I began to search for those who werein need of my assistance, and there were many of them in the valley. Isoon became known among the poor; my message to them was: "When the heartis good, sorrow is sacred!" For the first time in my life I was happy, God blessed my tears, and sorrow taught me virtue. 

CHAPTER III

ONE evening, as I was walking under a row of linden-trees on theoutskirts of the village, I saw a young woman come from a house somedistance from the road. She was dressed simply and veiled so that I couldnot see her face; but her form and her carriage seemed so charming that Ifollowed her with my eyes for some time. As she was crossing a field, awhite goat, running at liberty through the grass, ran to her side; shecaressed it softly, and looked about as though searching for somefavorite herb to feed it. I saw near me some wild mulberry; I plucked abranch and stepped up to her holding it in my hand. The goat watched myapproach with apprehension; he was afraid to take the branch from myhand. His mistress made a sign as though to encourage him, but he lookedat her with an air of anxiety; she then took the branch from my hand andthe goat promptly accepted it from hers. I bowed, and she passed on herway. 

On my return home, I asked Larive if he knew who lived in the house Idescribed to him; it was a small house, modest in appearance, with agarden. He recognized it; there were but two people in the house, an oldwoman who was very religious, and a young woman whose name was MadamePierson. It was she I had seen. I asked him who she was and if she evercame to see my father. He replied that she was a widow, that she led aretired life, and that she had visited my father, but rarely. When I hadlearned all he knew, I returned to the lindens and sat down on a bench. 

I do not know what feeling of sadness came over me as I saw the goatapproaching me. I arose from my seat, and, for distraction, I followedthe path I had seen Madame Pierson take, a path that led to themountains. 

It was nearly eleven in the evening before I thought of returning; as Ihad walked some distance, I directed my steps toward a farmhouse, intending to ask for some milk and bread. Drops of rain began to splashat my feet, announcing a thunder-shower which I was anxious to escape. Although there was a light in the house and I could hear the sound offeet going and coming through the house, no one responded to my knock, and I walked around to one of the windows to ascertain if there was anyone within. 

I saw a bright fire burning in the lower hall; the farmer, whom I knew, was sitting near his bed; I knocked on the window-pane and called to him. Just then the door opened and I was surprised to see Madame Pierson, whoinquired who was there. 

I waited a moment, in order to conceal my astonishment. I then enteredthe house and asked permission to remain until the storm should pass. Icould not imagine what she was doing at such an hour in this desertedspot; suddenly, I heard a plaintive voice from the bed, and turning myhead, I saw the farmer's wife lying there with the mark of death on herface. 

Madame Pierson, who had followed me, sat down before the old man who wasbowed down with sorrow; she made me a sign to make no noise as the sickwoman was sleeping. I took a chair and sat in a corner until the stormpassed. 

While I sat there, I saw her rise from time to time and whisper somethingto the farmer. One of the children, whom I took upon my knee, said thatshe came every night since the mother's illness. She performed the dutiesof a sister of charity--there was no one else in the country who could doit; there was but one physician, and he was very inferior. 

"That is Brigitte la Rose, " said the child; "do you not know her?"

"No, " I replied in a low voice. "Why do you call her by such a name?"

He replied that he did not know, unless it was because she had been rosyand the name had clung to her. 

As Madame Pierson had laid aside her veil, I could see her face; when thechild left me I raised my head. She was standing near the bed, holding inher hand a cup which she was offering the sick woman, who had awakened. She appeared to be pale and thin; her hair was ashen blond. Her beautywas not of the regular type. How shall I express it? Her large, dark eyeswere fixed on those of her patient, and those eyes, that shone withapproaching death, returned her gaze. There was, in that simple exchangeof kindness and gratitude, a beauty that can not be described. 

The rain was falling in torrents; a heavy darkness settled over thelonely mountain-side, pierced by occasional flashes of lightning. Thenoise of the storm, the roaring of the wind, the wrath of the unchainedelements, made a deep contrast with the religious calm which prevailed inthe little cottage. I looked at the wretched bed, at the broken windows, the puffs of smoke forced from the fire by the tempest, I observed thehelpless despair of the farmer, the superstitious terror of the children, the fury of the elements besieging the bed of death; and when, in themidst of all that, I saw that gentle, pale-faced woman, going and coming, bravely meeting the duties of the moment regardless of the tempest, andof our presence, it seemed to me there was in that calm performancesomething more serene than the most cloudless sky, and that there wassomething superhuman about this woman who, surrounded by such horrors, did not for an instant, lose her faith in God. 

What woman is this, I wondered; whence comes she and how long has shebeen here? A long time since, they remember when her cheeks were rosy. How is it I have never heard of her? She comes to this spot alone, and atthis hour? Yes, she has traversed these mountains and valleys throughstorm and fair weather, she goes hither and thither, bearing life andhope wherever they fail, holding in her hand that fragile cup, caressingher goat as she passes. And this is what has been going on in this valleywhile I have been dining and gambling; she was probably born here, andwill be buried in a corner of the cemetery, by the side of her father. Thus will that obscure woman die, a woman of whom no one speaks and ofwhom the children say: "Do you not know her?"

I can not express what I experienced; I sat quietly in my corner, scarcely breathing, and it seemed to me that if I had tried to assisther, if I had reached out my hand to spare her a single step, I wouldhave been guilty of sacrilege, I would have touched sacred vessels. 

The storm lasted two hours. When it subsided, the sick woman sat up inher bed and said that she felt better, that the medicine she had takenhad done her good. The children ran to the bedside, looking up into theirmother's face with great eyes that expressed both surprise and joy. 

"I am very sure you are well, " said the husband, who had not stirred fromhis seat, "for we have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a largesum. "

At that coarse and stupid expression, I glanced at Madame Pierson; herswollen eyes, her pallor, her attitude, all clearly expressed fatigue andthe exhaustion of long vigils. 

"Ah! my poor man!" said the farmer's wife, "may God reward you!"

I could hardly contain myself, I was so angered by the stupidity of thesebrutes who were capable of crediting the work of charity to the avariceof a cure. I was about to reproach them for their ingratitude and treatthem as they deserved, when Madame Pierson took one of the children inher arms and said with a smile:

"You may kiss your mother, for she is saved. "

I stopped when I heard these words. 

Never, was the naive contentment of a happy and benevolent heart paintedin such beauty on so sweet a face. Fatigue and pallor seemed to be gone, she became radiant with joy. 

A few minutes later, Madame Pierson told the children to call thefarmer's boy to conduct her home. I advanced to offer my services; I toldher that it was useless to awaken the boy as I was going in the samedirection, and that she would do me an honor by accepting my offer. Sheasked me if I was not Octave de T-----. 

I replied that I was, and that she doubtless remembered my father. Itstruck me as strange that she should smile at that question; shecheerfully accepted my arm and we set out on our return. 

CHAPTER IV

WE walked along without a word; the wind was lowering; the trees quiveredgently, shaking the rain from the boughs. Some distant flashes oflightning could still be seen; the perfume of humid verdure filled thewarm air. The sky soon cleared and the moon illumined the mountain. 

I could not help thinking of the freakishness of chance, which had seenfit to make me the solitary companion of a woman, of whose existence Iknew nothing a few hours before. She had accepted me as her escort onaccount of the name I bore, and leaned on my arm with quiet confidence. In spite of her distracted air, it seemed to me that this confidence waseither very bold or very simple; and she must needs be either the one orthe other, for at each step, I felt my heart becoming at once proud andinnocent. 

We spoke of the sick woman she had just left, of the scenes along theroute; it did not occur to us to ask the questions incident to a newacquaintance. She spoke to me of my father, and always in the same tone Ihad noted when I first revealed my name--that is, cheerfully, almostgaily. By degrees, I thought I understood why she did this, observingthat she spoke thus of all, both living and dead, of life and ofsuffering and death. It was because human sorrows had taught her nothingthat could accuse God, and I felt the piety of her smile. 

I told her of the solitary life I was leading. Her aunt, she said, hadseen more of my father than she, as they sometimes played cards togetherafter dinner. She urged me to visit them, assuring me a welcome. 

When about half-way home, she complained of fatigue and sat down to reston a bench that the heavy foliage had protected from the rain. I stoodbefore her and watched the pale light of the moon playing on her face. After a moment's silence, she arose and in a constrained manner observed:

"Of what are you thinking? It is time for us to think of returning. "

"I was wondering, " I replied, "why God created you, and I was saying tomyself that it was for the sake of those who suffer. "

"That is an expression, which, coming from you, I can not look uponexcept as a compliment. "

"Why?" I asked. 

"Because you appear to be very young. "

"It sometimes happens, " I said, "that one is older than the face wouldseem to indicate. "

"Yes, " she replied, smiling, "and it sometimes happens that one isyounger than his words would seem to indicate. "

"Have you no faith in experience?"

"I know that it is the name most young men give to their follies andtheir disappointments; what can one know at your age?"

"Madame, a man of twenty may know more than a woman of thirty. Theliberty which men enjoy, enables them to see more of life and itsexperiences than women; they go wherever they please and no barrierrestrains them; they test life in all its phases. When inspired by hope, they press forward to achievement; what they will, they accomplish. Whenthey have reached the end, they return; hope has been lost on the route, and happiness has broken its word. "

As I was speaking, we reached the summit of a little hill which slopeddown to the valley; Madame Pierson, yielding to the downward tendency, began to trip lightly down the incline. Without knowing why, I did thesame, and we ran down the hill, arm in arm; the long grass under our feetretarded our progress. Finally, like two birds, spent with flight, wereached the foot of the mountain. 

"Behold!" cried Madame Pierson, "just a short time ago I was tired, butnow I am rested. And, believe me, " she added, with a charming smile, "youshould treat your experience as I have treated my fatigue. We have madegood time and will enjoy supper the more on that account. "

CHAPTER V

I WENT to call upon her the next morning. I found her at the piano, herold aunt at the window sewing, the little room filled with flowers, thesunlight streaming through the blinds, a large bird-cage at her side. 

I expected to find her somewhat religious, at least one of those women ofthe provinces who know nothing of what happens two leagues away, and wholive in a certain narrow circle from which they never escape. I confessthat such isolated life, which is found here and there in small towns, under a thousand unknown roofs, had always produced on me the effect ofstagnant pools of water; the air does not seem respirable: in everythingon earth that is forgotten, there is something of death. 

On Madame Pierson's table were some papers and new books; they looked asthough they had not been more than touched. In spite of the simplicity ofeverything around her, of furniture and dress, it was easy to recognizemode, that is to say, life; she did not live for this alone, but thatgoes without saying. What struck me in her taste was, that there wasnothing bizarre, everything breathed of youth and pleasantness. Herconversation indicated a finished education; there was no subject onwhich she could not speak well and with ease. While admitting that shewas naive, it was evident that she was at the same time profound inthought and fertile in resource; an intelligence, at once broad and free, soared gently over a simple heart and over the habits of a retired life. The sea-swallow, whirling through the azure heavens, soars thus over theblade of grass that marks its nest. 

We talked of literature, music, and even politics. She had visited Parisduring the winter; from time to time, she dipped into the world; what shesaw there served as a basis for what she divined. 

But her distinguishing trait was gaiety, a cheerfulness that, while notexactly joy itself, was constant and unalterable; it might be said thatshe was born a flower, and that her perfume was gaiety. 

Her pallor, her large dark eyes, her manner at certain moments, all ledme to believe that she had suffered. I know not what it was that seemedto say that the sweet serenity of her brow was not of this world, but hadcome from God, and that she would return it to him spotless in spite ofman; and there were times when she reminded one of the careful housewife, who, when the wind blows, holds her hand before the candle. 

When I had been in the house half an hour, I could not help saying whatwas in my heart. I thought of my past life, of my disappointment and myennui; I walked to and fro, breathing the fragrance of the flowers, andlooking at the sun. I asked her to sing, and she did so with good grace. In the meantime, I leaned on the window sill and watched the birdsflitting about the garden. A saying of Montaigne's came into my head: "Ineither love nor esteem sadness although the world has invested it, at agiven price, with the honor of its particular favor. They dress up in itwisdom, virtue, conscience. Stupid and absurd adornment. "

"What happiness!" I cried in spite of myself. "What repose! What joy!What forgetfulness of self!"

The good aunt raised her head and looked at me with an air ofastonishment; Madame Pierson stopped short. I became red as fire whenconscious of my folly, and sat down without a word. 

We went out into the garden. The white goat I had seen the evening beforewas lying in the grass; it came up to her and followed us about thegarden. 

When we reached the end of the garden walk, a large young man with a paleface, clad in a kind of black cassock, suddenly appeared at the railing. He entered without knocking, and bowed to Madame Pierson; it seemed to methat his face, which I considered a bad omen, darkened a little when hesaw me. He was a priest I had often seen in the village, and his name wasMercanson; he came from St. Sulpice and was related to the cure of theparish. 

He was large and at the same time pale, a thing which always displeasedme and which is, in fact, unpleasant; it impresses one as a sort ofdiseased healthfulness. Moreover, he had the slow yet jerky way ofspeaking that characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of walking, whichwas not that of youth and health, repelled me; as for his glance, itmight be said that he had none. I do not know what to think of a manwhose eyes have nothing to say. These are the signs which led to anunfavorable opinion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfortunatelycorrect. 

He sat down on a bench and began to talk about Paris, which he called themodern Babylon. He had been there, he knew every one; he knew Madame deB-----, who was an angel; he had preached sermons in her salon and waslistened to on bended knee. (The worst of this was, that it was true. )One of his friends, who had introduced him there, had been expelled fromschool for having seduced a girl; a terrible thing to do, very sad. Hepaid Madame Pierson a thousand compliments for her charitable deedsthroughout the country; he had heard of her benefactions, her care forthe sick, her vigils at the bed of suffering and of death. It was verybeautiful and noble; he would not fail to speak of it at St. Sulpice. Didhe not seem to say that he would not fail to speak of it to God?

Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal my rising disgust, I satdown on the grass and began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned on mehis dull and lifeless eye:

"The celebrated Vergniand, " said he, "was afflicted with that mania ofsitting on the ground and playing with animals. "

"It is a mania, " I replied, very innocently. "If there were none others, the world would get along without so much meddling on the part ofothers. "

My reply did not please him; he frowned and changed the subject. He wascharged with a commission; his uncle, the cure, had spoken to him of apoor devil who was unable to earn his daily bread. He lived in such andsuch a place; he had been there himself and was interested in him; hehoped that Madame Pierson--

I was looking at her while he was speaking, wondering what reply shewould make and hoping she would say something in order to drown out thememory of the priest's voice with her gentle tones. She merely bowed, andhe retired. 

When he had gone our gaiety returned. We entered a greenhouse in the rearof the garden. 

Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and her peasants, everything about her must be well cared for, each flower must have itsdrop of water and ray of sunlight in order that she might be gay andhappy as an angel; so nothing could be in better condition than herlittle greenhouse. When we had made the round of the building she said:

"This is my little world; you have seen all I possess, and my domain endshere. "

"Madame, " I said, "as my father's name has secured for me the favor ofadmittance here, permit me to return and I will believe that happinesshas not entirely forgotten me. "

She extended her hand and I touched it with respect, not daring to raiseit to my lips. 

I returned home, closed my door and retired. There danced before my eyesa little white house; I saw myself walking through the village andknocking at the garden gate. "Oh! my poor heart!" I cried. "God bepraised, you are still young, you are still capable of life and of love!"

One evening I was with Madame Pierson. More than three months had passed, during which I had seen her almost every day; and what can I say of thattime except that I saw her? "To be with those we love, " said Bruyere, "suffices; to dream, to talk to them, not to talk to them, to think ofthem, to think of the most indifferent things, but to be near them, it isall the same. "

I loved. During the three months we had taken many long walks; I wasinitiated into the mysteries of her modest charity; we passed throughdark streets, she on her little horse, I on foot, a small stick in myhand; thus, half conversing, half dreaming, we knocked at the doors ofcottages. There was a little bench near the edge of the wood where I wasaccustomed to rest after dinner; we met here regularly as though bychance. In the morning, music, reading; in the evening, cards with theaunt as in the days of my father; and she, always there smiling, herpresence filling my heart. By what road, O Providence! have you led me?What irrevocable destiny am I to accomplish? What! a life so free, anintimacy so charming, so much repose, such buoyant hope! O God! Of whatdo men complain? What is there sweeter than love?

To live, yes, to feel intensely, profoundly, that one exists, that one isman, created by God, that is the first, the greatest gift of love. We cannot deny, however, that love is a mystery, inexplicable, profound. Withall the chains, with all the pains, and I may even say, with all thedisgust with which the world has surrounded it, buried as it is under amountain of prejudices which distort and deprave it, in spite of all theordure through which it has been dragged, love, eternal and fatal love, is none the less a celestial law as powerful and as incomprehensible asthat which suspends the sun in the heavens. What is this mysterious bond, stronger and more durable than iron, that can neither be seen nortouched? What is there in meeting a woman, in looking at her, in speakingone word to her, and then never forgetting her? Why this one rather thanthat one? Invoke the aid of reason, or habit, of the senses, the head, the heart, and explain it if you can. You will find nothing but twobodies, one here, the other there, and between them, what? Air, space, immensity. O fools! who fondly imagine yourselves men, and who reason oflove! Have you talked with it? No, you have felt it. You have exchanged aglance with a passing stranger, and suddenly there flies out from yousomething that can not be defined, that has no name known to man. Youhave taken root in the ground like the seed concealed in the blade ofgrass which feels the motion of life, and which is on its way to theharvest. 

We were alone, the window was open, the murmur of a little fountain cameto us from the garden. O God! would that I could count, drop by drop, allthe water that fell while we were sitting there, while she was talkingand I was responding. It was there that I became intoxicated with her tothe point of madness. 

It is said that there is nothing so rapid as a feeling of antipathy, butI believe that the road to love is more swiftly traversed. Of what availare words spoken with the lips when hearts listen and respond? Whatsweetness in the glance of a woman who begins to attract you! At first itseems as though everything that passes between you is timid andtentative, but soon there is born a strange joy, and echo answers thevoice of love; the thrill of a dual life is felt. What a touch! What astrange attraction! And when love is sure of itself and recognizesfraternity in the object beloved, what serenity in the soul! Words die onthe lips, for each one knows what the other is about to say beforeutterance has shaped the thought. Souls expand, lips are silent. Oh! whatsilence! What forgetfulness of all!

Although my love began the first day and had since grown to excess, therespect I felt for Madame Pierson sealed my lips. If she had been lessfrank in permitting me to become her friend, perhaps I would have beenmore bold, for she had made such a strong impression on me, that I neverquitted her without transports of love. But there was something in herfrankness and the confidence she placed in me, that checked me; moreover, it was in my father's name that I had been treated as a friend. Thatconsideration rendered me still more respectful and I resolved to proveworthy of that name. 

To talk of love, they say, is to make love. We rarely spoke of it. Everytime I happened to touch the subject Madame Pierson led the conversationto some other topic. I did not discern her motive, but it was notprudery; it seemed to me that at such times her face took on a sternaspect and a wave of feeling, even of suffering, passed over it. As I hadnever questioned her about her past life and was unwilling to do so, Irespected her obvious wishes. 

Sunday there was dancing in the village; she was almost always there. Onthose occasions her toilet, although always simple, was more elegant thanusual; there was a flower in her hair, a bright ribbon, or some suchbagatelle; but there was something youthful and fresh about her. Thedance, which she loved for itself as an amusing exercise, seemed toinspire her with a frolicsome gaiety. Once launched on the floor, itseemed to me she allowed herself more liberty than usual, that there wasan unusual familiarity. I did not dance, being still in mourning, but Imanaged to keep near her, and, seeing her in such good humor, I was oftentempted to confess my love. 

But for some strange reason, whenever I thought of it I was seized withan irresistible feeling of fear; the idea of an avowal was enough torender me serious in the midst of gaiety. I conceived the idea of writingto her, but burned the letters before half finished. 

That evening I dined with her, and looked about me at the many evidencesof a tranquil life; I thought of the quiet life that I was leading, of myhappiness since I had known her, and said to myself: "Why ask for more?Does not this suffice? Who knows, perhaps God has nothing more for you?If I should tell her that I love her, what would happen? Perhaps shewould forbid me the pleasure of seeing her. Would I, in speaking thewords, make her happier than she is to-day? Would I be happier myself?"

I was leaning on the piano, and, as I indulged in these reflections, sadness took possession of me. Night was coming on and she lighted acandle; while returning to her seat she noticed a tear in my eye. 

"What is the matter?" she asked. 

I turned aside my head. 

I sought an excuse, but could find none; I was afraid to meet her glance. I arose and stepped to the window. The air was balmy, the moon was risingbeyond those lindens where I had first met her. I fell into a profoundreverie; I even forgot that she was present and, extending my arms towardheaven, a sob welled up from my heart. 

She arose and stood behind me. 

"What is it?" she again asked. 

I replied that the sight of that valley, stretching out beneath us, hadrecalled my father's death; I took leave of her and went out. 

Why I decided to silence my love I can not say. Nevertheless, instead ofreturning home, I began to wander about the woods like a fool. Whenever Ifound a bench I sat down and then jumped up precipitately. Towardmidnight I approached Madame Pierson's house; she was at the window. Seeing her there I began to tremble and tried to retrace my steps, but Iwas fascinated; I advanced gently and sadly and sat down beneath herwindow. 

I do not know whether she recognized me; I had been there some time whenI heard her sweet, fresh voice singing the refrain of a romance, and atthe same instant a flower fell on my shoulder. It was a rose she had wornthat evening on her bosom; I picked it up and bore it to my lips. 

