CONFESSION OF A CHILD OF THE CENTURY

(Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle)

By ALFRED DE MUSSET

With a Preface by HENRI DE BORNIER, of the French Academy

ALFRED DE MUSSET

A poet has no right to play fast and loose with his genius. It does notbelong to him, it belongs to the Almighty; it belongs to the world andto a coming generation. At thirty De Musset was already an old man, seeking in artificial stimuli the youth that would not spring again. Coming from a literary family the zeal of his house had eaten him up;his passion had burned itself out and his heart with it. He had donehis work; it mattered little to him or to literature whether the curtainfell on his life's drama in 1841 or in 1857. 

Alfred de Musset, by virtue of his genial, ironical temperament, eminently clear brain, and undying achievements, belongs to the greatpoets of the ages. We to-day do not approve the timbre of his epoch:that impertinent, somewhat irritant mask, that redundant rhetoric, thatoccasional disdain for the metre. Yet he remains the greatest poetede l'amour, the most spontaneous, the most sincere, the most emotionalsinger of the tender passion that modern times has produced. 

Born of noble parentage on December 11, 1810--his full name being LouisCharles Alfred de Musset--the son of De Musset-Pathai, he received hiseducation at the College Henri IV, where, among others, the Duke ofOrleans was his schoolmate. When only eighteen he was introducedinto the Romantic 'cenacle' at Nodier's. His first work, 'Les Contesd'Espagne et d'Italie' (1829), shows reckless daring in the choice ofsubjects quite in the spirit of Le Sage, with a dash of the dandifiedimpertinence that mocked the foibles of the old Romanticists. However, he presently abandoned this style for the more subjective strain of 'LesVoeux Steyiles, Octave, Les Secretes Pensees de Rafael, Namouna, andRolla', the last two being very eloquent at times, though immature. Rolla (1833) is one of the strongest and most depressing of his works;the sceptic regrets the faith he has lost the power to regain, andrealizes in lurid flashes the desolate emptiness of his own heart. Atthis period the crisis of his life was reached. He accompanied GeorgeSand to Italy, a rupture between them occurred, and De Musset returnedto Paris alone in 1834. 

More subdued sadness is found in 'Les Nuits' (1832-1837), and in 'Espoiren Dieu' (1838), etc. , and his 'Lettre a Lamartine' belongs to the mostbeautiful pages of French literature. But henceforth his productiongrows more sparing and in form less romantic, although 'Le RhinAllemand', for example, shows that at times he can still gather up allhis powers. The poet becomes lazy and morose, his will is sapped by awild and reckless life, and one is more than once tempted to wish thathis lyre had ceased to sing. 

De Musset's prose is more abundant than his lyrics or his dramas. It isof immense value, and owes its chief significance to the clearnesswith which it exhibits the progress of his ethical disintegration. In'Emmeline (1837) we have a rather dangerous juggling with thepsychology of love. Then follows a study of simultaneous love, 'LesDeux Mattresses' (1838), quite in the spirit of Jean Paul. He thenwrote three sympathetic depictions of Parisian Bohemia: 'Frederic etBernadette, Mimi Pinson, and Le Secret de Javotte', all in 1838. 'LeFils de Titien (1838) and Croiselles' (1839) are carefully elaboratedhistorical novelettes; the latter is considered one of his best works, overflowing with romantic spirit, and contrasting in this respectstrangely with 'La Mouche' (1853), one of the last flickerings of hisimagination. 'Maggot' (1838) bears marks of the influence of GeorgeSand; 'Le Merle Blanc' (1842) is a sort of allegory dealing withtheir quarrel. 'Pierre et Camille' is a pretty but slight tale of adeaf-mute's love. His greatest work, 'Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle', crowned with acclaim by the French Academy, and classic for all time, was written in 1836, when the poet, somewhat recovered from the shock, relates his unhappy Italian experience. It is an ambitious and deeplyinteresting work, and shows whither his dread of all moral compulsionand self-control was leading him. 