"Who is there at this hour? Is it you?"

She called me by name. The gate leading into the garden was open; I arosewithout replying and entered it, I stopped before a plot of grass in thecenter of the garden; I was walking like a somnambulist, without knowingwhat I was doing. 

Suddenly I saw her at the door opening into the garden; she seemed to beundecided and looked attentively at the rays of the moon. She made a fewsteps toward me and I advanced to meet her. I could not speak, I fell onmy knees before her and seized her hand. 

"Listen to me, " she said; "I know all; but if it has come to that, Octave, you must go away. You come here every day and you are alwayswelcome, are you not? Is not that enough? What more can I do for you? Myfriendship you have won; I wish you had been able to keep yours a littlelonger. "

CHAPTER VI

WHEN Madame Pierson had spoken these words, she waited some time asthough expecting a reply. As I remained overwhelmed with grief, shegently withdrew her hand, stepped back, waited a moment longer and thenreentered the house. 

I remained kneeling on the grass. I had been expecting what she said; myresolution was soon taken, and I decided to go away. I arose, my heartbleeding but firm. I looked at the house, at her window; I opened thegarden gate and placed my lips on the lock as I passed out. 

When I reached home, I told Larive to make what preparations werenecessary as I would set out in the morning. The poor fellow wasastonished, but I made him a sign to obey and ask no questions. Hebrought a large trunk and busied himself with preparations for departure. 

It was five o'clock in the morning and day was beginning to break, when Iasked myself where I was going. At that thought, which had not occurredto me before, I experienced a profound feeling of discouragement. I castmy eyes over the country, scanning the horizon. A sense of weakness tookpossession of me; I was exhausted with fatigue. I sat down in a chair andmy ideas became confused; I bore my hand to my forehead and found itbathed in sweat. A violent fever made my limbs tremble; I could hardlyreach my bed with Larive's assistance. My thoughts were so confused thatI had no recollection of what had happened. The day passed; towardevening I heard the sound of instruments. It was the Sunday dance and Iasked Larive to go and see if Madame Pierson was there. He did not findher; I sent him to her house. The blinds were closed, and a servantinformed him that Madame Pierson and her aunt had gone to spend some dayswith a relative who lived at N-----, a small town some distance north. Hehanded me a letter that had been given him. It was conceived in thefollowing terms:

"I have known you three months, and for one month have noticed that youfeel for me what at your age is called love. I thought I detected on yourpart a resolution to conceal this from me and conquer yourself. I alreadyesteemed you, this enhanced my respect. I do not reproach you for thepast, nor for the weakness of your will. 

"What you take for love is nothing more than desire. I am well aware thatmany women seek to arouse it; it would be better if they did not feel thenecessity of pleasing those who approach them; but that vanity is adangerous thing since I have done wrong in entertaining it with you. 

"I am some years older than you and ask you not to try to see me again. It would be vain for you to try to forget the weakness of a moment; butwhat has passed between us can neither be repeated nor forgotten. 

"I do not take leave of you without sorrow; I expect to be absent sometime; if, when I return, I find that you have gone away, I willappreciate your action as the final evidence of your friendship andesteem. 

 "BRIGITTE PIERSON. "

CHAPTER VII

THE fever confined me to my bed a week. When I was able to write Iassured Madame Pierson that she would be obeyed, and that I would goaway. I wrote in good faith, without any intention to deceive, but I wasvery far from keeping my promise. Before I had gone ten leagues I orderedthe driver to stop, and I stepped out of the carriage. I began to walkalong the road. I could not resist the temptation to look back at thevillage which was still visible in the distance. Finally, after a periodof frightful irresolution, I felt that it was impossible for me tocontinue on my route, and rather than get into the carriage again, Iwould have died on the spot. I told the driver to turn around, and, instead of going to Paris as I had intended, I made straight for N-----, whither Madame Pierson had gone. 

I arrived at ten in the night. As soon as I reached the inn I had a boydirect me to the house of her relatives, and, without reflecting what Iwas doing, at once made my way to the spot. A servant opened the door. Iasked if Madame Pierson was there and directed him to tell her that someone wished to speak to her on the part of M. Desprez. That was the nameof our village cure. 

While the servant was executing my order I remained alone in a somberlittle court; as it was raining, I entered the hall and stood at the footof the stairway which was not lighted. Madame Pierson soon arrived, preceding the servant; she descended rapidly, and did not see me in thedarkness; I stepped up to her and touched her arm. She recoiled withterror and cried out:

"What do you wish of me?"

Her voice trembled so painfully, and when the servant appeared with alight, her face was so pale that I did not know what to think. Was itpossible that my unexpected appearance could disturb her in such amanner? That reflection occurred to me, but I decided that it was merelya feeling of fright natural to a woman who is suddenly approached. 

Nevertheless, she repeated her question in a firmer tone. 

"You must permit me to see you once more, " I replied. "I will go away, Iwill leave the country. You shall be obeyed, I swear it, and that beyondyour real desire, for I will sell my father's house and go abroad; butthat is only on condition that I am permitted to see you once more;otherwise I remain; you need fear nothing from me, but I am resolved onthat. "

She frowned and cast her eyes about her in a strange manner; then shereplied, almost graciously:

"Come to-morrow during the day and I will see you. " Then she left me. 

The next day at noon I presented myself. I was introduced into a roomwith old hangings and antique furniture. I found her alone, seated on asofa. I sat down before her. 

"Madame, " I began, "I come neither to speak of what I suffer, nor to denythat I love you. You have written me that what has passed between us cannot be forgotten, and that is true; but you say that on that account wecan not meet on the same footing as heretofore, and you are mistaken. Ilove you, but I have not offended you; nothing is changed in ourrelations since you do not love me. If I am permitted to see you, responsibility rests with me, and as far as your responsibility isconcerned, my love for you should be sufficient guarantee. "

She tried to interrupt me. 

"Kindly allow me to finish what I have to say. No one knows better thanI, that in spite of the respect I feel for you, and in spite of all theprotestations by which I might bind myself, love is the stronger. Irepeat I do not intend to deny what is in my heart; but you do not learnof that love to-day for the first time, and I ask you what has preventedme from declaring it up to the present time? The fear of losing you; Iwas afraid I would not be permitted to see you, and that is what hashappened. Make a condition that the first word I shall speak, the firstthought or gesture that shall seem to be inconsistent with the mostprofound respect, shall be the signal for the closing of your door; as Ihave been silent in the past, I will be silent in the future. You thinkthat I have loved you for a month, when in fact I have loved you from thefirst day I met you. When you discovered it, you did not refuse to see meon that account. If you had at that time enough esteem for me to believeme incapable of offending you, why have you lost that esteem? That iswhat I have come to ask you. What have I done? I have bent my knee, but Ihave not said a word. What have I told you? What you already knew. I havebeen weak because I have suffered. It is true, madame, that I am twentyyears of age and what I have seen of life has only disgusted me, I coulduse a stronger word; it is true that there is not at this hour on earth, either in the society of men or in solitude, a place, however small andinsignificant, that I care to occupy. The space enclosed between the fourwalls of your garden is the only spot in the world where I live; you arethe only human being who has made me love God. I had renounced everythingbefore I knew you; why deprive me of the only ray of light thatProvidence has spared me? If it is on account of fear, what have I doneto inspire it? If it is on account of pity, in what respect am Iculpable? If it is on account of pity and because I suffer, you aremistaken in supposing that I can cure myself; it might have been done, perhaps, two months ago; but I preferred to see you and to suffer, and Ido not repent, whatever may come of it. The only misfortune that canreach me, is losing you. Put me to the proof. If I ever feel that thereis too much suffering for me in our bargain, I will go away; and you maybe sure of it, since you send me away to-day, and I am ready to go. Whatrisk do you run in giving me a month or two of the only happiness I willever know?"

I waited her reply. She suddenly rose from her seat, then sat down again. Then a moment of silence ensued. 

"Rest assured, " she said, "it is not so. "

I thought she was searching for words that would not appear too severe, and that she was anxious to avoid hurting me. 

"One word, " I said, rising, "one word, nothing more. I know who you are, and, if there is any compassion for me in your heart, I thank you; speakbut one word, this moment decides my life. "

She shook her head; I saw that she was hesitating. 

"You think I can be cured?" I cried. "May God grant you that solace ifyou send me away--"

I looked out of the window at the horizon and felt in my soul such afrightful sensation of loneliness at the idea that I was going away, thatmy blood froze in my veins. She saw me standing before her, my eyes fixedon her, awaiting her reply; all of my life was hanging in suspense uponher lips. 

"Very well, " she said, "listen to me. This move of yours in coming to seeme was an act of great imprudence; however, it is not necessary to assumethat you have come here to see me; accept a commission that I will giveyou for a friend of my family. If you find that it is a little far, letit be the occasion of an absence which shall last as long as you choose, but which must not be too short. Although you said a moment ago, " sheadded with a smile, "that a short trip would calm you. You will stop inthe Vosges and you will go as far as Strasburg. Then in a month, orbetter, in two months you will return and report to me; I will see youagain and give you further instructions. "

CHAPTER VIII

THAT evening I received a letter from Madame Pierson, addressed to M. R. D. , at Strasburg. Three weeks later my mission had been accomplished andI returned. 

While absent, I had thought of nothing but her, and I despaired of everforgetting her. Nevertheless, I determined to restrain my feelings in herpresence; I had suffered too cruelly at the prospect of losing her, torun any further risks. My esteem for her rendered it impossible for me tosuspect her sincerity, and I did not see, in her plan for getting me toleave the country, anything that resembled hypocrisy. In a word, I wasfirmly convinced that at the first word of love her door would be closedto me. 

Upon my return, I found her thin and changed. Her habitual smile seemedto languish on her discolored lips. She told me that she had beensuffering. 

We did not speak of the past. She did not appear to wish to recall it andI had no desire to refer to it. We resumed our old relations ofneighbors; yet there was something of constraint between us, a sort ofconventional familiarity. It was as though we had said: "It was thusbefore, let it still be thus. " She granted me her confidence, aconcession that was not without its charms for me; but our conversationwas colder, for the reason that our eyes expressed as much as ourtongues. In all that we said there was more to be surmised than wasactually spoken. We no longer endeavored to fathom each other's mind;there was not the same interest attaching to each word, to eachsentiment; that curious analysis that characterized our past intercourse;she treated me with kindness, but I distrusted even that kindness; Iwalked with her in the garden, but no longer accompanied her outside ofthe premises; we no longer wandered through the woods and valleys; sheopened the piano when we were alone; the sound of her voice no longerawakened in my heart those transports of joy which are like sobs that areinspired by hope. When I took leave of her, she gave me her hand, but Iwas conscious of the fact that it was lifeless; there was much effort inour familiar ease, many reflections in our lightest remarks, much sadnessat the bottom of it all. 

We felt that there was a third party between us: it was my love for her. My actions never betrayed it, but it appeared in my face: I lost mycheerfulness, my energy, and the color of health that once shone in mycheeks. At the end of one month, I no longer resembled my old self. 

And yet in all our conversations I insisted on my disgust with the world, on my aversion to returning to it. I tried to make Madame Pierson feelthat she had no reason to reproach herself for allowing me to see her; Idepicted my past life in the most somber colors and gave her tounderstand that if she should refuse to allow me to see her, she wouldcondemn me to a loneliness worse than death; I told her that I heldsociety in abhorrence and the story of my life, as I recited it, provedmy sincerity. So, I affected a cheerfulness that I was far from feeling, in order to show her that in permitting me to see her she had saved mefrom the most frightful misfortune; I thanked her, almost every time Iwent to see her that I might return in the evening or the followingmorning. "All my dreams of happiness, " said I, "all my hopes, all myambitions, are enclosed in the little corner of the earth where youdwell; outside of the air that you breathe there is no life for me. "

She saw that I was suffering and could not help pitying me. My couragewas pathetic, and her every word and gesture shed a sort of tender lightover my devotion. She saw the struggle that was going on in me: myobedience flattered her pride, while my pallor awakened her charitableinstinct. At times she appeared to be irritated, almost coquettish; shewould say in a tone that was almost rebellious: "I shall not be hereto-morrow, do not come on such and such a day. " Then as I was going awaysad, but resigned, she sweetened the cup of bitterness by adding: "I amnot sure of it, come whenever you please;" or her adieu was more friendlythan usual, her glance more tender. 

"Rest assured that Providence has led me to you, " I said. "If I had notmet you, I might have relapsed into the irregular life I was leadingbefore I knew you. God has sent you as an angel of light to draw me fromthe abyss. He has confided a sacred mission to you; who knows, if Ishould lose you, whither the sorrow that consumes me might lead me, thesad experience I have been through, the terrible combat between my youthand my ennui?"

That thought, sincere enough on my part, had great weight with a woman oflofty devotion whose soul was as pious as it was ardent. It was probablythe only consideration that induced Madame Pierson to permit me to seeher. 

I was preparing to go to see her one day when some one knocked at my doorand I saw Mercanson enter, that priest I had met in the garden on theoccasion of my first visit. He began to make excuses that were astiresome as himself for presuming to call on me without having made myacquaintance; I told him that I knew him very well as the nephew of ourcure, and asked what I could do for him. 

He turned uneasily from one side to another with an air of constraint, searching for phrases and fingering everything on the table before him asthough at a loss what to say. Finally, he informed me that Madame Piersonwas ill and that she had sent word to me by him that she would not beable to see me that day. 

"Is she ill? Why, I left her late yesterday afternoon and she was verywell at that time!"

He bowed. 

"But, " I continued, "if she is ill, why send word to me by a third party?She does not live so far away that a useless call would harm me. "

The same response from Mercanson. I could not understand what thispeculiar manner signified, much less why she had entrusted her mission tohim. 

"Very well, " I said, "I shall see her to-morrow and she will explain whatthis means. "

His hesitation continued. 

"Madame Pierson has also told me--that I should inform you--in fact, I amrequested to--"

"Well, what is it?" I cried, impatiently. 

"Sir, you are becoming violent, I think Madame Pierson is seriously ill;she will not be able to see you this week. "

Another bow, and he retired. 

It was clear that his visit concealed some mystery: either Madame Piersondid not wish to see me, and I could not explain why, _or_ Mercanson hadinterfered on his own responsibility. 

I waited until the following day and then presented myself at her door;the servant who met me said that her mistress was indeed very ill andcould not see me; she refused to accept the money I offered her, andwould not answer my questions. 

As I was passing through the village on my return, I saw Mercanson; hewas surrounded by a number of school children, his uncle's pupils. Istopped him in the midst of his harangue and asked if I could have a wordwith him. 

He followed me aside; but now it was my turn to hesitate, for I was at aloss how to proceed to draw his secret from him. 

"Sir, " I finally said, "will you kindly inform me if what you told meyesterday was the truth, or was there some motive behind it? Moreover, asthere is not a physician in the neighborhood who can be called, in caseof necessity, it is important that I should know whether her condition isserious. "

He protested that Madame Pierson was ill, but that he knew nothing more, except that she had sent for him and asked him to notify me as he haddone. While talking, we had walked down the road some distance and hadnow reached a deserted spot. Seeing that neither strategy nor entreatywould serve my purpose, I suddenly turned and seized him by the arms. 

"What does this mean, sir? You intend to resort to violence?" he cried. 

"No, but I intend to make you tell me what you know. "

"Sir, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought to know. "

"You have told me what you think I ought to know, but not what you know. Madame Pierson is not sick, I am sure of it. "

"How do you know?"

"The servant told me so. Why has she closed her door against me, and whydid she send you to tell me of it?"

Mercanson saw a peasant passing. 

"Pierre!" he cried, calling him by name, "wait a moment, I wish to speakwith you. "

The peasant approached; that was all he wanted, thinking I would not dareuse violence in the presence of a third party. I let go of him, but soroughly that he staggered back and fell against a tree. He clenched hisfist and turned away without a word. 

For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three times a day I called at MadamePierson's and was each time refused admittance. I received one letterfrom her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in the village andbegged me to call less frequently. Not a word about Mercanson or herillness. 

This precaution on her part was so unnatural and contrasted so stronglywith her former proud indifference in matters of this kind, that at firstI could hardly believe it. Not knowing what else to say, I replied thatthere was no desire in my heart but obedience to her wishes. But in spiteof me, the words I used did not conceal the bitterness I felt. 

I purposely delayed going to see her even when permitted to do so, and nolonger sent to inquire about her condition, as I wished to have her knowthat I did not believe in her illness. I did not know why she kept me ata distance; but I was so miserably unhappy that, at times, I thoughtseriously of putting an end to a life that had become insupportable. Iwas accustomed to spend entire days in the woods, and one day I happenedto encounter her there. 

I hardly had the courage to ask for an explanation; she did not replyfrankly and I did not recur to the subject, I could only count the days Iwas obliged to pass without seeing her, and live in the hope of a visit. All the time I was strongly tempted to throw myself at her feet, and tellher of my despair. I knew that she would not be insensible to it, andthat she would at least express her pity; but her severity and the abruptmanner of her departure recalled me to my senses; I trembled lest Ishould lose her, and I would rather die than expose myself to thatdanger. 

Thus, denied the solace of confession of my sorrow, my health began togive way. My feet lagged on the way to her house; I felt that I wasexhausting the source of tears, and each visit cost me added sorrow; Iwas torn with the thought that I ought not to see her. 

On her part there was neither the same tone nor the same ease as of old;she spoke of going away on a tour; she pretended to confess to me herlonging to get away, leaving me more dead than alive after her cruelwords. If surprised by a natural impulse of sympathy, she immediatelychecked herself and relapsed into her accustomed coldness. Upon oneoccasion, I could not restrain my tears; I saw her turn pale. As I wasgoing, she said to me at the door:

"To-morrow, I am going to St. Luce, a neighboring village, and it is toofar to go on foot. Be here with your horse early in the morning, if youhave nothing to do, and go with me. "

I was on hand promptly, as may readily be imagined. I had slept over thatword with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house, I experienced afeeling of deep dejection. In restoring me to the privilege I hadformerly enjoyed of accompanying her on her missions about the country, she had clearly been guilty of a cruel caprice if she did not love me. She knew how I was suffering; why abuse my courage unless she had changedher mind?

This reflection had a strange influence on me. When she mounted her horsemy heart beat violently as I took her foot; I do not know whether it wasdesire or anger. "If she is touched, " I said to myself, "why thisreserve? If she is a coquette, why so much liberty?"

Such are men. At my first word she saw that a change had taken place inme. I did not speak to her but kept to the other side of the road. Whenwe reached the valley she appeared at ease and only turned her head fromtime to time to see if I was following her; but when we came to theforest and our horses' hoofs resounded against the rocks that lined theroad, I saw that she was trembling. She stopped as though to wait for me, as I was some distance in the rear; when I had overtaken her, she set outon a gallop. We soon reached the foot of the mountain and were compelledto slacken our pace. I then made my way to her side; our heads werebowed; the time had come, I took her hand. 

"Brigitte, " I said, "are you weary of my complaints? Since I have beenreinstated in your favor, since I have been allowed to see you every dayand every evening, I have asked myself if I have been importunate. Duringthe last two months, while strength and hope have been failing me, have Isaid a word of that fatal love which is consuming me? Raise your head andanswer me. Do you not see that I suffer and that my nights are given toweeping? Have you not met in the forest an unfortunate wretch, sitting insolitary dejection with his hands pressed to his forehead? Have you notseen tears on these bushes? Look at me, look at these mountains; do yourealize that I love you? They know it, they are my witnesses; these rocksand these trees know my secret. Why lead me before them? Am I notwretched enough? Do I fail in courage? Have I obeyed you? To what tests, what tortures am I subjected, and for what crime? If you do not love me, what are you doing here?"

"Let us return, " she said, "let us retrace our steps. "

I seized her horse's bridle. 

"No, " I replied, "for I have spoken. If we return, I lose you, I realizeit; I know in advance what you will say. You have been pleased to try mypatience, you have set my sorrow at defiance, perhaps that you might havethe right to drive me from your presence; you have become tired of thatsorrowful lover who suffered without complaint and who drank withresignation the bitter chalice of your disdain! You knew that, alone withyou in the presence of these trees, in the midst of this solitude wheremy love had its birth, I could not be silent! You wish to be offended. Very well, madame, I lose you! I have wept and I have suffered, I havetoo long nourished in my heart a pitiless love that devours me. You havebeen cruel!"

As she was about to leap from her saddle, I seized her in my arms andpressed my lips to hers. She turned pale, her eyes closed, her bridleslipped from her hand and she fell to the ground. 

"God be praised!" I cried, "she loves me!" She had returned my kiss. 

I leaped to the ground and hastened to her side. She was extended on theground. I raised her, she opened her eyes, and shuddered with terror; shepushed my arm aside, and burst into tears. 

I stood near the roadside; I looked at her as she leaned against a tree, as beautiful as the day, her long hair falling over her shoulders, herhands twitching and trembling, her cheeks suffused with color, brilliantwith purple and with pearls. 

"Do not come near me!" she cried, "not a step!"

"Oh! my love, " I said, "fear nothing; if I have offended you, you knowhow to punish me. I was angry and I gave way to my grief; treat me as youchoose, you may go away now, you may send me away! I know that you loveme, Brigitte, and you are safer here than a king in his palace. "

As I spoke these words, Madame Pierson fixed her humid eyes on mine; Isaw the happiness of my life come to me in the flash of those orbs. Icrossed the road and knelt before her. How little he loves, who canrecall the words he uses when he confesses that love!

CHAPTER IX

IF I were a jeweler, and had in my stock a pearl necklace that I wishedto give a friend, it seems to me I would take great pleasure in placingit about her neck with my own hands; but if I were that friend, I wouldrather die than snatch the necklace from the jeweler's hand. I have seenmany men hasten to give themselves to the woman they love, but I havealways done the contrary, not through calculation, but through naturalinstinct. The woman who loves a little and resists does not love enough, and she who loves enough and resists knows that she is not sincerelyloved. 

Madame Pierson gave evidence of more confidence in me, confessing thatshe loved me when she had never shown it in her actions. The respect Ifelt for her inspired me with such joy that her face looked to me like ablossomed flower. At times, she would abandon herself to an impulse ofsudden gaiety and then suddenly check herself, treating me like a child, and then looking at me with eyes filled with tears; indulging in athousand pleasantries, as a pretext for a more familiar word or caress, then quitting me to go aside and abandon herself to reverie. Is there amore beautiful sight? When she returned she would find me waiting for herin some spot where I had remained watching her. 

"Oh! my friend!" I said. "Heaven itself rejoices to see how you areloved. "

Yet I could neither conceal the violence of my desires, nor the pain Iendured struggling against them. One evening, I told her that I had justlearned of the loss of an important case, which would involve aconsiderable change in my affairs. 

"How is it, " she asked, "that you make this announcement and smile at thesame time?"

"There is a certain maxim of a Persian poet, " I replied, "'He who isloved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow. '"

Madame Pierson made no reply; all that evening she was even more cheerfulthan usual. When we played cards with her aunt and I lost, she wasmerciless in her scorn, saying that I knew nothing of the game, andbetting against me with so much success that she won all I had in mypurse. When the old lady retired, she stepped out on the balcony and Ifollowed her in silence. 

The night was beautiful; the moon was setting and the stars shonebrightly in a field of deep azure. Not a breath of wind stirred thetrees; the air was warm and laden with the perfume of spring. 

She was leaning on her elbow, her eyes in the heavens; I leaned over herand watched her as she dreamed. Then I raised my own eyes; a voluptuousmelancholy seized us both. We breathed together, the warm perfume waftedto us from the garden; we followed, in its lingering course, the palelight of the moon which glinted through the chestnut-trees. I thought ofa certain day when I had looked up at the broad expanse of heaven withdespair; I trembled at the recollection of that hour; life was so richnow! I felt a hymn of praise rising up in my heart. I surrounded the formof my dear beloved with my arm; she gently turned her head; her eyes werebathed in tears. Her body yielded, as does the rose, her open lips fellon mine, and the universe was forgotten. 

CHAPTER X

ETERNAL angel of happy nights, who will utter thy silence? A kiss!mysterious vintage that flows from the lips as from a stainless chalice!Intoxication of the senses! O voluptuous pleasure! Yes, like God, thouart immortal! Sublime exaltation of the creature, universal communion ofbeings, thrice sacred pleasure, what have they sung who have celebratedthy praise? They have called thee transitory, O thou who dost create! Andthey have said that thy passing beams have illumined their fugitive life. Words that are as feeble as the dying breath! Words of a sensual brutewho is astonished that he should live for an hour, and who mistakes therays of the eternal lamp for the spark which is struck from the flint. 

O love! thou principle of life! precious flame over which all nature, like a careful vestal, incessantly watches in the temple of God! Centerof all, by whom all exists! The spirit of destruction would itself die, blowing at thy flame! I am not astonished that thy name should beblasphemed, for they do not know who thou art, they who think they haveseen thy face because they have opened their eyes; and when thou findestthy true prophets, united on earth with a kiss, thou closest their eyeslest they look upon the face of perfect joy. 

But your first delights, languishing smiles, first stammering utteranceof love, you who can be seen, who are you? Are you less in God's sightthan all the rest, beautiful cherubim who soar in the alcove, and whobring to this world man awakened from the dream divine! Ah! dear childrenof pleasure, how your mother loves you! It is you, curious prattlers, whobehold the first mysteries, touches, trembling yet chaste, glances thatare already insatiable, who begin to trace on the heart, as a tentativesketch, the ineffaceable image of cherished beauty! O royalty! Oconquest! It is you who make lovers. And thou, true diadem, thou, serenity of happiness! First glance bent on life, first return ofhappiness to the many little things of life which are seen only throughthe medium of joy, first steps made by nature in the direction of thewell-beloved! Who will paint you? What human word will ever express thyslightest caress?

He who, in the freshness of his youth, has taken leave of an adoredwoman; he who has walked through the streets without hearing the voicesof those who speak to him; he who has sat in a lonely spot, laughing andweeping without knowing why; he who has placed his hands to his face inorder to breathe the perfume that still clings to them; he who hassuddenly forgotten what he had been doing on earth; he who has spoken tothe trees along the route and to the birds in their flight; finally, hewho in the midst of men has acted the madman, and then has fallen on hisknees and thanked God for it; he will die without complaint: he has knownthe joy of love. 

 PART IV

CHAPTER I

I MUST now recite what happened to my love, and the change that tookplace in me. What reason can I give for it? None, except as I repeat thestory and as I say: "It is the truth. "

For two days, neither more nor less, I was Madame Pierson's lover. Onefine night, I set out and traversed the road that led to her house. I wasfeeling so well in body and soul, that I leaped for joy and extended myarms to heaven. I found her at the top of the stairway, leaning on therailing, a lighted candle beside her. She was waiting for me and when shesaw me ran to meet me. 

She showed me how she had changed her coiffure which had displeased me, and told me how she had passed the day arranging her hair to suit mytaste; how she had taken down a villainous black picture frame that hadoffended my eye; how she had renewed the flowers; she recounted all shehad done since she had known me, how she had seen me suffer and how shehad suffered herself; how she had thought of leaving the country, offleeing from her love; how she had employed every precaution against me;how she had sought advice from her aunt, from Mercanson and from thecure; how she had vowed to herself that she would die rather than yield, and how all that had been dissipated by a single word of mine, a glance, an incident; and with every confession, a kiss. She said that whatever Isaw in her room that pleased my taste, whatever bagatelle on her tableattracted my attention, she would give me; that whatever she did in thefuture, in the morning, in the evening, at any hour, I should regulate asI pleased; that the judgments of the world did not concern her; that ifshe had appeared to care for them, it was only to send me away; but thatshe wished to be happy and close her ears; that she was thirty years ofage and had not long to be loved by me. "And you will love me a longtime? Are those fine words with which you have beguiled me, true?" Andthen, loving reproaches because I had been late in coming to her; thatshe had put on her slippers in order that I might see her foot but thatshe was no longer beautiful; that she could wish she were; that she was, at fifteen. She went here and there, silly with love, crimson with joy;and she did not know what to imagine, what to say or do, in order to giveherself and all that she had. 

I was lying on the sofa; I felt, at every word she spoke, a bad hour ofmy past life slipping away from me. I watched the star of love rising inmy sky, and it seemed to me I was like a tree filled with sap that shakesoff its dry leaves in order to attire itself in new foliage. 

She sat down at the piano and told me she was going to play an air byStradella. I love more than all else, sacred music, and that morceauwhich she sang for me a number of times, gave me great pleasure. 

"Yes, " she said when she had finished, "but you are very much mistaken, the air is mine, and I have made you believe it was Stradella's. "

"It is yours?"

"Yes, and I told you it was by Stradella, in order to see what you wouldsay of it. I never play my own music, when I happen to compose any; but Iwanted to try it with you, and you see it has succeeded, since you weredeceived. "

What a monstrous machine is man! What could be more innocent? A brightchild might have adopted that ruse to surprise his teacher. She laughedheartily the while, but I felt a strange coldness as though a cloud hadsettled on me; my countenance changed. 

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Are you ill?"

"It is nothing; play that air again. "

While she was playing, I walked up and down the room; I passed my handover my forehead as though to brush away the fog, I stamped my foot, shrugged my shoulders at my own madness; finally, I sat down on a cushionwhich had fallen to the floor; she came to me. The more I struggled withthe spirit of darkness which had seized me, the thicker the night thatgathered around my head. 

"Verily, " I said, "you lie so well? What! that air is yours? Is itpossible you can lie so fluently?"

She looked at me with an air of astonishment. 

"What is it?" she asked. 

Unspeakable anxiety was depicted on her face. Surely she could notbelieve me fool enough to reproach her for such a harmless bit ofpleasantry; she did not see anything serious in that sadness which Ifelt; but the more trifling the cause, the greater the surprise. At firstshe thought I, too, must be joking; but when she saw me growing palerevery moment, as though about to faint, she stood with open lips and bentbody, looking like a statue. 

"God of Heaven!" she cried, "is it possible?"

You smile, perhaps, reader, at this page; I, who write it, still shudderas I think of it. Misfortunes have their symptoms as well as diseases, and there is nothing so terrible at sea as a little black point on thehorizon. 

However, my dear Brigitte drew a little round table into the center ofthe room and brought out some supper. She had prepared it herself and Idid not drink a drop that was not first borne to her lips. The blue lightof day, piercing through the curtains, illumined her charming face andtender eyes; she was tired and allowed her head to fall on my shoulderwith a thousand terms of endearment. 

I could not struggle against such charming abandon, and my heart expandedwith joy; I believed I had rid myself of the bad dream that had justtormented me, and I begged her pardon for giving way to a sudden impulsewhich I, myself, did not understand. 

"My friend, " I said from the bottom of my heart, "I am very sorry that Iunjustly reproached you for a piece of innocent badinage; but if you loveme, never lie to me, even in the smallest matter, for a lie is anabomination to me and I can not endure it. "

I told her I would remain until she was asleep. I saw her close herbeautiful eyes, and heard her murmur something in her sleep as I bentover and kissed her adieu. Then I went away with a tranquil heart, promising myself that I would henceforth enjoy my happiness and allownothing to disturb it. 

But the next day Brigitte said to me, as though by chance:

"I have a large book in which I have written my thoughts, everything thathas occurred to my mind, and I want you to see what I said of you thefirst day I met you. "

We read together what concerned me, to which we added a hundred foolishcomments, after which I began to turn the leaves in a mechanical way. Aphrase, written in capital letters caught my eye on one of the pages Iwas turning; I distinctly saw some words that were insignificant enoughand I was about to read the rest when Brigitte stopped me and said:

"Do not read that. "

I threw the book on the table. 

"Why, certainly not, " I said, "I did not think what I was doing. "

"Do you still take things seriously?" she asked, smiling, doubtlessseeing my malady coming on again; "take the book, I want you to read it. "

The book lay on the table within easy reach, and I did not take my eyesfrom it. I seemed to hear a voice whispering in my ear, and I thought Isaw, grimacing before me, with his glacial smile, and dry face, Desgenais. "What are you doing here, Desgenais?" I asked, as if I reallysaw him. He looked as he did that evening, when he leaned over my tableand unfolded to me his catechism of vice. 

I kept my eyes on the book and I felt vaguely stirring in my memory someforgotten words of the past. The spirit of doubt hanging over my head hadinjected into my veins a drop of poison; the vapor mounted to my head andI staggered like a drunken man. What secret was Brigitte concealing fromme? I knew very well that I had only to bend over and open the book; butat what place? How could I recognize the leaf on which my eye had chancedto fall?

My pride, moreover, would not permit me to take the book; was it indeedpride? "O God!" I said to myself with a frightful sense of sadness, "isthe past a specter? and can it come out of its tomb? Ah! wretch that Iam, can I never love?"

All my ideas of contempt for women, all the phrases of mocking fatuitywhich I had repeated as a schoolboy his lesson, suddenly came to my mind;and strange to say, while formerly I did not believe in making a paradeof them, now it seemed that they were real or at least that they hadbeen. 

I had known Madame Pierson four months, but I knew nothing of her pastlife and had never questioned her about it. I had yielded to my love forher with confidence and without reservation. I found a sort of pleasurein taking her just as she was, for just what she seemed, while suspicionand jealousy are so foreign to my nature that I was more surprised atfeeling them toward Brigitte than she was in discovering them in me. Never, in my first love, nor in the affairs of daily life have I beendistrustful, but on the contrary, bold and frank, suspecting nothing. Ihad to see my mistress betray me before my eyes before I would believethat she could deceive me. Desgenais himself, while preaching to me afterhis manner, joked me about the ease with which I could be duped. Thestory of my life was an incontestable proof that I was credulous ratherthan suspicious; and when the words in that book suddenly struck me, itseemed to me I felt a new being within me, a sort of unknown self; myreason revolted against the feeling, and I did not dare ask whither allthat was leading me. 

But the suffering I had endured, the memory of the perfidy that I hadwitnessed, the frightful cure I had imposed on myself, the opinions of myfriends, the corrupt life I had led, the sad truths I had learned, allthose that I had unconsciously surmised during my sad experience, finally, debauchery, contempt of love, abuse of everything, that is whatI had in my heart although I did not suspect it; and at the moment whenlife and hope were again being born within me, all these furies that weregrowing numb with time, seized me by the throat and cried out that theywere there. 

I bent over and opened the book, then immediately closed it and threw iton the table. Brigitte was looking at me; in her beautiful eyes there wasneither wounded pride nor anger; there was nothing but tender solicitudeas if I were ill. 

"Do you think I have secrets?" she asked, embracing me. 

"No, " I replied, "I know nothing except that you are beautiful and that Iwould die, loving you. "

When I returned home to dinner I said to Larive:

"Who is that Madame Pierson?"

He looked at me in astonishment. 

"You have lived here many years, " I continued; "you ought to know betterthan I. What do they say of her here? What do they think of her in thevillage? What kind of a life did she lead before I knew her? Whom did shereceive as her friends?"

"In faith, sir, I have never seen her do otherwise than she does everyday, that is to say, walk in the valley, play piquet with her aunt, andvisit the poor. The peasants call her Brigitte la Rose; I have neverheard a word against her except that she goes through the woods alone atall hours of the day and night; but that is when engaged in charitablework. She is the ministering angel in the valley. As for those shereceives, there are only the cure and M. De Dalens, during vacation. "

"Who is this M. De Dalens?"

"He owns the chateau at the foot of the mountain on the other side; heonly comes here for the chase. "

"Is he young?"

"Yes. "

"Is he related to Madame Pierson?"

"No, he was a friend of her husband. "

"Has her husband been dead long?"

"Five years on All-Saints' day. He was a worthy man. "

"And has this M. De Dalens paid court?"

"To the widow? In faith--to tell the truth--" he stopped, embarrassed. 

"Well, will you answer me?"

"Some say so and some do not--I know nothing and have seen nothing. "

"And you just told me that they do not talk about her in the country?"

"That is all they have said, and I supposed you knew that. "

"In a word, yes or no?"

"Yes, sir, I think so, at least. "

I arose from the table and walked down the road; Mercanson was there. Iexpected he would try to avoid me; on the contrary he approached me. 

"Sir, " he said, "you exhibited signs of anger which it does not become aman of my character to resent. I wish to express my regret that I wascharged to communicate a message which appeared so unwelcome. "

I returned his compliment, supposing he would leave me at once; but hewalked along at my side. 

"Dalens! Dalens!" I repeated, between my teeth, "who will tell me aboutDalens?" For Larive had told me nothing except what a valet might learn. From whom had he learned it? From some servant or peasant. I must havesome witness who had seen Dalens with Madame Pierson and who knew allabout their relations. I could not get that Dalens out of my head, andnot being able to talk to any one else, I asked Mercanson about him. 

If Mercanson was not a bad man, he was either a fool or very shrewd, Ihave never known which; it is certain that he had reason to hate me andthat he treated me as meanly as possible. Madame Pierson, who had thegreatest friendship for the cure, had almost come to think equally wellof the nephew. He was proud of it, and consequently jealous. It is notlove alone that inspires jealousy; a favor, a kind word, a smile from abeautiful mouth, may arouse some people to jealous rage. 

Mercanson appeared to be astonished. I was somewhat astonished myself;but who knows his own mind?

At his first words, I saw that the priest understood what I wanted toknow and had decided not to satisfy me. 

"How does it happen that you have known Madame Pierson so long and sointimately, I think so, at least, and have not met M. De Dalens? But, doubtless, you have some reason unknown to me for inquiring about himto-day. All I can say is that, as far as I know, he is an honest man, kind and charitable; he was, like you, very intimate with Madame Pierson;he is fond of hunting and entertains handsomely. He and Madame Piersonwere accustomed to devote much of their time to music. He punctuallyattended to his works of charity and, when in the country, accompaniedthat lady on her visits, just as you do. His family enjoys an excellentreputation at Paris; I used to find him with Madame Pierson whenever Icalled; his manners were excellent. As for the rest, I speak truly andfrankly, as becomes me when it concerns persons of his merit. I believethat he only comes here for the chase; he was a friend of her husband; heis said to be rich and very generous; but I know nothing about it exceptthat--"

With what tortured phrases was this dull tormentor teasing me. I wasashamed to listen to him, yet dared not to ask a single question orinterrupt his vile insinuations. I was alone on the promenade; thepoisoned arrow of suspicion had entered my heart. I did not know whetherI felt more of anger or of sorrow. The confidence with which I hadabandoned myself to my love for Brigitte, had been so sweet and sonatural that I could not bring myself to believe that so much happinesshad been built upon an illusion. That sentiment of credulity, which hadattracted me to her, seemed a proof that she was worthy. Was it possiblethat these four months of happiness were but a dream?

But, after all, I thought that woman has yielded too easily. Was therenot deception in that pretended anxiety to have me leave the country? Isshe not just like all the rest? Yes, that is the way they all do; theyattempt to escape in order to know the happiness of being pursued: it isthe feminine instinct. Was it not she who confessed her love by her ownact, at the very moment I had decided that she would never be mine? Didshe not accept my arm, the first day I met her? If that Dalens has beenher lover, he probably is still; there are certain liaisons that haveneither beginning nor end; when chance ordains a meeting, it is resumed;when parted, it is forgotten. If that man comes here this summer, shewill probably see him without breaking with me. Who is that aunt, whatmysterious life is this that has charity for its cloak, this liberty thatcares nothing for opinion? May they not be adventurers, these two womenwith their little house, their prudence and their caution which enablesthem to impose on people so easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I havefallen into an affair of gallantry when I thought I was engaged in aromance. But what can I do? There is no one here who can help me exceptthe priest, who does not care to tell me what he knows, and his uncle whowill say still less. Who will save me? How can I learn the truth?

Thus spoke jealousy; thus, forgetting so many tears and all that I hadsuffered, I had come, at the end of two days, to a point where I wastormenting myself with the idea that Brigitte had yielded too easily. Thus, like all who doubt, I brushed aside sentiment and reason to disputewith facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love. 

While absorbed in these reflections, I was slowly approaching MadamePierson's. 

I found gate open, and as I entered the garden, I saw a light in thekitchen. I thought of questioning the servant, I stepped to the window. 

A feeling of horror rooted me to the spot. The servant was an old woman, thin and wrinkled and habitually bent over, a common deformity in peoplewho have worked in the fields. I found her shaking a cooking utensil overa filthy sink. A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about herwere pots, kettles and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffedat, from time to time, as though ashamed; a warm, nauseating odoremanated from the reeking walls. When the old woman caught sight of me, she smiled in a confidential way; she had seen me take leave of hermistress. 

I shuddered as I thought what I had come to seek in a spot so well suitedto my ignoble purpose. I fled from that old woman as from jealousypersonified, and as though the stench of her dishes had come from myheart. 

Brigitte was at the window watering her well-beloved flowers; a child ofone of her neighbors was lying in a cradle at her side and she was gentlyrocking it with her disengaged hand; the child's mouth was full ofbonbons, and in gurgling eloquence it was addressing an incomprehensibleapostrophe to its nurse. I sat down near her and kissed the child on itsfat cheeks, as though to imbibe some of its innocence. Brigitte accordedme a timid greeting; she could see her troubled image in my eyes. For mypart, I avoided her glance; the more I admired her beauty and her air ofcandor, the more I was convinced that such a woman was either an angel ora monster of perfidy; I forced myself to recall each one of Mercanson'swords, and I confronted, so to speak, the man's insinuations with herpresence and her face. "She is very beautiful, " I said to myself, "andvery dangerous if she knows how to deceive; but I will fathom her and Iwill sound her heart; and she shall know who I am. "

"My dear, " I said after a long silence, "I have just given a piece ofadvice to a friend who consulted me. He is an honest young man, and hewrites me that a woman he loves has another lover. He asks me what heought to do. "

"What reply did you make?"

"Two questions: Is she pretty? Do you love her? If you love her, forgether; if she is pretty and you do not love her, keep her for yourpleasure; there will always be time to leave her, if it is merely amatter of beauty, and one is worth as much as another. "

Hearing me speak thus, Brigitte put down the child she was holding; shesat down at the other end of the room. There was no light in the room;the moon, which was shining on the spot where she had been standing, threw a shadow over the sofa on which she was now seated. The words I haduttered were so heartless, so cruel, that I was dazed, myself, and myheart was filled with bitterness. The child in its cradle began to cry. Then all three of us were silent while a cloud passed over the moon. 

A servant entered the room with a light and carried the child away. Iarose, Brigitte also; but she suddenly placed her hand on her heart andfell to the floor. 

I hastened to her side; she had not lost consciousness and begged me notto call any one. She explained that she was subject to violentpalpitation of the heart and had been troubled by fainting spells fromher youth; that there was no danger and no remedy. I kneeled beside her;she sweetly opened her arms; I raised her head and placed it on myshoulder. 

"Ah! my friend, " she said, "I pity you. "

"Listen to me, " I whispered in her ear, "I am a wretched fool, but I cankeep nothing on my heart. Who is this M. De Dalens who lives on themountain and comes to see you?"

She appeared astonished to hear me mention that name. 

"Dalens?" she replied. "He was my husband's friend. "

She looked at me as though to say: "Why do you ask?" It seemed to me thather face wore a grieved expression. I bit my lips. "If she wants todeceive me, " I thought, "I was foolish to question her. "

Brigitte arose with difficulty; she took her fan and began to walk up anddown the room. 

She was breathing hard; I had wounded her. She was absorbed in thoughtand we exchanged two or three glances that were almost cold. She steppedto her desk, opened it, drew out a package of letters tied together witha ribbon, and threw it at my feet without a word. 

But I was looking neither at her nor her letters; I had just thrown astone into the abyss and was listening for the echoes. For the firsttime, offended pride was depicted on Brigitte's face. There was no longereither anxiety or pity in her eyes and, just as I had come to feel myselfother than I had ever been, so I saw in her a woman I did not know. 

"Read that, " she said finally. I stepped up to her and took her hand. 

"Read that, read that!" she repeated in freezing tones. 

I took the letters. At that moment I felt so persuaded of her innocencethat I was seized with remorse. 

"You remind me, " she said, "that I owe you the story of my life; sit downand you shall learn it. You will open these drawers and you will read allthat I have written and all that has been written to me. "

She sat down and motioned me to a chair. I saw that she found itdifficult to speak. She was pale as death, her voice constrained, herthroat swollen. 

"Brigitte! Brigitte!" I cried, "in the name of Heaven, do not speak! Godis my witness I was not born such as you see me; during my life I havebeen neither suspicious nor distrustful, I have been undone, my heart hasbeen seared by the treachery of others. A frightful experience has led meto the very brink of the precipice, and for a year I have seen nothingbut evil here below. God is my witness that up to this day I did notbelieve myself capable of playing the ignoble role I have assumed, themeanest role of all, that of a jealous lover. God is my witness that Ilove you and that you are the only one in the world who can cure me ofthe past. I have had to do, up to this time, with women who deceived me, or who were unworthy of love. I have led the life of a libertine; I bearon my heart certain marks that will never be effaced. Is it my fault ifcalumny, if base suggestion, to-day planted in a heart whose fibers werestill trembling with pain and prompt to assimilate all that resemblessorrow, has driven me to despair? I have just heard the name of a man Ihave never met, of whose existence I was ignorant; I have been given tounderstand that there has been between you and him a certain intimacy, which proves nothing; I do not intend to question you; I have sufferedfrom it, I have confessed to you and I have done you an irreparablewrong. But rather than consent to what you propose, I will throw it allin the fire. Ah! my friend, do not degrade me; do not attempt to justifyyourself, do not punish me for suffering. How could I, in the bottom ofmy heart, suspect you of deceiving me? No, you are beautiful and you aretrue; a single glance of yours, Brigitte, tells me more than words couldutter, and I am content. If you knew what horrors, what monstrous deceit, the child who stands before you has seen! If you knew how he had beentreated, how they have mocked at all that is good, how they have takenpains to teach him all that leads to doubt, to jealousy, to despair!Alas! alas! my dear mistress, if you knew whom you love! Do not reproachme but rather pity me; I must forget that other beings than you exist. Who can know through what frightful trials, through what pitilesssuffering I have passed! I did not expect this, I did not anticipate thismoment. Since you have become mine, I realize what I have done; I havefelt, in kissing you, that my lips were not, like yours, unsullied. Inthe name of Heaven, help me live! God made me a better man than the oneyou see before you. "

Brigitte held out her hands and caressed me tenderly. She begged me totell her all that had led to this sad scene. I spoke of what I hadlearned from Larive but did not dare confess that I had interviewedMercanson. She insisted that I listen to her explanation. M. De Dalenshad loved her; but he was a man of frivolous disposition, dissipated andinconstant, she had given him to understand that, not wishing to remarry, she could only request that he drop the role of suitor, and he hadyielded to her wishes with good grace; but his visits had become morerare since that time, until now they had ceased altogether. She drew fromthe bundle a certain letter which she showed me, the date of which wasrecent; I could not help blushing as I found in it the confirmation ofall she had said; she assured me that she pardoned me, and exacted apromise that in the future I would promptly tell her of any cause I mighthave to suspect her. Our treaty was sealed with a kiss, and when I lefther we had both forgotten that M. De Dalens ever existed. 

CHAPTER II

A KIND of stagnant inertia, tempered with bitter joy, is characteristicof debauchery. It is the sequence of a life of caprice, where nothing isregulated according to the needs of the body, but everything according tothe fantasy of the mind and one must be always ready to obey the behestsof the other. Youth and will can resist excess; but nature silentlyavenges herself, and the day when she decides to repair her forces, thewill struggles to retard her work and abuses her anew. 

Finding about him, then, all the objects that were able to tempt him theevening before, the man who is incapable of enjoying them, looks down atthem with a smile of disgust. At the same time, the objects which excitehis desire are never attained with sangfroid; all that the debaucheeloves, he takes violent possession of; his life is a fever; his organs, in order to search the depths of joy, are forced to avail themselves ofthe stimulant of fermented liquors, and sleepless nights; in the days ofennui and of idleness, he feels more keenly than other men the disparitybetween his impotence and his temptations, and, in order to resist thelatter, pride must come to his aid and make him believe that he disdainsthem. It is thus he spits on all the feasts and pleasures of his life, and that between an ardent thirst and a profound satiety a feeling oftranquil vanity leads him to his death. 

Although I was no longer a debauchee it came to pass that my bodysuddenly remembered that it had been. It is easy to understand why I hadnot felt the effects of it sooner. While mourning my father's death, every other thought was crowded from my mind. Then a passionate lovesucceeded; while I was alone, ennui had nothing to struggle for. Sad orgay, fair or foul, what matters it to him who is alone?

As zinc, that demi-metal, drawn from the blue vein where it liessleeping, attracts to itself a ray of light when placed near a piece ofgreen leather, thus Brigitte's kisses gradually awakened in my heart whathad been buried there. At her side I perceived what I really was. 

There were days when I felt such a strange sensation in the mornings, that it is impossible for me to define it. I awakened without a motive, feeling like a man who has spent the night in eating and drinking to thepoint of exhaustion. All external sensations caused me insupportablefatigue, all well-known objects of daily life repelled and annoyed me; ifI spoke, it was in ridicule of what others thought or of what I thoughtmyself. Then, extended on the bed, as though incapable of motion, Idismissed all thought of undertaking whatever had been agreed upon theevening before; I recalled all the tender and loving things I had said tomy mistress during my better moments, and was not satisfied until I hadspoiled and poisoned those memories of happy days. "Can you not forgetall that?" Brigitte would sadly inquire, "if there are two different menin you, do you not, when the bad rouses himself, forget to humor thegood?"

The patience with which Brigitte opposed those vagaries only served toexcite my sinister gaiety. Strange that man who suffers wishes to makeher, whom he loves, suffer! To lose control of oneself, is that not theworst of evils? Is there anything more cruel for a woman than to hear aman turn to derision all there is that is sacred and mysterious? Yet shedid not flee from me; she remained at my side while in my savage humor, Iinsulted love and allowed insane ravings to escape from lips that werestill moist with her kisses. 

On such days, contrary to my usual inclination, I liked to talk of Parisand speak of my life of debauchery as the most commendable thing in theworld. "You are nothing but a saint, " I would laughingly observe; "you donot understand what I say. There is nothing like those careless ones whomake love without believing in it. " Was that not the same as saying thatI did not believe in it?

"Very well, " Brigitte replied, "teach me how to please you always. I amperhaps as pretty as those mistresses whom you mourn; if I have not theirskill to divert you, I beg that you will instruct me. Act as though youdid not love me and let me love you without saying anything about it. IfI am devoted to religion, I am also devoted to love. What can I do tomake you believe it?"

Then she would stand before the mirror arraying herself as though for aball, affecting a coquetry that she was far from feeling, trying to adoptmy tone, laughing and skipping about the room. "Am I to your taste?" shewould ask. "Which one of your mistresses do I resemble? Am I beautifulenough to make you forget that any one can believe in love? Have I asufficiently careless air to suit you?" Then in the midst of thatfactitious joy, she would turn her back and I could see her shudder untilthe flowers she had placed in her hair trembled. I threw myself at herfeet. 

"Stop!" I cried, "you resemble only too closely, that which you try toimitate, that which my mouth has been so vile as to conjure up beforeyou. Lay aside those flowers and that dress. Let us wash away suchmimicry with a sincere tear; do not remind me that I am but a prodigalson; I remember the past too well. "

But even this repentance was cruel as it proved to her that the fantomsin my heart were full of reality. In yielding to an impulse of horror, Imerely gave her to understand that her resignation and her desire toplease me only served to call up an impure image. 

And it was true; I reached her side transported with joy, swearing that Iwould regret my past life; on my knees, I protested my respect for her;then a gesture, a word, a trick of turning as she approached me, recalledto my mind the fact that such and such a woman had made that gesture, hadused that word, had that same trick of turning. 

Poor devoted soul! What didst thou suffer in seeing me turn pale beforethee, in seeing my arms fall as though lifeless at my side! When the kissdied on my lips, and the full glance of love, that pure ray of God'slight, fled from my eyes like an arrow turned by the wind! Ah! Brigitte!what diamonds trickled from thin eyes! What treasures of charity didstthou exhaust with patient hand! How pitiful thy love!

For a long time, good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly;I showed myself alternately cruel and scornful, tender and devoted, insensible and haughty, repentant and submissive. The face of Desgenaiswhich had at first appeared to me, as though to warn me whither I wasdrifting, was now constantly before me. On my days of doubt and coldness, I conversed, so to speak, with him, often when I had offended Brigitte bysome cruel mockery I said to myself: "If he were in my place he would doas I do!"

And then, at other times, when putting on my hat to go to see Brigitte, Iwould look in my glass and say: "What is there so terrible about it, anyway? I have, after all, a pretty mistress; she has given herself to alibertine, let her take me for what I am. " I reached her side with asmile on my lips, I sank into a chair with an air of deliberateinsolence; then I saw Brigitte approach, her large eyes filled withtenderness and anxiety; I seized her little hands in mine and lost myselfin an infinite dream. 

How name a thing that is nameless? Was I good or bad? Was I distrustfulor a fool? It is useless to reflect on it; it happened thus. 

One of our neighbors was a young woman by the name of Madame Daniel, shepossessed some beauty, and still more coquetry; she was poor but tried topass for rich; she would come to see us after dinner and always played aheavy game against us, although her losses embarrassed her; she sang buthad no voice. In the solitude of that unknown village, where an unkindfate had buried her, she was consumed with an uncontrollable passion forpleasure. She talked of nothing but Paris, where she visited two or threetimes a year; she pretended to keep up with the fashions; my dearBrigitte assisted her as best she could, while smiling with pity. Herhusband was employed by the government; he, once a year, would take herto the house of the chief of his department where, attired in her best, the little woman danced to her heart's content. She would return withshining eyes and tired body; she would come to us to tell of her prowess, and her success in assaulting the masculine heart. The rest of the timeshe read novels, never taking the trouble to look after her householdaffairs, which were not always in the best condition. 

Every time I saw her I laughed at her, finding nothing so ridiculous asthe high life she thought she was leading; I would interrupt herdescription of a ball to inquire about her husband and her father-in-law, both of whom she detested, the one because he was her husband, and theother because he was only a peasant; in short, we were always disputingon some subject. 

In my evil moments, I thought of paying court to that woman just for thesake of annoying Brigitte. 

"You see, " I said, "how perfectly Madame Daniel understands life! In herpresent sprightly humor could one desire a more charming mistress?"

I then paid her the most extravagant compliments; her senseless chattingI described as unrestraint tempered by finesse, her pretentiousexaggerations as a natural desire to please; was it her fault that shewas poor? At least, she thought of nothing but pleasure and confessed itfreely; she did not preach sermons herself, nor did she listen to themfrom others; I went so far as to tell Brigitte that she ought to adopther as a model, and that she was just the kind of woman to please me. 

Poor Madame Daniel discovered signs of melancholy in Brigitte's eyes. Shewas a strange creature, as good and sincere, when you could get fineryout of her head, as she was stupid when absorbed in such frivolousaffairs. On occasions, she could be both good and stupid. One fine daywhen they were walking together, she threw herself into Brigitte's armsand told her that she had noticed that I was beginning to pay court toher, and that I had made certain proposals to her, the meaning of whichwas not doubtful; but she knew that I was another's lover, and as forher, whatever might happen, she would die rather than destroy thehappiness of a friend. Brigitte thanked her, and Madame Daniel, havingset her conscience at ease, considered it no sin to render me desolate bylanguishing glances. 

In the evening when she had gone, Brigitte, in a severe tone, told mewhat had happened; she begged me to spare her such affronts in thefuture. 

"Not that I attach any importance to such pleasantries, " she said, "butif you have any love for me, it seems to me it is useless to inform athird party that there are times when you have not. "

"Is it possible, " I replied with a smile, "that it is important? You seevery well, that I was only joking, and that I do it only to pass away thetime. "

"Ah! my friend, my friend, " said Brigitte, "it is too bad that you mustseek pastimes. "

Some days later, I proposed that we go to the prefecture to see MadameDaniel dance; she unwillingly consented. While she was arranging hertoilet, I sat near the window and reproached her for losing her formercheerfulness. 

"What is the matter with you?" I asked; I knew as well as she. "Why thatmorose air that never leaves you? In truth, you make our life quite sad. I have known you when you were more joyous, more free and more open; I amnot flattered by the thought that I am responsible for the change. Butyou have a cloistral disposition; you were born to live in a convent. "

It was Sunday; as we were driving down the road, Brigitte ordered thecarriage to stop in order to say good evening to some friends, fresh andvigorous country girls, who were going to dance at Tilleuls. When theyhad gone on Brigitte followed them with longing eyes; her little rusticdance was very dear to her; she dried her eyes with her handkerchief. 

We found Madame Daniel at the prefecture in high feather. I danced withher so often that it excited comment, I paid her a thousand complimentsand she replied as best she could. 

Brigitte was near us, and her eyes never left us. I can hardly describewhat I felt; it was both pleasure and pain. I clearly saw that she wasjealous; but instead of being moved by it, I did all I could to increaseher suffering. 

On the return, I expected to hear her reproaches; she made none, butremained silent for three days. When I came to see her, she would greetme kindly; then we would sit down facing each other, both of uspreoccupied, scarcely exchanging a word. The third day she spoke, overwhelmed me with bitter reproaches, told me that my conduct wasunreasonable, that she could not account for it except on the suppositionthat I had ceased to love her; but she could not endure this life andwould resort to anything rather than submit to my caprices and coldness. Her eyes were full of tears, and I was about to ask her pardon when somewords escaped her that were so bitter that my pride revolted. I repliedin the same tone, and our quarrel became violent. I told her that it wasabsurd to suppose that I could not inspire enough confidence in mymistress to escape the necessity of explaining my every action; thatMadame Daniel was only a pretext; that she very well knew that I did notthink of that woman seriously; that her pretended jealousy was nothingbut the expression of her desire for despotic power, and that, moreover, if she had tired of this life, it was easy enough to put an end to it. 

"Very well, " she replied; "it is true that I do not recognize you as thesame man I first knew; you doubtless performed a little comedy topersuade me that you loved me; you are tired of your role and can thinkof nothing but abuse. You suspect me of deceiving you upon the firstword, and I am under no obligation to submit to your insults. You are nolonger the man I loved. "

"I know what your sufferings are, " I replied. "I can not make a stepwithout exciting your alarm. Soon I will not be permitted to address aword to any one but you. You pretend that you have been abused in orderthat you may be justified in offering insult; you accuse me of tyranny inorder that I may become your slave. Since I trouble your repose, I leaveyou in peace; you will never see me again. "

We parted in anger, and I passed an entire day without seeing her. Thenext night, toward midnight, I was seized by a feeling of melancholy thatI could not resist. I shed a torrent of tears; I overwhelmed myself withreproaches that I richly deserved. I told myself that I was nothing but afool, and a cowardly fool at that, to make the noblest, the best ofcreatures, suffer in this way. I ran to her to throw myself at her feet. 

Entering the garden, I saw that her room was lighted and a flash ofsuspicion crossed my mind. "She does not expect me at this hour, " I saidto myself; "who knows what she may be doing. I left her in tearsyesterday; I may find her ready to sing to-day and caring no more for methan if I never existed. I must enter gently in order to surprise her. "

I advanced on tiptoe, and the door being open, I could see Brigittewithout being seen. 

She was seated at her table and was writing in that same book that hadaroused my suspicions. She held in her left hand, a little box of whitewood which she looked at from time to time and trembled. There wassomething sinister in the quiet that reigned in the room. Her secretarywas open and several bundles of papers were carefully ranged in order. 

I made some noise at the door. She rose, went to the secretary, closedit, then came to me with a smile:

"Octave, " she said, "we are two children. If you had not come here, Iwould have gone to you. Pardon me, I was wrong. Madame Daniel comes todinner to-morrow; make me repent, if you choose, of what you call mydespotism. If you but love me I am happy; let us forget what is past andlet us not spoil our happiness. "

CHAPTER III

OUR quarrel had been less sad than our reconciliation; it was attended, on Brigitte's part, by a mystery which frightened me at first and thenplanted in my soul the seeds of constant dread. 

There developed in me, in spite of my struggles, the two elements ofmisfortune which the past had bequeathed me: at times, furious jealousyattended by reproaches and insults; at other times, a cruel gaiety, anaffected cheerfulness that mockingly outraged whatever I held most dear. Thus, the inexorable specters of the past pursued me without respite;thus, Brigitte seeing herself treated alternately, as a faithlessmistress and a shameless woman, fell into a condition of melancholy thatclouded our entire life; and worst of all, that sadness even, the causeof which I knew, was not the most burdensome of our sorrows. I was youngand I loved pleasure; that daily association with a woman older than Iwho suffered and languished, that face more and more serious, which wasalways before me, all that repelled my youth and aroused within me bitterregrets for the liberty I had lost. 

When we were passing through the forest by the beautiful light of themoon, we both experienced a profound melancholy. Brigitte looked at me inpity. We sat down on a rock near a wild gorge; we passed two entire hoursthere; her half-veiled eyes plunged into my soul athwart the glance frommine, then wandered to nature, to the heavens and the valley. 

"Ah! my dear child, " she said, "how I pity you! You do not love me. "

In order to reach that rock, one must travel two leagues; two more inreturning makes four. Brigitte was afraid of neither fatigue nordarkness. We set out at eleven at night, expecting to reach home sometime in the morning. When we went on long tramps, she always dressed in ablue blouse and the apparel of a man, saying that skirts were not madefor bushes. She walked before me in the sand with a firm step and such acharming melange of feminine delicacy and childlike temerity, that Istopped every few moments to look at her. It seemed that, once started, she had to accomplish a difficult but sacred task; she walked in frontlike a soldier, her arms swinging, her voice ringing through the woods insong; suddenly she turned, came to me, and kissed me. This was going; onthe return, she leaned on my arm; then more songs; there wereconfidences, tender avowals in low tones, although we were alone, twoleagues from anywhere. I do not recall a single word spoken on the returnthat was not of love or friendship. 

One night, we struck out through the woods, leaving the road which led tothe rock. Brigitte was tramping along so stoutly, her little velvet capon her light hair made her look so much like a resolute gamin, that Iforgot that she was a woman when there were no obstacles in our path. More than once, she was obliged to call me to her aid when I, withoutthinking of her, had pushed on ahead. I can not describe the effectproduced on me in the clear night air, in the midst of the forest, bythat voice of a woman, half-joyous and half-plaintive, coming from thatlittle schoolboy body wedged in between roots and trunks of trees, unableto advance. I took her in my arms. 

"Come, madame, " I cried, laughing, "you are a pretty little mountaineer, but you are blistering your white hands and in spite of your hobnailedshoes, your stick and your martial air, I see that you must be carried. "

We arrived at the rock breathless, about my body was strapped a leatherbelt to which was attached a wicker bottle. When we were seated on therock, my dear Brigitte asked for the bottle; I had lost it, as well as atinder-box which served another purpose: that was to read theinscriptions on the guide-posts when we went astray, which occurredfrequently. At such times, I would climb the posts and read thehalf-effaced inscription by the light of the tinder-box; all thatplayfully, like the children that we were. At a cross-road, we would haveto examine not one guide-post, but five or six until the right one wasfound. But this time we had lost our baggage on the way. 

"Very well, " said Brigitte, "we will pass the night here as I am rathertired. This rock will make a hard bed but we can cover it with dryleaves. Let us sit down and make the best of it. "

The night was superb; the moon was rising behind us; I looked at it overmy left shoulder. Brigitte was watching the lines of the wooded hills asthey began to design themselves against the background of sky. As thelight flooded the copse and threw its halo over sleeping nature, Brigitte's song became more gentle and more melancholy. Then she bentover, and, throwing her arms around my neck, said:

"Do not think that I do not understand your heart or that I wouldreproach you for what you make me suffer. It is not your fault, myfriend, if you have not the power to forget your past life; you haveloved me in good faith and I shall never regret, although I should diefor it, the day I gave myself to you. You thought you were entering upona new life and that with me, you would forget the women who had deceivedyou. Alas! Octave, I used to smile at that precocious experience whichyou said you had been through, and of which I heard you boast like achild who knows nothing of life. I thought I had but to will it, and allthat there was that was good in your heart would come to your lips withmy first kiss. You, too, believed it, but we were both mistaken. O mychild! You have, in your heart, a plague that can not be cured; thatwoman who deceived you, how you must have loved her! Yes, more than youlove me, alas! much more, since with all my poor love I can not effaceher image; she must have deceived you most cruelly since it is in vainthat I am faithful! And the others, those wretches who then poisoned youryouth! The pleasures they sold must have been terrible since you ask meto imitate them! You remember them with me! Alas! my dear child, that istoo cruel. I like you better when you are unjust and furious, when youreproach me for imaginary crimes and avenge on me the wrong done you byothers, than when you are under the influence of that frightful gaiety, when you assume that air of hideous mockery, when that mask of scornaffronts my eyes. Tell me, Octave, why that? Why those moments when youspeak of love with contempt and rail at the most sacred mysteries oflove? What frightful power over your irritable nerves has that life youhave led, that such insults mount to your lips in spite of you? Yes, inspite of you, for your heart is noble, you blush at your own blasphemy;you love me too much not to suffer when you see me suffer. Ah! I know younow. The first time I saw you thus, I was seized with a feeling of terrorof which I can give you no idea. I thought you were only a roue, that youhad deliberately deceived me by feigning a love you did not feel, andthat I saw you such as you really were. O my friend! I thought it wastime to die; what a night I passed! You do not know my life; you do notknow that I, who speak to you, have had an experience as terrible asyours. Alas! life is sweet only to those who do not know life. 

"You are not, my dear Octave, the only man I have loved. There is hiddenin my heart a fatal story that I wish you to know. My father destined me, when I was quite young, for the only son of an old friend. They wereneighbors and each owned a little domain of almost equal value. The twofamilies saw each other every day and lived, so to speak, together. Myfather died; my mother had been dead some time. I lived with an aunt whomyou know. A journey she was compelled to take, forced her to confide meto the care of my future father-in-law. He called me his daughter and itwas so well known about the country that I was to marry his son that wewere allowed the greatest liberty together. 

"That young man, whose name you need not know, appeared to love me. Whathad been friendship from infancy, became love in time. He began to tellme of the happiness that awaited us; he spoke of his impatience, I wasonly one year younger than he; but he had made the acquaintance of a manof dissipated habits who lived in the vicinity, a sort of adventurer, andhad listened to his evil suggestions. While I was yielding to hiscaresses with the confidence of a child, he resolved to deceive hisfather and to abandon me after having ruined me. 

"His father called us into his room one evening and, in the presence ofthe family, set the day of our wedding. The very evening before that day, he met me in the garden and spoke to me of love with more force thanusual; he said that, since the time was set, we were just the same asmarried, and for that matter had been in the eyes of God, ever since ourbirth. I have no other excuse to offer than my youth, my ignorance and myconfidence in him. I gave myself to him before becoming his wife, andeight days afterward he left his father's house; he fled with a womanwith whom his new friend had made him acquainted; he wrote that he hadset out for Germany and that we would never see him again. 

"That is, in a word, the story of my life; my husband knew it as you nowknow it. I am proud, my child, and I have sworn that no man should evermake me again suffer what I suffered then. I saw you and forgot my oath, but not my sorrow. You must treat me gently; if you are sick, I am also;we must care for each other. You see, Octave, I too know what it is tocherish up memories of the past. It inspires me at times with cruelterror; I should have more courage than you, for perhaps I have sufferedmore. It is my place to begin; my heart is not sure of itself, I am stillvery feeble; my life in this village was so tranquil before you came! Ihad promised myself that it should never change! All that, makes meexacting. Ah! well, it does not matter, I am yours. You have told me, inyour better moments, that Providence appointed me to watch over you as amother. Yes, when you make me suffer, I do not look upon you as a lover, but as a sick child, fretful and rebellious, that I must care for andcure in order that I may always keep him and love him. May God give methat power!" she added, looking up to heaven. "May God, who sees me, whohears us, may the God of mothers and of lovers, permit me to accomplishthat task! When I feel as though I would sink under it, when my priderebels, when my heart is breaking, when all my life--"

She could not finish; her tears choked her. O God! I saw her there on herknees, her hands clasped on the rock; she swayed in the breeze as did thebushes about us. Frail and sublime creature; she prayed for her love. Iraised her in my arms. 

"O my only friend!" I cried. "Oh! my mistress, my mother, and my sister!Pray also for me, that I may be able to love you as you deserve. Praythat I may have the courage to live; that my heart may be cleansed inyour tears; that it may become a holy offering before God and that we mayshare it together. "

All was silent about us; above our heads, spread the heavens resplendentwith stars. 

"Do you remember, " I said, "do you remember the first day?"

From that night, we never returned to that spot. That rock was an altarwhich has retained its purity; it is one of the visions of my life whichstill passes before my eyes wreathed in spotless white. 

CHAPTER IV

AS I was crossing the public square one evening, I saw two men standingtogether; one of them said:

"It appears to me that he has ill-treated her. "

"It is her fault, " replied the other; "why choose such a man? He hasknown only public women; she is paying the price of her folly. "

I advanced in the darkness to see who was speaking thus, and to hear moreif possible; but they passed on as soon as they spied me. 

I found Brigitte much disturbed; her aunt was seriously ill; she had timefor only a few words with me. I did not see her for an entire week; Iknew that she had summoned a physician from Paris; finally, she sent forme. 

"My aunt is dead, " she said; "I lose the only one left me on earth, I amnow alone in the world and I am going to leave the country. "

"Am I, then, nothing to you?"

"Yes, my friend; you know that I love you, and I often believe that youlove me. But how can I count on you? I am your mistress, alas! but youare not my lover. It is for you that Shakespeare has written these sadwords: 'Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a veryopal. ' And I, Octave, " she added, pointing to her mourning costume, "I amreduced to a single color, and I shall not change it for a long time. "

"Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or I willfollow you. Ah! Brigitte, " I continued, throwing myself on my kneesbefore her, "you thought you were alone when your aunt died! That is themost cruel punishment you could inflict on me; never, have I so keenlyfelt the misery of my love for you. You must retract those terriblewords; I deserve them, but they will kill me. O God! can it be true thatI count for nothing in your life, or that I am an influence in your lifeonly because of the evil I have done you!"

"I do not know, " she said, "who is busying himself in our affairs;certain insinuations, mixed with idle gossip, have been set afloat in thevillage and in the neighboring country. Some say that I have been ruined;others accuse me of imprudence and folly; others represent you as a crueland dangerous man. Some one has spied into our most secret thoughts;things that I thought no one else knew, events in your life and sadscenes to which they have led, are known to others; my poor aunt spoke tome about it some time since, and she knew it some time before speaking tome. Who knows but what that has hastened her death? When I meet my oldfriends in the street, they either treat me coldly, or turn aside, evenmy dear peasant girls, those good girls who love me so much, shrug theirshoulders when they see my place empty at the Sunday afternoon balls. Howhas that come about? I do not know, nor do you, I suppose; but I must goaway, I can not endure it. And my aunt's death, so sudden, so unexpected, above all this solitude! this empty room! Courage fails me; my friend, myfriend, do not abandon me!"

She wept; in an adjoining room, I saw her household goods in disorder, atrunk on the floor, everything indicating preparations for departure. Itwas evident that, at the time of her aunt's death, Brigitte tried to goaway without seeing me but could not. She was so overwhelmed with emotionthat she could hardly speak, her condition was pitiful, and it was I whohad brought her to it. Not only was she unhappy, but she was insulted inpublic, and the man who ought to be her support and her consolation insuch an hour, was the cause of all her troubles. 

I felt the wrong I had done her so keenly that I was overcome with shame. After so many promises, so much useless exaltation, so many plans andhopes, what had I, in fact, accomplished in three months! I thought I hada treasure in my heart and there came out of it nothing but malice, theshadow of a dream, and the misfortune of a woman I adored. For the firsttime, I found myself really face to face with myself; Brigitte reproachedme for nothing; she had tried to go away and could not; she was ready tosuffer still. I suddenly asked myself if I ought not to leave her, if itwas not my duty to flee from her and rid her of the scourge of mypresence. 

I arose and, passing into the next room, sat down on Brigitte's trunk. There, I leaned my head on my hand and sat motionless. I looked about meat the confused piles of goods. Alas! I knew them all; my heart was notso hardened that it could not be moved by the memories which theyawakened. I began to calculate all the harm I had done; I saw my dearBrigitte walking under the lindens with her goat beside her. 

"O man!" I mused, "and by what right? How dared you come to this houseand lay hands on this woman? Who has ordained that she should suffer foryou? You array yourself in fine linen and set out, sleek and happy, forthe home where your mistress languishes; you throw yourself upon thecushions where she has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, and yougently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You think it noevil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in yourdeliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes from asuit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy, you make sport ofsuffering; you find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments, to commitmurder by means of little pin pricks. What will you say to the living Godwhen your work is finished? What will become of the woman who loves you?Where will you fall while she leans on you for support? With what facewill you one day bury your pale and wretched creature, who has justburied the only being who was left to protect her? Yes, yes, you willdoubtless have to bury her, for your love kills and consumes; you havedevoted her to the furies and it is she who appeases them. If you followthat woman, you will be the cause of her death. Take care! her guardianangel hesitates; he has just knocked at the door of this house, in orderto frighten away a fatal and shameful passion! He inspired Brigitte withthe idea of flight; at this moment he may be whispering in her ear hisfinal warning. O you assassin! You murderer! beware! it is a matter oflife and death. "

Thus, I communed with myself; then on the sofa I caught sight of a littlegingham dress, folded and ready to be packed in the trunk. It had beenthe witness of our happy days. I took it up and examined it. 

"I leave you!" I said to it; "I lose you! O little dress, would you goaway without me?"

"No, I can not abandon Brigitte; under the circumstances it would becowardly. She has just lost her aunt, and is all alone; she is exposed tothe power of, I know not what enemy. Can it be Mercanson? He may havespoken of my conversation with him, and seeing that I was jealous ofDalens, may have guessed the rest. Assuredly, he is the snake who hasbeen hissing about my well-beloved flower. I must punish him, and I mustrepair the wrong I have done Brigitte. Fool that I am! I think of leavingher when I ought to consecrate my life to her, to the expiation of mysins, to rendering her happy after the tears I have drawn from her eyes!When I am her only support in the world, her only friend, her onlyprotection! When I ought to follow her to the end of the world, toshelter her with my body, to console her for having loved me, for havinggiven herself to me!"

"Brigitte!" I cried, returning to her room, "wait an hour for me and Iwill return. "

"Where are you going?" she asked. 

"Wait for me, " I replied, "do not set out without me. Remember the wordsof Ruth: 'Whither thou goest, I shall go; and where thou lodgest, I willlodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God, where thoudiest will I die, and there will I be buried. '"

I left her precipitately, and rushed out to find Mercanson. I was toldthat he had gone out, and I entered his house to wait for him. 

I sat in the corner of the room on a priest's chair before a dirty blacktable. I was becoming impatient when I recalled my duel on account of myfirst mistress. 

"I received a wound from a bullet and am still a fool, " I said to myself. "What have I come to do here? This priest will not fight; if I seek aquarrel with him, he will say that his priestly robes forbid and he willcontinue his vile gossip when I have gone. Moreover, for what can I holdhim responsible? What is it that has disturbed Brigitte? They say thather reputation has been sullied, that I ill-treat her and that she oughtnot to submit to it. What stupidity! that concerns no one, there isnothing to do but allow them to talk; in such a case, to notice an insultis to give it importance. Is it possible to prevent provincials fromtalking about their neighbors? Can any one prevent a gossip frommaligning a woman who loves? What measures can be taken to stop a publicrumor? If they say that I ill-treat her, it is for me to prove thecontrary by my conduct with her, and not by violence. It would be asridiculous to seek a quarrel with Mercanson, as to leave the country onaccount of gossip. No, we must not leave the country; that would be a badmove; that would be to say to all the world that there is truth in itsidle rumors, and to give excuse to the gossips. We must neither go awaynor take any notice of such things. "

I returned to Brigitte. A half hour had passed, and I had changed my mindthree times. I dissuaded her from her plans, I told her what I had justdone and why I had not carried out my first impulse. She listenedresignedly, yet she wished to go away; the house where her aunt had diedhad become odious to her, much effort and persuasion on my part wererequired to get her to consent to remain; finally, I accomplished it. Werepeated that we would despise the world, that we would yield nothing, that we would not change our manner of life. I swore that my love shouldconsole her for all her sorrows, and she pretended to hope for the best. I told her that this circumstance had so enlightened me in the matter ofthe wrongs I had done her, that my conduct would prove my repentance, that I would drive from me, as a fantom, all the evil that remained in myheart, that henceforth she would not be offended, by either my pride ormy caprices; and thus, sad and patient, her arms around my neck, sheyielded obedience to the pure caprice that I, myself, mistook for a flashof reason. 

CHAPTER V

ONE day, I saw a little chamber she called her oratory; there was nofurniture except a priedieu and a little altar with a cross and somevases of flowers. As for the rest, the walls and curtains were as whiteas snow. She shut herself up in that room at times, but rarely since Ihad known her. 

I stepped to the door and saw Brigitte seated on the floor in the middleof the room surrounded by the flowers she was throwing here and there. She held in her hand a little wreath that appeared to be made of driedgrass, and she was breaking it to pieces. 

"What are you doing?" I asked. 

She trembled and stood up. 

"It is nothing but a child's plaything, " she said; "it is a rose wreaththat has faded here in the oratory; I have come here to change my flowersas I have not attended to them for some time. "

Her voice trembled, and she appeared to be about to faint. I recalledthat name of Brigitte la Rose that I had heard given her. I asked her ifit was not her crown of roses that she had just broken thus. 

"No, " she replied, turning pale. 

"Yes, " I cried, "yes, on my life. Give me the pieces. "

I gathered them up and placed them on the altar, then I was silent, myeyes fixed on the offering. 

"Was I not right, " she asked, "if it was my crown, to take it from thewall where it has hung so long? What good are these remains? Brigitte laRose is no more, nor the flowers that baptized her. "

She went out; I heard her sob, and the door closed on me; I fell on myknees and wept bitterly. 

When I returned to her room, I found her waiting for me; dinner wasready. I took my place in silence, and not a word was said of what was onour hearts. 

CHAPTER VI

IT was Mercanson who had repeated in the village and in the chateaux myconversation with him about Dalens and the suspicions that, in spite ofmyself, I had allowed him clearly to see. Every one knows how bad newstravels in the provinces, flying from mouth to mouth and growing as itflies; that is what happened in this case. 

Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face with each other in a newposition. However feebly she may have tried to flee, she had neverthelessmade the attempt. It was on account of my prayers that she remained;there was an obligation implied. I was under oath not to grieve hereither by my jealousy or my levity; every thoughtless or mocking wordthat escaped me was a sin, every sorrowful glance from her was a reproachacknowledged and merited. 

Her simple, good nature gave a charm even to solitude; she could see menow at all hours without resorting to any precaution. Perhaps sheconsented to this arrangement in order to prove to me that she valued herlove more highly than her reputation; she seemed to regret having shownthat she cared for the representations of malice. At any rate, instead ofmaking any attempt to disarm criticism or thwart curiosity, we lived thefreest kind of life, more regardless of public opinion than ever. 

For some time, I kept my word and not a cloud troubled our life. Thesewere happy days, but it is not of these that I must speak. 

It was said everywhere about the country that Brigitte was livingpublicly with a libertine from Paris; that her lover ill-treated her, that they spent their time quarreling and that all of it would come to abad end. As they had praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, sothey blamed her now. There was nothing in her past life, even, that wasnot picked to pieces and misrepresented. Her lonely tramps over themountains, when engaged in works of charity, suddenly became the subjectof quibbles and of raillery. They spoke of her as of a woman who had lostall human respect and who deserved the frightful misfortunes she wasdrawing down on her head. 

I had told Brigitte that it was best to let them talk and pay noattention to them; but the truth is, it became insupportable to me. Isometimes tried to catch a word that I might consider an insult anddemand an explanation. I listened to whispered conversations in a salonwhere I was a visitor, but could hear nothing; in order to do us betterjustice, they waited until I had gone. I returned to Brigitte and toldher that all these stories were mere nonsense, that it was foolish tonotice them; that they could talk about us as much as they pleased and wewould care nothing about it. 

Was I not terribly mistaken? If Brigitte was imprudent, was it not myplace to be cautious and ward off danger? On the contrary, I took, so tospeak, the part of the world against her. 

I began by indifference; I was soon to grow malignant. 

"It is true, " I said, "that they speak evil of your nocturnal excursions. Are you sure that they are wrong? Has nothing happened in those romanticgrottoes and by-paths in the forest? Have you never accepted the arm ofan unknown as you accepted mine? Was it merely charity that served asyour divinity in that beautiful temple of verdure that you visited sobravely?"

Brigitte's glance when I adopted this tone, I shall never forget; Ishuddered at it myself. "But, bah, " I thought, "she would do the samething my other mistress did, she would point me out as a ridiculous fool, and I would pay for it all in the eyes of the public. "

Between the man who doubts and the man who denies, there is only a step. All philosophy is related to atheism. After having told Brigitte that Isuspected her past conduct, I began to regard it with real suspicion. 

I came to imagine that Brigitte was deceiving me, she, who never left meat any hour of the day; I sometimes planned long absences in order totest her, as I supposed; but in truth, it was only to give myself someexcuse for suspicion and mockery. And then I took pleasure in observingthat I had outgrown my foolish jealousy, which was the same as saying, that I no longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her. 

At first, I kept such thoughts to myself, but soon found pleasure inrevealing them to Brigitte. We went out for a walk. 

"That dress is pretty, " I said, "such and such a girl, belonging to oneof my friends, has one like it. "

We were seated at table. 

"Come, my dear, my former mistress used to sing for me at dessert; it isunderstood that you are to imitate her. "

She sat at the piano. 

"Ah! pardon me, but will you play that waltz that was so popular lastwinter; that will remind me of happy times. "

Reader, that lasted six months: for six long months, Brigitte, scandalized, exposed to the insults of the world, had to endure from meall the wrongs that a wrathful and cruel libertine could inflict onwoman. 

Coming from these frightful scenes, in which my own spirit exhausteditself in suffering and painful contemplation of the past; recoveringfrom that frenzy, a strange access of love, an extreme exaltation, led meto treat my mistress like an idol, like a divinity. A quarter of an hourafter having insulted her, I was on my knees before her; when I was notaccusing her of some crime, I was begging her pardon; when I was notmocking, I was weeping. Then I was seized by a delirium of joy, I almostlost my reason in the violence of my transports; I did not know what todo, what to say, what to think, in order to repair the evil I had done. Itook Brigitte in my arms, and made her repeat a hundred times that sheloved me, and that she pardoned me. I threatened to expiate my evil deedsby blowing out my brains, if I ever ill-treated her again. These periodsof exaltation sometimes lasted several hours, during which time, Iexhausted myself in foolish expressions of love and esteem. Then morningcame; day appeared; I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and I awakenedwith a smile on my lips, mocking at everything, believing in nothing. 

During these terrible hours, Brigitte appeared to forget that there wasanother man in me than the one she saw. When I asked her pardon sheshrugged her shoulders as though to say: "Do you not know that I pardonyou?" She would not complain as long as a spark of love remained in myheart; she assured me that all was good and sweet coming from me, insults, as well as tears. 

And yet as time passed my evil grew worse, my moments of malignity andirony became more somber and intractable. A real physical fever attendedmy outbursts of passion; I awakened trembling in every limb and coveredwith cold sweat. Brigitte, too, although she did not complain of it, began to fail in health. When I began to abuse her she would leave mewithout a word and lock herself in her room. Thank God, I have neverraised my hand against her; in my most violent moments I would rather diethan touch her. 

One evening the rain was beating against the windows; we were alone, thecurtains closed. 

"I am in happy humor this evening, " I said to Brigitte, "and yet thebeastly weather saddens me. Let us seek some diversion in spite of thestorm. "

I arose and lighted all the candles I could find. The room was small andthe illumination brilliant. At the same time a bright fire threw out astifling heat. 

"Come, " I said, "what shall we do while waiting until it is time forsupper?"

I happened to remember that it was carnival time in Paris. I seemed tosee the carriages filled with masks crossing the boulevards. I heard theshouts of the crowds before the theaters; I saw the lascivious dances, the gay costumes, the wine and the folly; all of my youth bounded in myheart. 

"Let us disguise ourselves, " I said to Brigitte. "It will be for usalone, but what does that matter? If you have no costumes we can makethem, and pass away the time agreeably. "

We searched in the closet for dresses, cloaks, and artificial flowers;Brigitte as usual, was patient and cheerful. We both arranged a sort oftravesty; she wanted to dress my hair herself; we painted and powderedourselves freely; all that we lacked was found in an old chest thatbelonged, I believe, to the aunt. In an hour we could not recognize eachother. The evening passed in singing, in a thousand follies; toward onein the morning it was time for supper. 

We had ransacked all the closets; there was one near me that remainedopen. While sitting down at the table, I perceived on a shelf the book ofwhich I have already spoken, the one in which Brigitte was accustomed towrite. 

"Is it not a collection of your thoughts?" I asked, stretching out myhand and taking the book down. "If I may, allow me to look at it. "

I opened the book, although Brigitte made a gesture as though to preventme; on the first page I read these words:

"This is my last will and testament. "

Everything was written in a firm hand; I found, first, a faithful recitalof all that Brigitte had suffered on my account since she had been mymistress. She announced her firm determination to endure everything, solong as I loved her and to die when I left her. Her daily life wasrecorded there; what she had lost, what she had hoped, the isolation sheexperienced even in my presence, the barrier that was growing up betweenus, the cruelties I subjected her to in return for her love and herresignation--all that was written down without a complaint; on thecontrary, she undertook to justify me. Then followed personal details, the disposition of her effects. She would end her life by poison, shewrote. She would die by her own hand and expressly forbid that her deathshould be charged to me. "Pray for him, " such were her last words. 

I found in the closet, on the same shelf, a little box that I rememberedI had seen before, filled with a fine bluish powder resembling salt. 

"What is this?" I asked of Brigitte, raising the box to my lips. She gavevent to a scream of terror and threw herself upon me. 

"Brigitte, " I said, "tell me adieu. I shall carry this box away with me;you will forget me, and you will live if you wish to save me frombecoming a murderer. I will set out this very night; you will agree withme that God demands it. Give me a last kiss. "

I bent over her and kissed her forehead. 

"Not yet, " she cried in anguish. But I repulsed her and left the room. 

Three hours later I was ready to set out, and the horses were at thedoor. It was still raining when I entered the carriage. At the moment thecarriage was starting, I felt two arms about my neck and a sob on mybreast. 

It was Brigitte. I did all I could to persuade her to remain; I orderedthe driver to stop; I even told her that I would return to her when timeshould have effaced the memory of the wrongs I had done her. I forcedmyself to prove to her that yesterday was the same as to-day, to-day asyesterday; I repeated that I could only render her unhappy, that toattach herself to me was but to make an assassin of me. I resorted toprayers, to vows, to threats even; her only reply was, "You are goingaway, take me, let us take leave of the country, let us take leave of thepast. We can not live here, let us go elsewhere, wherever you please, letus go and die together in some remote corner of the world. We must behappy, I by you, you by me. "

I kissed her with such passion that I feared my heart would burst. 

"Drive on, " I cried to the coachman. We threw ourselves into each other'sarms, and the horses set out at a gallop. 

 PART V

CHAPTER I

HAVING decided on a long tour, we went first to Paris; the necessarypreparations required time and we took a furnished apartment for onemonth. 

The decision to leave France had changed everything: joy, hope, confidence, all returned; no more sorrow, no more grief over approachingseparation. It was now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows ofeternal love; I wished, once for all, to make my dear mistress forget allthe suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist such proofsof tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only did Brigittepardon me, but she was willing to make a still greater sacrifice andleave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of the devotion sheexhibited, I wished to requite her by my love; at last, my good angel hadtriumphed, and admiration and love resumed their sway in my heart. 

Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should go to buryourselves from the world; we had not yet decided and we found pleasure inthat very uncertainty; while glancing over the map, we said:

"Where shall we go? What shall we do? Where shall we begin life anew?"

How shall I tell how deeply I repented my cruelty when I looked upon hersmiling face, a face that laughed at the future, although still pale fromthe sorrows of the past! Happy projects of future joy, you are, perhaps, the only true happiness known to man!

For eight days we spent our time making purchases and preparing for ourdeparture; then a young man presented himself at our apartments: hebrought letters to Brigitte. After their interview, I found her sad anddistraught; but I could not guess the cause, unless the letters were fromN-----, that village where I had confessed my love and where Brigitte'sonly relatives lived. 

Nevertheless, our preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatientto get away; at the same time, I was so happy that I could hardly rest. When I arose in the morning, and the sun was shining through our windows, I experienced such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated withhappiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love forBrigitte, that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her dress. Her lightestwords made me tremble as though her voice was strange to me; I alternatedbetween tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except withhorror and disgust. 

Our room was full of our goods scattered about in disorder, albums, pictures, books, and the dear map we loved so much. We were going andcoming about the room; every few moments I would stop and kneel beforeBrigitte, who would call me an idler, saying that she had to do all thework, and that I was good for nothing; and all sorts of projects flittedthrough our minds. Sicily was far away, but the winters are so delightfulthere! Genoa is very pretty with its painted houses, its green gardensand the Apennines in the background! But what noise! What crowds! Out ofevery three men on the street, one is a monk and another a soldier. Florence is sad, it is the Middle Ages living in the midst of modernlife. How can any one endure those grilled windows and that horriblebrown color with which all the houses are soiled? What could we do atRome? We are not traveling in order to forget ourselves, much less forthe sake of instruction. To the Rhine? But the season is over, andalthough we do not care for the world of fashion, still it is sad tovisit its haunts when it has fled them. But Spain? Too many restrictionsthere; one has to travel like an army on the march and may expecteverything except repose. Let us go to Switzerland! Too many people gothere, and most of them are deceived as to the nature of its attractions;but it is there, are unfolded the three most beautiful colors on God'searth: the azure of the sky, the verdure of the plains, and the whitenessof the snows on the summits of glaciers. 

"Let us go, let us go, " cried Brigitte, "let us fly away like two birds. Let us pretend, my dear Octave, that we just met each other yesterday. You met me at a ball, I pleased you and I love you; you tell me that someleagues distant, in a certain little town you loved a certain MadamePierson; what passed between you and her I do not know. You will not tellme the story of your love for another! And I will whisper to you that notlong since, I loved a terrible fellow who made me very unhappy; you willreprove me and close my mouth, and we will agree never to speak of suchthings. "

When Brigitte spoke thus, I experienced a feeling that resembled avarice;I caught her in my arms and cried:

"O God! I know not whether it is with joy or with fear that I tremble. Iam about to carry off my treasure. Die, my youth, die all memories of thepast, die, all cares and regrets! O my good, brave mistress! You havemade a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I will never love again. Perhaps, before I knew you, another woman might have cured me; but nowyou, alone, of all the world, have power to destroy me or to save me, forI bear on my heart the wound of all the evil I have done you. I have beenan ingrate, blind and cruel. God be praised! You love me still. If youever return to that home under whose lindens, where I first met you, lookcarefully about that deserted house; you will find a fantom there, forthe man who left it, and went away with you, is not the man who enteredit. "

"Is it true?" said Brigitte, and her head, all radiant with love, wasraised to heaven; "is it true that I am yours? Yes, far from this odiousworld in which you have grown old before your time--yes, my child, youare going to love. I will have you, such as you are, and wherever we goyou will forget the day when you will no longer love me. My mission willhave been accomplished, and I shall always be thankful for it. "

Finally, we decided to go to Geneva and then choose some resting-place inthe Alps. Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought I couldalready breathe the air which floats over its surface and the odor of theverdure-clad valley; already Lausanne, Vevay, Oberland and beyond thesummits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of Lombardy; already, oblivion, repose, flight, all the delights of happy solitude, invited us;already, when in the evening with joined hands, we looked at one anotherin silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment of strange grandeurwhich takes possession of the heart on the eve of a long journey, mysterious and indescribable vertigo, which has in it something of theterrors of exile and the hopes of a pilgrimage. Are there not in thehuman mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords that vibrate? How shallI describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in the simple words: "Allis ready, we are about to go"?

Suddenly, Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head and was silent. When I asked her if she was in pain, she said no, in a voice that wasscarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold andresigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that shewas going to be happy and that I would consecrate my life to her, sheshut herself up in her room and wept; when I kissed her, she turned paleand averted her eyes as my lips approached hers; when I told her thatnothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce ourplans, she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to meand I told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threwher arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as thoughinvoluntarily. Finally, I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket onwhich our places were marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approachedher and placed it in her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed andfell unconscious at my feet. 

CHAPTER II

ALL my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were as vainas the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill and obstinatelyremained silent. After an entire day passed in supplication andconjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing theOpera, I entered it from force of habit. 

I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theater. I was sooverwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak, except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses. All my powers were centered on a single thought, and the more I turned itover in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning. Whatobstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and therealization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event, or even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or loss of some friend, why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done, when ourdreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature of a secretthat destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me? What! sheconceals it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart to suspecther. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me with horror. On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or of caprice inthat woman such as I knew her? I was lost in the abyss of doubt and Icould not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point on which to baseconjecture. 

In front of me in the gallery, sat a young man whose face was not unknownto me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him withoutthinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him. Suddenly, I recognized him: it was he, who had brought letters toBrigitte from N-----. I arose and started to accost him without thinkingwhat I was doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach withoutdisturbing a large number of spectators and I was forced to await theentr'acte. 

My first thought was that if any one could enlighten me it was this youngman. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson the last few days, and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressed after hisvisits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was taken ill. Theletters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possible thathe knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he did not knowall the circumstances, but he could, doubtless, enlighten me as to thecontents of those letters, and there was no reason why I should hesitateabout questioning him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to thefoyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away andentered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stoodlooking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last, he appeared. I bowed andapproached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared down astairway. 

My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any otherexplanation than deliberate intention to avoid me on his part. He surelyknew my face, and whether he knew it or not, a man who sees anotherapproaching him, ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the only onesin the corridor at the time and there could be no doubt he did not wishto speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatment from a man, whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why should he insult me?He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid an awkwardinterview, during which questions might be asked, which he did not careto answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost as much as thefirst. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head, that youngman's action in avoiding me seemed to have some connection withBrigitte's obstinate silence. 

Uncertainty is of all torments, the most difficult to endure, and duringmy life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not waitpatiently. When I returned to my apartments, I found Brigitte readingthose same fateful letters from N-----. I told her that I could notremain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it atany cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden, change whichhad taken place in her, and that if she refused to speak I would lookupon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an orderfor me to leave her forever. 

She reluctantly handed me the letters she was reading. Her relatives hadwritten her that her departure had disgraced them, that every one knewthe circumstances, and that they felt it their duty to warn her of theconsequences; that she was living openly as my mistress, and that, although she was a widow and free to do as she chose, she ought to thinkof the name she bore; that neither they nor her old friends would eversee her again if she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts ofthreats and entreaties, they urged her to return. 

The tone of that letter angered me, and at first I took it as an insult. 

"And that young man who brings you these remonstrances, " I cried, "doubtless has orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail to dohis own part to the best of his ability. Am I not right?"

Brigitte's dejection made me reflect and calm my wrath. 

"You will do as you wish, and achieve my ruin, " she said. "My fate restswith you, you have been for a long time my master. Avenge as you pleasethe last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to theworld that I formerly respected, to the honor that I have lost. I havenot a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply, I will obey you. "

"I care to know nothing, " I replied, "but your intentions; it is for meto comply with your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to do it. Tellme, do you desire to remain, to go away, or shall I go alone?"

"Why that question?" asked Brigitte; "have I said that I had changed mymind? I am unwell and can not travel in my present condition, but when Irecover we will go to Geneva as we have planned. "

We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she hadexpressed her resolution saddened me more than a refusal. It was not thefirst time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up tothis time, whatever letters Brigitte, had received she had never taken somuch to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigitte had beenso affected by protests which, in less happy moments, had had no effecton her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoils from anact of final significance? I will do as you please, she had said. No, itdoes not please me to demand patience, and rather than look at thatsorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks, I will set outalone. 

Fool that I was! Had I the strength to do it? I did not close my eyesthat night, and the next morning I resolved to call on that young man Ihad seen at the Opera. I do not know whether it was wrath or curiositythat impelled me to this course, nor did I know just what I desired tolearn of him; but I reflected that he could not avoid me this time, andthat was all I wanted. 

As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that Ifelt under obligations to call on him after all the visits he had madeus; I had not said a word about my experience at the Opera. Brigitte'seyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room she held out herhand, and said:

"What do you wish?"

Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words and I set outless unhappy. 

The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was livingnear by. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensation ofuneasiness; I was dazed, as though by a sudden flash of light. His firstgesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accent Brigittehad employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held out hishand and said:

"What do you wish?"

Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which the reasoncan not explain. I sat still, as though awakened from a dream, and beganto repeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could Itell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me, how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N-----, andknew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to questionhim, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our first wordswere polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness in bringingletters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving France we wouldask him to do the same favor for us; and then we were silent, surprisedto find ourselves vis-a-vis. 

I looked about me in embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor;everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musicalinstruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, buteverything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble. 

As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. Onthe mantel, I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look atit, and he said it was his mother. 

I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had known himsince childhood. Before I came to the country, she used to see himoccasionally at N-----, but at the time of her last visit there he wasaway. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned someparticulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honestemployment that enabled him to support his sister and mother. 

His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; he deprivedhimself of everything for them, but, although he possessed musicaltalents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the immediateneeds of those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, had always ledhim to prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances of success inlarger ventures. In a word, he belonged to that small class who livequietly, and who are worth more to the world than those who do notappreciate them. I had learned of certain traits in his character whichwill serve to paint the man: he had fallen in love with a beautiful girlin the neighborhood, and, after a year of devotion to her, secured herparents' consent to their union. She was as poor as he. The contract wasready to be signed, the preparations for the wedding complete, when hismother said:

"And your sister? Who will marry her?"

That simple remark made him understand that if he married, he would spendall his money in the household expenses and his sister would have nodowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happyprospects; he then came to Paris. 

When I heard that story, I wanted to see the hero. That simple, unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all theglories of war. 

The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broachthe subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to methat he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually, mythoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemedto me that he was also examining me with curiosity. 

We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!He was accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of theclock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it whichlies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy governmentoffice; sending his mother all his savings--that farthing of human joywhich the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except forthe happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had beena babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, soinexorable, during that time, that with him was bathed in sweat, what hadI done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?

What I have said in a page, can be comprehended in a glance. He spoke tome of our journey and the countries we were going to visit. 

"When do you go?" he asked. 

"I do not know; Madame Pierson is unwell and has been confined to her bedfor three days. "

"For three days!" he repeated in surprise. 

"Yes; why are you astonished?"

He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. Hewas trembling violently. 

"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand tohis head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently tospeak, he said:

"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when I havesufficiently recovered, I will return your visit. "

CHAPTER III

BRIGITTE was better. She had informed me that she wished to go away assoon as she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought torest at 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 me to saynothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was passing inher heart. We went to the theater every night in order to avoidembarrassing tete-a-tetes. There, we sometimes pressed each other's handsat some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, or exchanged, perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we were mute, absorbed in our thoughts. 

Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house had beenthe 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 ignorant ofthe contents and his friendship for Brigitte led him to censure themseverely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, if he knew whatthey contained. On account of Brigitte's tone of reserve in his presence, I did not think he was in her confidence. I therefore welcomed him withpleasure, although there was always a sort of awkward embarrassment inour meeting. He was asked to act as intermediary between Brigitte and herrelatives after our departure. When we three were together, he noticed acertain coldness and restraint which he endeavored to banish by cheerfulgood humor. If he spoke of our liaison, it was with respect and as a manwho looks upon love as a sacred bond; in fact, he was a kind friend, andhe inspired me with full confidence. 

But despite all that, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I couldnot obliterate 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, I wouldhave become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect Brigitte?Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not going awaywith me? Even if it were possible that Smith could be in some secret ofwhich I knew nothing, what could be the nature of that mystery? What wasthere to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship? She hadknown him as a child; she met him again, after long years, just as shewas about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate situation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding to hersorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful glances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and regrets?Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long journey, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions? I felt thatthis must be the explanation and that it was my duty to assure them thatI was capable of protecting the one from all dangers, and of requitingthe other for the services he had rendered. And yet, a deadly sense ofcoldness oppressed me and I could not determine what course to pursue. 

When Smith left us in the evening, we either kept silence or talked ofhim. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about himcontinually. She, however, told me just what I have told the reader; hislife had never been other than it was at this time, 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 not confess. If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest happiness, hadhe brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he pressed her handwhile assisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the leastattention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had he not, had heshed tears for some unknown reason, what would it matter so long as I washappy? But, while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte's sorrow, I sawthat my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to dowith her present state. If I had been what I ought to have been for thelast six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I waspersuaded, could have troubled our love. Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted, his simple and modest qualities resembledthe large, pure lines which the eye seized at the first glance; onebecame acquainted with him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspiredconfidence if not admiration. I could not help thinking that if he wereBrigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the ends of theearth. 

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 we wait?" she asked. "Here I am recovered and everything isready. "

Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know. Seated near the fire, my eyeswandered from Smith to my mistress. I saw that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why they were thus, and I could not helprepeating that there was but one cause, but one secret to learn; but thatwas not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such as had formerlytormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. What strangecreatures we! It pleased me to leave them alone before the fire and to goout on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet and looking at thewater. When they spoke of their life at N-----, and when Brigitte, almostcheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall some incident of theirchildhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, and yet took pleasure init. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of his mother, of his plans andhis prospects. I gave him an opportunity to show himself in a favorablelight and forced his modesty to reveal his merit. 

"You love your sister very much, do you not?" I asked. "When do youexpect her to marry?"

He blushed and replied that his expenses were rather heavy but 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 family in the country, whose eldest son washer friend; that they were almost agreed on it, and that fortune wouldone day come, like rest, without thinking of it; that he had set asidefor his sister, a part of the money left by their father; that theirmother was opposed to it but that he would insist on it; that a young manmay live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of a young girl is fixedon the day of her marriage. Thus, little by little, he expressed what wasin his heart, and I watched Brigitte listening to him. Then, when hearose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door and stood there;pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. 

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 expressionand 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 the buckleof the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about the room atthe other goods he had packed and covered with a linen cloth. Satisfiedwith his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot; Brigitte, herhands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For the second time, Isaw tears fall from the young man's eyes; I was ready to shed tearsmyself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out my hand tohim. 

"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 bought an album containing views ofSwitzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigittefound a site that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There wasone view that seemed to please her more than all the others; it was acertain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues; sometrees 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 directing herattention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them were theAlps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits. Nothingcould be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The valleyresembled a lake of verdure and the eye followed its contour withdelight. 

"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. The faceswere 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 reverie and was notaware of my presence; I sat down near the fire and it was not until Ispoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment, thenhastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him strikehis forehead with his hand. 

When I discovered these signs of grief, I said to myself: "What does itmean?" Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know;perhaps my good angel, perhaps my evil destiny. 

CHAPTER IV

MY heart yearned to set out and yet I delayed; some secret influencerooted me to the spot. 

When Smith came, I knew no repose from the time he entered the room. Howis it that we frequently seem to enjoy unhappiness?

One day a word, a flush, a glance, made me shudder; another day, anotherglance, another word, threw me into uncertainty. Why are they both sosad? Why am I as motionless as a statue where I had formerly beenviolent? Every evening I sat on my bed and said to myself: "Let me see;let me think that over. " Then I sprang to my feet crying: "Impossible!"The next day, I did the same thing. 

In Smith's presence, Brigitte treated me with more tenderness than whenwe were alone. It happened one evening that some hard words escaped us;when she heard his voice in the hall, she came and sat on my knees. Asfor him, it seemed to me he was always making an effort to controlhimself. His gestures were carefully regulated; he spoke slowly andprudently, so that his occasional moments of forgetfulness seemed all themore striking. 

Was it curiosity that tormented me? I remember that one day I saw a mandrowning near Pont Royale. It was midsummer and we were rowing on theriver; some thirty boats were crowded together under the bridge when, suddenly, one of the occupants of a boat near mine threw up his hands andfell overboard. We immediately began diving for him, but in vain; somehours later the body was found under a raft. 

I shall never forget my experience as I was diving for that man. I openedmy eyes under the water and searched painfully here and there in the darkcorners about the pier; then I returned to the surface for breath, thenresumed my horrible search. I was filled with hope and terror; thethought that I might feel myself seized by convulsive arms, allured meand, at the same time, thrilled me with horror; when I was exhausted withfatigue, I climbed back into my boat. 

Unless a man is brutalized by debauchery, eager curiosity is one of hismarked traits. I have already remarked that I felt it on the occasion ofmy first visit to Desgenais. I will explain my meaning. 

The truth, that skeleton of appearances, ordains that every man, whatsoever he be, shall come, in his day and hour, to touch the bonesthat lie forever at the bottom of some chance experience. It is calledknowing the world, and experience is purchased at that price. It happensthat some recoil in terror before that test, others, feeble andaffrighted, vacillate like shadows. Some, the best perhaps, die at once. The large number forget, and thus, all float on to death. 

But there are some men, who, at the fell stroke of misfortune, neitherdie nor forget; when it comes their turn to touch misfortune, otherwisecalled truth, they approach it with a firm step and outstretched hand, and horrible to say! they mistake love for the livid corpse they havefound at the bottom of the river. They seize it, feel it, clasp it intheir arms; behold them, drunk with the desire to know; they no longerlook with interest upon things, except to see them pass; they do nothingexcept doubt and test; they ransack the world as though they were God'sspies; they sharpen their thoughts into arrows, and they give birth to amonster. 

The debauchees, more than all others, are exposed to that fury, and thereason is very simple: ordinary life is the limpid surface; thedebauchees, the rapid current turning over and over, and, at times, touching the bottom. Coming from a ball, for instance, where they havedanced with a modest girl, they seek the company of bad characters, andspend the night in riotous feasting. The last words they addressed to abeautiful and virtuous woman are still on their lips; they repeat themand burst into laughter. Shall I say it? Do they not raise, for somepieces of silver, the vesture of chastity, that robe so full of mystery, that seems to respect the being it embellishes and surrounds withouttouching? What idea can they have of the world? They are like comediansin the greenroom. Who, more than they, is skilled in that research at thebottom of things, in that groping, profound and impious? See how theyspeak of everything; always in terms the most barren, the most crude andabject; such words appear true to them; all the rest is only parade, convention, prejudice. Let them tell a story, let them recount someexperience, they will always use the same dirty and material expression, always the letter, always death! They do not say "That woman loved me;"they say: "I have possessed that woman;" they do not say: "I love;" theysay: "I desire;" they never say: "If God wills;" they say: "If I will. " Ido not know what they think of themselves and such monologues as these. 

Hence, of a necessity, either idleness or curiosity; for while theystrive to find what there is of evil, they do not understand that othersstill believe in the good. Therefore, they are either so nonchalant thatthey stop their ears, or the noise of the rest of the world suddenlystartles them from sleep. The father allows his son to go where so manyothers go, where Cato himself went; he says that youth is but a stage. But when he returns, the youth looks upon his sister; and sees what hastaken place in him during an hour passed in the society of brutalreality! He says to himself: "My sister is not like that creature I havejust left!" And from that day he is disturbed and uneasy. 

Sinful curiosity is a vile malady born of all impure contact. It is theprowling instinct of fantoms who raise the lids of tombs; it is aninexplicable torture with which God punishes those who have sinned; theywish to believe that all sin as they have done, and would be disappointedperhaps to find that it was not so. But they inquire, they search, theydispute; they hang their heads on one side, as does an architect whoadjusts a pillar, and thus strive to find what they desire to know. Givenproof of evil, they laugh at it; doubtful of evil, they swear that itexists; the good, they refuse to recognize. "Who knows?" Behold the grandformula, the first words that Satan spoke when he saw heaven closingagainst him. Alas! how many evils are those words responsible for! Howmany disasters and deaths, how many strokes of terrible scythes in theripening harvest of humanity! How many hearts, how many families wherethere is naught but ruin, since that word was first heard! "Who knows!Who knows!" Loathsome words! Rather than pronounce them, one should do asthe sheep who graze about the slaughter-house and know it not. That isbetter than to be a strong spirit and read La Rochefoucauld. 

What better illustration could I present than the one I have just given?My mistress was ready to set out and I had but to say the word. Why did Idelay? What would have been the result if I had started at once on ourtrip? Nothing but a moment of apprehension that would have been forgottenafter traveling three days. When with me, she had no thought but of me;why should I care to solve the mystery that did not threaten myhappiness?

She would have consented and that would have been the end of it. A kisson her lips and all would be well; instead of that, see what I did. 

One evening when Smith had dined with us, I retired at an early hour andleft them together. As I closed my door, I heard Brigitte order some tea. In the morning I happened to approach her table, and, sitting beside theteapot, I saw but one cup. No one had been in that room before me thatmorning, so the servant could not have carried away anything that hadbeen used the night before. I searched everywhere for a second cup butcould find none. 

"Did Smith stay late?" I asked of Brigitte. 

"He left about midnight. "

"Did you retire alone or did you call some one to assist you?"

"I retired alone; every one in the house was asleep. "

I continued my search and my hands trembled. In what burlesque comedy isthere a jealous lover, so stupid as to inquire what has become of a cup?Why seek to discover whether Smith and Madame Pierson had drunk from thesame cup? What a brilliant idea, that!

Nevertheless, I found the cup and I burst into laughter and threw it onthe floor with such violence that it broke into a thousand pieces. Iground the pieces under my feet. 

Brigitte looked at me without saying a word. During the two succeedingdays, she treated me with a coldness that had something of contempt init, and I saw that she treated Smith with more deference and kindnessthan usual. She called him, Henry, and smiled on him sweetly. 

"I feel that the air would do me good, " she said after dinner; "shall wego to the Opera, Octave? I would enjoy walking that far. "

"No, I will stay here; go without me. " She took Smith's arm and went out. I remained alone all the evening; I had paper before me and I was tryingto collect my thoughts in order to write, but in vain. 

As a lonely lover draws from his bosom a letter from his mistress, andloses himself in delightful reverie, thus I shut myself up in solitudeand yielded to the sweet allurement of doubt. Before me, were the twoempty seats which Brigitte and Smith had just occupied; I scrutinizedthem eagerly as though they could tell me something. I revolved in mymind all the things I had heard and seen; from time to time, I went tothe door and cast my eyes over our trunks which had been piled againstthe wall for a month; I opened them and examined the contents socarefully packed away by those delicate little hands; I listened to thesound of passing carriages; the slightest noise made me tremble. I spreadout on the table our map of Europe, and there in the very presence of allmy hopes, in that room where I had conceived and had so nearly realizedthem, I abandoned myself to the most frightful presentiments. 

But strange as it may seem, I felt neither anger nor jealousy, but aterrible sense of sorrow and foreboding. I did not suspect, and yet, Idoubted. The mind of man is so strangely formed that, with what he sees, and in spite of what he sees, he can conjure up a hundred objects of woe. In truth, his brain resembles the dungeons of the Inquisition whose wallsare covered with so many instruments of torture, that one is dazed andasks whether these horrible contrivances he sees before him are pincersor playthings. Tell me, I say, what difference is there in saying to mymistress: "All women deceive, " or, "You deceive me?"

What passed through my mind was perhaps as subtle as the finestsophistry; it was a sort of dialogue between the mind and the conscience. "If I should lose Brigitte?" I said to the mind. --"She departs with you, "said the conscience. --"If she deceives me?"--"How can she deceive you?Has she not made out her will asking for prayers for you?"--"If Smithloves her?"--"Fool! What does it matter so long as you know that sheloves you?"--"If she loves me, why is she sad?"--"That is her secret, respect it. "--"If I take her away with me, will she be happy?"--"Love herand she will be. "--"Why, when that man looks at her, does she seem tofear to meet his glance?"--"Because she is a woman and he isyoung. "--"Why does that young man turn pale when she looks athim?"--"Because he is a man and she is beautiful. "--"Why, when I went tosee him, did he throw himself into my arms, and why did he weep and beathis head with his hands?"--"Do not seek to know of what you must remainignorant. "--"Why can I not know these things?"--"Because you aremiserable and weak, and all mystery is of God. "--"But why is it that Isuffer? Why is it that my soul recoils in terror?"--"Think of your fatherand do good. "--"But why am I unable to do as he did? Why does evilattract me to itself?"--"Get down on your knees and confess; if youbelieve in evil it is because your ways have been evil. "--"If my wayswere evil, was it my fault? Why did the good betray me?"--"Because youare in the shadow, would you deny the existence of light? If there aretraitors, why are you one of them?"--"Because I am afraid of becoming thedupe. "--"Why do you spend your nights in watching? Why are you alonenow?"--"Because I think, I doubt and I fear. "--"When will you offer yourprayer?"--"When I believe. Why have they lied to me?"--"Why do you lie, coward! at this very moment? Why not die if you can not suffer?"

Thus, spoke and groaned within me two voices, voices that were defiantand terrible; and then, a third voice cried out: "Alas! Alas! myinnocence! Alas! Alas! the days that were!"

CHAPTER V

WHAT a powerful lever is the human thought! It is our defense and oursafeguard, the most beautiful present that God has made us. It is oursand it obeys us; we may shoot it forth into space, and, once outside ofthis feeble head, 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, that of Brigitte andof Smith, pursued me through frightful dreams. When they went to thetheater in the evening, I refused to go with them; then, I went alone andconcealed myself in the parquet and watched them. I pretended that I hadsome business to attend to in a neighboring room and I sat there an hourand listened to them. The idea occurred to me to seek a quarrel withSmith and force him to fight with me; I turned my back on him while hewas 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 order toresist the temptation. One day I felt like arming myself with a knife andthreatening to kill them if they did not tell me why they were so sad;another day I turned all this fury against myself. With what shame do Iwrite it! And if any one should ask me why I acted thus, I could notreply. 

To see, to doubt, to search, to torture myself and make myself miserable, to pass entire days with my ear to the keyhole and the night in a floodof tears, to repeat over and over that I would die of sorrow, to feelisolation and feebleness uprooting hope in my heart, to imagine that Iwas spying when I was only listening to the feverish beating of my ownpulse; to con over stupid phrases, such as: "Life is a dream, there isnothing stable here below;" to curse and blaspheme God through misery andthrough caprice: that was my joy, the precious occupation for which Irenounced 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, andstupidity, there were within me certain impulses that at times brought meto myself. It was a breath of air which struck my face as I came from mydungeon; it was a page of a book I read when, in my bitter days, Ihappened to read something besides those modern sycophants calledpamphleteers, and who, out of regard for the public health, ought to beprevented from indulging in their crude philosophizing. 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 of whom, wounded in the breast by a bullet, falls to theground vomiting blood. Salsdorf sees that if that young man is not caredfor he will die of apoplexy; summoning all his powers, he painfully dragshimself to the side of the wounded man, bleeds him and saves his life. Salsdorf himself died four days later from the effects of 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 only whenmy heart was right; I do not speak merely of Salsdorf, and do not carefor that particular instance. I am sure, however, that I did not suspectany one that day. Poor dreamer! Ought I to remember that I have beenother than I am? What good will it do me as I stretch out my arms inanguish to heaven and wait for the shell that will deliver me forever. Alas! that was only a gleam that flashed across the night of my life. 

Like those dervish fanatics who find ecstasy in vertigo when thought, turning on itself, exhausted by the stress of introspection, tired ofvain effort, recoils in fright; thus it would seem that man must be avoid and that by dint of delving within 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 with amortal chill, the heart, as though 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 just animated its failing powers and which, self-created, surroundit like pitiless specters. 

This can not last long. Tired of uncertainty, I resolved to resort to atest that would discover the truth. 

I ordered post horses for ten in the evening. We had hired a calash and Igave direction 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 a wordabout 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 theaters, of the manyopportunities for diversion on every hand. In short, since we were happy, I 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 assure himan honorable living anywhere? Let him come along with us; the carriage islarge and we offer him a place in it. A young man should see the worldand there is nothing so irksome for a man of his age as confinement in anoffice and restriction to a narrow circle. Is it not true?" I asked, turning to Brigitte. "Come, my dear, let your credit obtain from him whathe might refuse me; urge him to give us six weeks of his time. We willtravel together and, after a tour of Switzerland, he will return to hisduties with new life. "

Brigitte joined her entreaties to mine, although she knew it was only ajoke on my part. Smith could not leave Paris without danger of losing hisposition and replied that he regretted being obliged to deny himself thepleasure of accompanying us. Nevertheless, I continued to press him, and, ordering another bottle of wine, I repeated my invitation. After dinner, I went out to assure myself that my orders were carried out; then Ireturned in high spirits, and seating myself at the piano, I proposedsome music. 

"Let us pass the evening here, " I said; "believe me it is better thangoing to the theater; 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 playing 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 its light. The piano was abandoned for the table; then we had cards; everythingpassed off as I wished and we succeeded in diverting ourselves to myheart'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 leave Paris?"

"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 calash; as we have decided to go, oughtwe not go at once? I believe it is better to go now and put off nothinguntil to-morrow. You are in the humor to travel to-night and I hasten toprofit by it. Why wait longer and continue to put it off? I can notendure this life. You wish to go, do you not? Very well, let us go and bedone with it. "

Profound silence ensued. Brigitte stepped to the window and satisfiedherself that the calash was there. Moreover, the tone in which I spokewould admit of no doubt, and, however hasty my action may have appearedto her, it was due to her own expressed desire. She could not deny herown words, 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, shebegan 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 countercrackle 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, if notnow? It must be on the lips of both of them. Let it but come out into thelight and I will seize it. "

"My dear Octave, " said Brigitte, "where are we to stop? You will write tous, Henry, 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 soon 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, Henry. " She held out her hand. He bentover it, pressed it to his lips and I had barely time to slip into acorner as he passed out without seeing me. 

Alone with Brigitte, my heart sank within me. She was waiting for me, hershawl on her arm, and emotion plainly marked on her face. She had foundthe key she had been looking for and her desk was open. I returned andsat down near the fire. "Listen to me, " I said without daring to look ather; "I have been so culpable in my treatment of you that I ought to waitand suffer without a word of complaint. The change which has taken placein you has thrown me into such despair that I have not been able torefrain from asking you the cause; but to-day I ask nothing more. Does itcost you an effort to depart? Tell me, and if so, I am resigned. "

"Let us go, let us go!" she replied. 

"As you please, but be frank; whatever blow I may receive, I ought not toask whence it comes; I should submit without a murmur. But if I lose you, do not speak to me of hope, for God knows I will not survive the loss. "

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 but adream. 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 them intothe fire; she then took out other papers which she reread and then spreadout on the table. They were bills of purchases she had made and some ofthem were still unpaid. While examining them, she began to talk rapidly, while her cheeks burned as though with fever. Then she asked my pardonfor her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival. She gaveevidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever. She clapped herhands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey; in short, she was alllove, or at least apparently all love. I can not tell how I suffered atthe sight of that factitious joy; there was, in that grief which crazedher, something more sad than tears and more bitter than reproaches. Iwould have preferred to have her cold and indifferent rather than thusexcited; it seemed to me a parody of our happiest moments. There were thesame words, the same woman, the same caresses; and that which, fifteendays before, would have intoxicated me with love and happiness, repeatedthus, filled me with horror. 

"Brigitte, " I suddenly inquired, "what secret are you concealing from me?If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are playing before me?"

"I!" said she almost offended. "What makes you think I am playing?"

"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 us alie 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 inyour esteem that you can dissimulate before me? That unfortunate journey, you think you are condemned to it, do you? Am I a tyrant, an absolutemaster? Am I an executioner who drags you to punishment? How much do youfear my wrath when you come before me with such mimicry? What terrorimpels 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 that Ishould be ignorant of it? Might not the remedy lay 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 playing with words when your thoughts are as clear as that glassbefore which you stand? Would 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. I willfollow 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, thereremained only one piece of paper that Brigitte was examining. She pickedit 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, I wishedmerely to make a trial, but circumstances bid fair to force me to carrymy 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 I tolose you forever, were these walls to crumble over my head, I will notleave this spot until I have solved the mystery that has been torturingme for more than a month. Speak, or I will leave you. I may be a fool whodestroys his own happiness, I may be demanding something that is not forme to possess, it may be that an explanation will separate us and raisebefore me an insurmountable barrier, that it will render our tour, onwhich I have set my heart, impossible; whatever it may cost you and 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? When Isee 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 first pretextthat comes to hand because you do not choose to seek another? Is yourface made of plaster that it is difficult to see what is passing in yourheart? What is your opinion of me? I do not deceive myself as much as yousuppose, and take care lest, in default of words, your silence discloseswhat 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. If Ishould explain myself freely, you would have at your service all femininehypocrisy; you hope that I will accuse you, so that you can reply thatsuch a woman as you does not stoop to justify herself. How skilfully themost guilty and treacherous of your sex contrive to use proud disdain asa shield! Your great weapon is silence; I did not learn that yesterday. You wish to be insulted and you hold your tongue until it comes to that;come, come, struggle against my heart; where yours beats, you will findit; but do not struggle against my head, it is harder than iron, and ithas served me as long as yours!"

"Poor boy!" murmured Brigitte; "you do not want to go?"

"No, I shall not go except with my mistress 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 until Ihad 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 though 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 the 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 pavement 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 the womanwho must give you life or death. "

While thus buried in thought, I tried to invent some expedient that wouldlead to the truth, I recalled one of Diderot's romances in which a woman, jealous of her lover, resorted to a novel plan, for the purpose ofclearing away her doubts. She told him that she no longer loved him andthat 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 gaily, "this is not a time for confidencesthen?"

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. Thelife we are leading together is not one to be laughed at. You are young, I also; if this kind of life should become distasteful to you, are youthe woman to tell me of it? In truth, if it were so, I would confess itto you frankly. And why not? Is it a crime to love? If not, it is not acrime to love less or to cease to love at all. Would it be astonishingif, 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. Ifyou wish to remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have to say. "

"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 throw the tauntback in the teeth of my accuser. Have I not within me the consciousnessof what I am? It would be necessary for me to meet my accuser on thefield, and play my life against his; why? In order to prove that I am nota coward; otherwise, the world would believe it. That single word demandsthat reply every time it is spoken, and it matters not by whom. "

"It is true; what is your meaning?"

"Women do not fight; but as society is constituted there is no being, ofwhatever 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; butwhat happens? If it is a man, dishonor; if it is a woman, what?Forgiveness. Every one who lives ought to give some evidence of life, some proof of existence. There is, then, for woman as well as for man, atime 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 make herown weapons. Some one 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 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 not thatyour 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; wewere both pensive, our eyes fixed on the floor. 

"Listen to me, " she began with an effort. "I have suffered much, I callto heaven to bear me witness that I would give my life for you. So longas the 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, I am, 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 the truth froma woman! He who undertakes such a task will earn naught but derision andwill deserve it! Truth! Only he who sorts with chamber-maids knows it, only he who steals to their pillow and listens to the unconsciousutterance of a dream, hears it. He alone knows it, who makes a woman ofhimself and initiates himself into the secrets of her cult ofinconstancy! But the man who asks for it openly, he who opens a loyalhand to receive that frightful alms, he will never obtain it! They are onguard with him; for reply, he receives a shrug of the shoulders, and, ifhe rouses himself in his impatience, they rise in righteous indignationlike an outraged vestal, while there falls from their lips the greatfeminine oracle that suspicion destroys love, and they refuse to pardonan accusation which they are unable to meet. Ah! just God! How weary Iam! 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! O 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, hewill understand what a heart he has wounded, is it not so? He will bewailhis shame, he will know neither joy nor sleep; he will live only in thememory of the time when he might have been happy. But, on that day, hisproud mistress will turn pale as she sees herself avenged; she will sayto herself: 'If I had only done it sooner!' And believe me, if she loveshim, 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 at the door of hisdungeon. In order to break the seal on her 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 in your heart. Are you cruel enough to make me repeat it?"

"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 would 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; Ihave 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 heart-rending voice. 

"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? I mustjustify myself, you say! For what? For loving, for dying, for despairing?And if I assume a forced cheerfulness, even that cheerfulness offendsyou. I sacrifice everything to follow you and you have not gone a leaguebefore you look back. Always, everywhere, whatever I may do, insults andangers! Ah! dear child, if you knew what a mortal chill comes over me, what suffering I endure in seeing my simplest words thus taken up andhurled back 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 can betouched with the finger. You are young, Octave, and you have still a longlife before you; you will have other mistresses. Yes, as you say, prideis a little thing and it is not to it I look for consolation; but Godwills that one of 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 not givenme a caress that I would rather die than endure; that, day by day, minuteby minute, hesitating between hope and fear, I have vainly tried toconquer either my love or my grief; that, when I opened my heart to you, you pierced it with a mocking glance, and that, when I closed it, itseemed 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 that whenyou left me in anger I shut myself up to read your first letters; thatthere is a favorite waltz that I never played in vain when I felt tookeenly the suffering caused by your presence? Ah! wretch that I am! Howdearly all these unnumbered tears, all these follies so sweet to thefeeble, are purchased! Weep now; not even this punishment, this sorrow, 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, andin soul, I have belonged to no one but you. Of what do you dare suspectme? Do you wish to set out for Switzerland? I am ready, as you see. Doyou think you have a rival? Send him a letter that I will sign and youwill direct. What are we doing? Where are we going? Let us decide. Are wenot always together? Very well, then why would you leave me? I can not benear you and separated from you at the same moment. It is necessary tohave confidence in those we love. Love is either good or bad: if good, wemust believe in it; if evil, we must cure ourselves of it. All this, yousee, is a game we are playing; but our hearts and our lives are thestakes, and it is horrible! Do you wish to die? That would, perhaps, bebetter. 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, thouart suspected! poor thin cheeks, poor tired eyes, thou and thy tears arein disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering; let those kissesthat have wasted thee, close thy lids! Descend into the cold earth, poortrembling body that can no longer support its own weight. When thou artthere, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believes in death. Osorrowful specter! On the banks of what stream wilt thou wander andgroan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a long journey and thouhast one foot in the grave! Die! God is thy witness that thou hast triedto love. Ah! what wealth of love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! whatdreams thou hast had, what poisons thou hast drunk! What evil hast thoucommitted that there should be placed in thy breast a fever thatconsumes? What fury animates that blind creature who pushes thee into thegrave with his foot, while his lips speak to thee of love? What willbecome of thee if thou livest! Is it not time? Is it not enough? Whatproof canst thou give that will satisfy when thou, poor living proof, artnot believed? To what torture canst thou submit that thou hast notalready endured? By what torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appeaseinsatiable love? Thou wilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing toexcite laughter; thou wilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid thefinger of scorn. Thou wilt lose all shame and even that appearance ofvirtue which has been so dear to thee; and the man, for whom thou hastdisgraced thyself, will be the first to punish thee. He will reproachthee for living for him alone, for braving the world for him, and whilethy own friends are whispering about thee, he will listen to assurehimself that no word of pity is spoken; he will accuse thee of deceivinghim if another hand even then presses thine, and if, in the desert of thylife, thou findest some one who can spare thee a word of pity in passing. O God! dost thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed on myhead? Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand that hungit on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, to dust! O myvalley! O my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace! O my lindens, my littlewhite goat, my dear peasants who loved me so much! You remember when Iwas happy, proud, and respected? Who threw in my path that stranger whotook me away from all this? Who gave him the right to enter my life? Ah!wretch! why didst thou turn the first day he followed you? Why didst thoureceive him as a brother? Why didst thou open thy door, and why didstthou hold out thy hand? Octave, Octave, why have you loved me if all isto end thus!"

She was about to faint as I led her to a chair where she sank down andher 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 as fromgreat fatigue and seemed not even to remember it. Her feeble and delicatebody yielded without a struggle; the strain had been too great. She heldmy hand in hers; I kissed her; our lips met in loving union, and afterthe cruel scene through which she had passed, she slept smiling on myheart as on the first day. 

CHAPTER VI

BRIGITTE slept. Silent, motionless, I sat near her. As a farmer, when thestorm has passed, counts the sheaves that remain in his devastated 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 certain otheroccasions shown more anger than in this scene; but what she had said thistime was not dictated by offended pride; it was the truth, which, hiddenclosely in her heart, had broken it in escaping. Our present relations, and the fact that I had refused to go away with her, destroyed all hope;she desired to pardon me but she had not the power. This slumber even, this deathlike sleep of one who could suffer no more, was conclusiveevidence; this sudden silence, the tenderness she had shown in the finalmoments, that pale face, and that kiss, confirmed me in the belief thatall was over, and that I had broken, forever, whatever bond had unitedus. As surely as she slept now, as soon as I gave her cause for furthersuffering, she would sleep in eternal rest. The clock struck and I feltthat the last hour had carried away my life 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 loved me, I was sure of loving her; stern necessity had just arisen between us forthe 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 to-morrow. "

And all the while I was thinking neither of my responsibility, nor of thepast, nor future; I thought neither of Smith nor his connection with theaffair; I could not say who had led me there, or what I had done duringthe last hour. I looked at the walls of the room and thought that all Ihad to do was to wait until to-morrow and decide what carriage I wouldtake. 

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;when he has gone some distance on his way he becomes weak, his eyes startfrom their sockets and he asks what has happened. But drop by drop theblood flows, the ground under his feet becomes red; death comes; the man, at his approach, shudders with horror and falls as though struck by athunderbolt. Thus, apparently calm, I awaited the coming of misfortune; Irepeated in a low voice what Brigitte had said, and I placed near her allthat I supposed she would need for the night; I looked at her, and thenwent to the window and pressed my forehead against the pane, peering outat a somber and lowering sky; then I returned to the bedside. That I wasgoing away to-morrow was the only thought in my mind and, little bylittle, the word "depart" became intelligible to me. "Ah! God!" Isuddenly cried, "my poor mistress, I am going to lose you and I have notknown how to love you!"

I trembled at these words as though it had been another who hadpronounced them; they resounded through all my being as resounds thestring of the harp that has been plucked to the point of breaking. In aninstant two years of suffering traversed my heart, and after them, astheir consequence and as their last expression, the present seized me. How shall I describe such woe? By a single word, perhaps, for those whohave loved. I had taken Brigitte's hand, and, in a dream, doubtless, shehad pronounced my name. 

I arose, and went to my room; a torrent of tears flowed from my eyes. Iheld out my arms as though to seize the past which was escaping me. "Isit possible, " 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 from me; I shall never see you again? Never!never!" I said aloud; and, addressing myself to the sleeping Brigitte asthough she could hear me, I added: "Never, never; do not think of it; Iwill never 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 we do?"

A horrible madness seized me; I began to run here and there in search ofsome instrument of death. At last I fell on my knees and beat my headagainst the bed. Brigitte stirred and I remained quiet, fearing I wouldwaken her. 

"Let her sleep until to-morrow, " I said to myself; "you 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 though, for the lasttime, my good angel was 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 though under aburden; her cheek, wasted and leaden, rested on a hand that was spare andfeeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thorns whichis the diadem of resignation. I thought of the cottage. How young she wassix months ago! How cheerful, how free, how careless! What had I donewith 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 to walkthe floor. "Yes, " I continued, "look at her; think of those who areconsumed 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 those whoseek and do not find, of those who love in vain, of those who die and areforgotten. Before thee, there on that bed, lies a being that nature, perchance, formed for thee. From the highest circles of intelligence tothe deepest and most impenetrable mysteries of matter and of form, thatsoul and that body are thy brothers; for six months thy mouth has notspoken, thy heart has not throbbed, without a responsive word andheart-beat from her; and that woman whom God has sent thee as He sendsthe rose to the field, is about to glide from thy heart. While rejoicingin each other's presence, and the angels of eternal love were singingbefore you, you were farther apart than two exiles at either end of theearth. Look at her, but be silent. Thou hast still one night to see her, if thy sobs do not awaken her. "

Little by little, my thoughts mounted and became more somber 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 the awfulfate to come! I, who, if I had shed blood with these hands, could yetrepeat that my heart was not guilty; that I was deceived, that it was notI who did it, but my destiny, my evil genius, some unknown being whodwelt within me, but who was not born there! I, do evil! For six months Ihad been engaged in that task, not a day had passed that I had not workedat that impious occupation, and I had at that moment the proof before myeyes. The man who had loved Brigitte, who had offended her, then insultedher, then abandoned her, only to take her back again, trembling withfear, beset with suspicion, finally thrown on that bed of sorrow, whereshe now lay extended, was I!"

I beat my breast, and, although looking at her, I could not believe it. Itouched her as though 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? Wasit he whom my mother called Octave? Was it he who, at fifteen, leaningover the crystal waters of a fountain, had a heart not less pure thanthey? I closed my eyes and thought of my childhood days. As a ray oflight pierces a cloud, a gleam from the past pierced my heart. 

"No, " I mused, "I did not do that. These things are but an absurd dream. "

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 sit ona stone bench before the farm gate, to whom I was sometimes sent with theremains of our morning meal. Holding out his feeble, wrinkled hands hewould bless me as he smiled upon me. I felt the morning wind blowing onmy brow and a freshness as of the rose descending from heaven into mysoul. 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 to-day! Because you weep, you fondlyimagine 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. Whohas ever told the story of the childhood of those who have died stainedwith human blood? They, also, have been good in their day; they sometimesbury their faces in their hands and think of those happy days. You doevil, and you repent? Nero did the same when he killed his mother. Whohas 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 to evilforever, what will you do with the other part that is not yours? You willtouch with your left hand the wounds that you inflict with your right;you will make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes; youwill strike, and, like Brutus, you will engrave on your sword the prattleof Plato! Into the heart of the being who opens her arms to you, you willplunge that blood-stained but repentant arm; you will follow to thecemetery the victim of your passion, and you will plant on her grave thesterile flower of your pity; you will say to those who see you: 'Whatwould you expect? I have learned how to kill, and observe that I alreadyweep; learn that God made me better than you see me. ' You will speak ofyour youth and you will persuade yourself that Heaven ought to pardonyou, that your misfortunes are involuntary and you will implore sleeplessnights 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 lead 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 will travelin 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. Who knows? When the present, which makes you shudder, shall have becomethe past, an old story, a confused memory, may it not happen some nightof debauchery that you will overturn your chair and recount, with a smileon your lips, what you witnessed with tears in your eyes? It is thus thatone drinks away shame. You have begun by being good, you will becomeweak, 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 makes 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 woman youseem to have a treasure buried in your heart. It is not merely that youlose her, it is less what has been than what might have been. When thehands of the clock indicated such and such an hour, you might have beenhappy. If you suffer, why do you not open your heart? If you love, why doyou not say so? Why do you die of hunger clasping a priceless treasure inyour hands? You have closed the door, you miser; you debate with yourselfbehind locks and bolts. Shake them, for it was your hand that forgedthem. O fool! who have desired, and have possessed your desire, you havenot thought of God! You play with happiness as a child plays with arattle, and you do not reflect how rare and fragile a thing you hold inyour hands; you treat it with disdain, you smile at it and you continueto amuse 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 intoimmensity!

"And you, at the age of twenty-two when a noble and exalted passion, whenthe 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, at thatmoment 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 must denythat it exists; not only deny what there has been of good in you, butkill 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 specter. O child, child! die while youcan! May tears be shed over thy 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! anotherhand than mine on that fine, transparent skin! Another mouth on thoselips, another love in that heart! Brigitte happy, loving, adored, and Iin a corner of the cemetery, crumbling into dust in a ditch! How longwill it take her to forget me if I cease to exist to-morrow? How manytears will she shed? None, perhaps! Not a friend who speaks to her butwill say that my death was a good thing. Who will not hasten to consoleher, who will not urge her to forget me! If she weeps, they will seek todistract her attention from her loss; if memory haunts her, they willtake her away; if her love for me survives me, they will seek to cure heras though she had been poisoned; and she herself, who will perhaps atfirst say that she desires to follow me, will a month later turn aside toavoid the weeping-willow planted over my grave! How could it beotherwise? Who as beautiful as she wastes life in idle regrets? If sheshould think of dying of grief that beautiful bosom would urge her tolive, and her glass would persuade her; and the day when her exhaustedtears give place to the first smile, who will not congratulate her on herrecovery? When, after eight days of silence, she consents to hear my namepronounced in her presence, then she will speak of it herself as thoughto say: 'Console me;' then little by little she will no longer refuse tothink of the past but will speak of it, and she will open her window somebeautiful spring morning when the birds are singing in the garden; shewill become pensive and say: 'I have loved!' Who will be there at herside? Who will dare to tell her that she must continue to love? Ah! thenI will be no more! You will listen to him, faithless one! You will blushas does the budding rose and the blood of youth will mount to your face. While saying that your heart is sealed, you will allow it to escapethrough that fresh aureole of beauty, each ray of which allures a kiss. How much they desire to be loved who say they love no more! And whyshould that astonish you? You are a woman; that body, that spotlessbosom, you know what they are worth; when you conceal them under yourdress you do not believe, as do the virgins, that all are alike, and youknow the price of your modesty. How can the woman who has been praisedresolve to be praised no more? Does she think she is living when sheremains in the shadow and there is silence round about her beauty? Herbeauty itself is the admiring glance of her lover. No, no, there can beno doubt of it; who has loved, can not live without love; who has seendeath, clings to life. Brigitte loves me and will perhaps die of love; Iwill 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 for thesecond will not flow as long as those shed for the first. Ah! God forgiveme! While she sleeps why should I not kill her? If I should awaken hernow and tell her that her hour had come and that we were going to diewith a last kiss, she would consent. What does it matter? Is it certainthat 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 talk ofsomething else beyond? It is for the ignorant, common people that afuture life has been invented, but who really believes in it? Whatwatcher in the cemetery has seen Death leave his tomb and holdconsultation with a priest? In olden times there were fantoms; they areinterdicted by the police in civilized cities and no cries are now heardissuing from the earth except from those buried in haste. Who hassilenced death if it has ever spoken? Because funeral processions are nolonger permitted to encumber our streets, does the celestial spiritlanguish? To die, that is the final purpose, the end. God has establishedit, man discusses it; but over every door is written: 'Do what thou wilt, thou shalt die. ' What will be said if I kill Brigitte? Neither of us willhear. In to-morrow's journal would appear the intelligence that Octave deT----- had killed his mistress, and the day after no one would speak ofit. Who would follow us to the grave? No one who, upon returning to hishome, could not enjoy a hearty dinner; and when we were extended side byside in our narrow bed, the world could walk over our graves withoutdisturbing us. Is it not true, my well-beloved, is it not true that itwould be well with us? It is a soft bed, that bed of earth; no sufferingcan reach us there; the occupants of the neighboring tombs will notgossip about us; our bones will embrace in peace and without pride, fordeath is solace, and that which binds does not also separate. Why shouldannihilation frighten thee, poor body, destined to corruption? Every hourthat strikes drags thee on to thy doom, every step breaks the round onwhich thou hast just rested; thou art nourished by the dead; the air ofheaven weighs upon and crushes thee, the earth on which thou treadestattacks thee by the soles of thy feet. Down with thee! Why art thouaffrighted? Dost thou tremble at a word? Merely say: 'We will not live. 'Is not life a burden that we long to lay down? Why hesitate when it ismerely a question of a little sooner or a little later? Matter isindestructible, and the physicists, we are told, grind to infinity thesmallest speck of dust without being able to annihilate it. If matter isthe property of chance, what harm can it do to change its form since itcan not cease to be matter? Why should God care what form I have receivedand with what livery I invest my grief? Suffering lives in my brain; itbelongs to me, I kill it; but my bones do not belong to me and I returnthem to Him who lent them to me: may some poet make a cup of my skullfrom which to drink his new wine What reproach can I incur and what harmcan that reproach do me? What stern judge will tell me that I have donewrong? What does he know about it? Was he such as I? If every creaturehas his task to perform and if it is a crime to shirk it, what culpritsare the babes who die on the nurse's breast! Why should they be spared?Who will be instructed by the lessons which are taught after death? Mustheaven be a desert in order that man may be punished for having lived? Isit not enough to have lived? I do not know who asked that question, unless it was Voltaire on his death-bed; it is a cry of despair worthy ofa helpless old atheist. But to what purpose? Why so many struggles? Whois there above us who delights in so much agony? Who amuses himself andwhiles away an idle hour watching this spectacle of creation, alwaysrenewed and always dying, seeing the work of man's hands rising, thegrass growing; looking upon the planting of the seed and the fall of thethunderbolt; beholding man walking about upon his earth until he meetsthe beckoning finger of death; counting tears and watching them dry uponthe cheek of pain; noting the pure profile of love and the wrinkled faceof age; seeing hands stretched up to him in supplication, bodiesprostrate before him, and not a blade of wheat more in the harvest! Whois it then who has made so much for the pleasure of knowing that it allamounts to nothing! The earth is dying; Herschell says it is of cold; whoholds in his hand the drop of condensed vapor and watches it as it driesup, as an angler watches a grain of sand in his hand? That mighty law ofattraction that suspends the world in space, torments it and consumes itin endless desire; every planet carries its load of misery and groans onits axle; they call to each other across the abyss and each wonders whichwill stop first. God controls them; they accomplish assiduously andeternally their appointed and useless task; they whirl about, theysuffer, they burn, they become extinct and they light up with new flame;they descend and they reascend, they follow and yet they avoid eachother, they interlace like rings; they carry on their surface thousandsof beings who are ceaselessly renewed; the beings move about, cross eachother's paths, clasp each other for an hour, and then fall and othersrise in their place; where life fails, life hastens to the spot; whereair is wanting, air rushes; no disorder, everything is regulated, markedout, written down in lines of gold and parables of fire, everything keepsstep with the celestial music along the pitiless paths of life; and allfor nothing! And we, poor nameless dreams, pale and sorrowfulapparitions, helpless ephemera, we who are animated by the breath of asecond, in order that death may exist, we exhaust ourselves with fatiguein order to prove that we are living for a purpose, and that somethingindefinable is stirring within us. We hesitate to turn against ourbreasts a little piece of steel, or blow out our brains with a littleinstrument no larger than our hand; it seems to us that chaos wouldreturn again; we have written and revised the laws both human and divineand we are afraid of our catechisms; we suffer thirty years withoutmurmuring and imagine that we are struggling; finally suffering becomesthe stronger, we send a pinch of powder into the sanctuary ofintelligence, and a flower pierces the soil 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 thebedclothing to uncover the heart, when I discovered on her white bosom alittle 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 little crucifixon her death-bed. 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. Suddenly Ijoined 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 longerdisbelieved in him. Neither as a child, nor at school, nor as a man, haveI frequented churches; my religion, if I had any, had neither rite norsymbol, and I believed in a God without form, without a cult, and withoutrevelation. Poisoned, from youth, by all the writings of the lastcentury, I had sucked, at an early hour, the sterile milk of impiety. Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed my mouth against prayer, while my affrighted soul took refuge in the hope of nothingness. I was asthough 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 alone and it was night. Was it prejudice? Whatprevented me from hurling out of my sight that little piece of blackwood? I could have thrown it into the fire, but it was my weapon I threwthere. Ah! what an experience that was, and still is, for my soul! Whatmiserable wretches are men who mock at that which can save a human being!What matters the name, the form, the belief? Is not all that is goodsacred? How dare any one touch God?

As at a glance from the sun the snows descend the mountains and theglaciers that threatened heaven melt into streams in the valley, so theredescended into my heart a stream that overflowed its banks. Repentance isa pure incense; it exhaled from all my suffering. Although I had almostcommitted a crime when my hand was arrested, I felt that my heart wasinnocent. In an instant calm, self-possession, reason returned; I againapproached the bed; I leaned over my idol and kissed the 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! You areyoung and beautiful. You live and you will forget me. You will recoverfrom the evil I have done you, if you can forgive me. Sleep in peaceuntil day, Brigitte, and then decide our fate; whatever sentence youpronounce, I will submit without complaint. And thou, Lord, who hastsaved me, grant me pardon. I was born in an impious century, and I havemany crimes to expiate. Thou Son of God, whom men forget, I have not beentaught to love Thee. I have never worshiped in Thy temples, but I thankheaven that where I find Thee, I tremble and bow in reverence. I have atleast kissed with my lips a heart that is full of Thee. Protect thatheart so long as life lasts; dwell within it, Thou Holy One; a poorunfortunate has been brave enough to defy death at the sight of Thysuffering and Thy death; though impious, Thou hast saved him from evil;if he had believed, Thou wouldst have consoled him. Pardon those who havemade him incredulous since Thou hast made him repentant; pardon those whoblaspheme! When they were in despair they did not see Thee! Human joysare a mockery; they are scornful and pitiless; O Lord! the happy of thisworld think they have no need of Thee! Pardon them. Although their pridemay outrage Thee, they will be, sooner or later, baptized in tears; grantthat they may cease to believe in any other shelter from the tempest, than Thy love, and spare them the severe lessons of unhappiness. Ourwisdom and skepticism are in our hands but children's toys; forgive usfor dreaming that we can defy Thee, Thou who smilest at Golgotha. Theworst result of all our vain misery 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 as it led Thee to Thy Father; we come to Thee with our crown ofthorns and kneel before Thy mercy-seat; we touch Thy bleeding feet withour bloodstained hands, and Thou hast suffered martyrdom for being lovedby 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 to leave Brigitte, andseek a little repose. As I was passing out of the room, a dress thrown ona chair slipped to the floor near me, and in its folds I spied a piece ofpaper. I picked it up; it was a letter, and I recognized Brigitte's hand. The envelope was not sealed. I opened it and read as follows:

 23 December, 18--

"When you receive this letter I shall be far away from you, and shallperhaps never see you again. My destiny is bound up with that of a manfor whom I have sacrificed everything; he can not live without me and Iam 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_. "

CHAPTER VII

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. They entered ajeweler's store where they chose two similar rings which they smilinglyexchanged. After a short walk they took breakfast at theFreres-Provencaux, in one of those little rooms which are, all thingsconsidered, one of the most beautiful spots in the world. There, when thegarcon had left them, they sat near the windows, hand in hand. The youngman was in traveling dress; to see the joy which shone on his face, onewould have taken him for a young husband showing his young wife thebeauties and pleasures of Parisian life. His happiness was calm andsubdued, as true happiness always is. The experienced would haverecognized in him the youth who merges into manhood. From time to time helooked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered in hiseyes, but he heeded them not, and smiled as he wept. The woman was paleand thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man. On her face were tracesof sorrow which she could not conceal, although evidently touched by theexalted joy of her companion. When he smiled, she smiled too, but neveralone; when he spoke, she replied and she ate what he served her; butthere was about her a silence which was only broken at his instance. Inher languor could be clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, thatlethargy of the weaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only inthe other and responds to him as does the echo. The young man wasconscious of it and seemed proud of it and grateful for it; but it couldbe seen even by his pride that his happiness was new to him. When thewoman became sad and her eyes fell, he cheered her with his glance; buthe could not always succeed, and seemed troubled himself. That minglingof strength and weakness, of joy and sorrow, of anxiety and serenitycould not have been understood by an indifferent spectator; at times theyappeared the most happy of living creatures, and the next moment the mostunhappy; but although ignorant of their secret, one would have felt thatthey were suffering together, and, whatever their mysterious trouble, itcould be seen that they had placed on their sorrow a seal more powerfulthan love itself--friendship. While their hands were clasped theirglances were chaste; although they were alone, they spoke in low tones. As though overcome by their feelings they sat face to face, althoughtheir lips did not touch. They looked at each other tenderly andsolemnly. When the clock struck one, the woman heaved a sigh and said:

"Octave, are you sure of yourself?"

"Yes, my friend, I am resolved. I will suffer much, a long time, perhapsforever; but we will cure ourselves, you with time, I with God. "

"Octave, Octave, " repeated the woman, "are you sure you are not deceivingyourself?"

"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! Smithis brave, good and honest, but however much you may love him, you seevery well that you still love me, for if I should decide to remain, or totake 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 I must never see you again. There are certain loves in life that overturn the head, the senses, themind, 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 takenroot. "

"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 not gointo the past. Little by little my letters will become less frequentuntil they cease altogether. I will thus descend the hill that I havebeen climbing for the past year. When one stands before a fresh grave, over which are engraved two cherished names, one experiences a mysterioussense of grief, which causes tears to trickle down one's cheeks; it isthus that I wish to remember having once lived. "

At these words the woman threw herself on the couch and burst into tears. The young man wept with her, but he did not move and seemed anxious toappear unconscious of her emotion. When her tears ceased to flow, heapproached 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; anotherwill love you more worthily, no one will love you more truly. Anotherwill be considerate of those feelings that I offend, he will surround youwith his love; you will have a better lover, you will not have a betterbrother. Give me your hand and let the world laugh at a word that it doesnot understand: Let us be friends; and adieu forever. Before we becamesuch intimate friends there was something within that told us that wewere destined to mingle our lives. Let that part of us which is stilljoined in God's sight never know that we have parted upon earth; let notthe paltry chance of a moment undo the union of 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 cut fromher 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 glorious 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. A moment later acarriage passed over a little hill beyond Fontainebleau. The young manwas the only occupant; he looked for the last time upon his native townas it disappeared in the distance and thanked God that, of the threebeings who had suffered through his fault, there remained but one of themstill unhappy.