De Musset also wrote some critical essays, witty and satirical in tone, in which his genius appears in another light. It is not generally knownthat he was the translator into French of De Quincey's 'Confessionsof an Opium Eater' (1828). He was also a prominent contributor to the'Revue des Deux Mondes. ' In 1852 he was elected to the French Academy, but hardly ever appeared at the sessions. A confrere once made theremark: "De Musset frequently absents himself, " whereupon it is saidanother Immortal answered, "And frequently absinthe's himself!"

While Brunetiere, Lemattre, and others consider De Musset a greatdramatist, Sainte-Beuve, singularly enough, does not appreciate him as aplaywright. Theophile Gautier says about 'Un Caprice' (1847): "Since thedays of Marivaux nothing has been produced in 'La Comedie Francaise'so fine, so delicate, so dainty, than this tender piece, thischef-d'oeuvre, long buried within the pages of a review; and we aregreatly indebted to the Russians of St. Petersburg, that snow-coveredAthens, for having dug up and revived it. " Nevertheless, his bluette, 'La Nuit Venetienne', was outrageously treated at the Odeon. Theopposition was exasperated by the recent success of Hugo's 'Hernani. 'Musset was then in complete accord with the fundamental romanticconception that tragedy must mingle with comedy on the stage as well asin life, but he had too delicate a taste to yield to the extravaganceof Dumas and the lesser romanticists. All his plays, by the way, werewritten for the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' between 1833 and 1850, and theydid not win a definite place on the stage till the later years of theSecond Empire. In some comedies the dialogue is unequalled by any writersince the days of Beaumarchais. Taine says that De Musset has more realoriginality in some respects than Hugo, and possesses truer dramaticgenius. Two or three of his comedies will probably hold the stagelonger than any dramatic work of the romantic school. They contain thequintessence of romantic imaginative art; they show in full flow thatunchecked freedom of fancy which, joined to the spirit of realisticcomedy, produces the modern French drama. Yet De Musset's prose has ingreater measure the qualities that endure. 

The Duke of Orleans created De Musset Librarian in the Department of theInterior. It was sometimes stated that there was no library at all. Itis certain that it was a sinecure, though the pay, 3, 000 francs, wassmall. In 1848 the Duke had the bad taste to ask for his resignation, but the Empire repaired the injury. Alfred de Musset died in Paris, May2, 1857. 

 HENRI DE BORNIER de l'Academie Francaise. 

THE CONFESSIONS OF A CHILD OF THE CENTURY

BOOK 1. 

PART I

CHAPTER I. TO THE READER

Before the history of any life can be written, that life must be lived;so that it is not my life that I am now writing. Attacked in early youthby an abominable moral malady, I here narrate what happened to me duringthe space of three years. Were I the only victim of that disease, Iwould say nothing, but as many others suffer from the same evil, I writefor them, although I am not sure that they will give heed to me. Shouldmy warning be unheeded, I shall still have reaped the fruit of myagonizing in having cured myself, and, like the fox caught in a trap, shall have gnawed off my captive foot. 

CHAPTER II. REFLECTIONS

During the wars of the Empire, while husbands and brothers were inGermany, anxious mothers gave birth to an ardent, pale, and neuroticgeneration. Conceived between battles, reared amid the noises of war, thousands of children looked about them with dull eyes while testingtheir limp muscles. From time to time their blood-stained fathers wouldappear, raise them to their gold-laced bosoms, then place them on theground and remount their horses. 

The life of Europe centred in one man; men tried to fill their lungswith the air which he had breathed. Yearly France presented that manwith three hundred thousand of her youth; it was the tax to Caesar;without that troop behind him, he could not follow his fortune. It wasthe escort he needed that he might scour the world, and then fall in alittle valley on a deserted island, under weeping willows. 

Never had there been so many sleepless nights as in the time of thatman; never had there been seen, hanging over the ramparts of the cities, such a nation of desolate mothers; never was there such a silence aboutthose who spoke of death. And yet there was never such joy, such life, such fanfares of war, in all hearts. Never was there such pure sunlightas that which dried all this blood. God made the sun for this man, men said; and they called it the Sun of Austerlitz. But he made thissunlight himself with his ever-booming guns that left no 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 slaughter; but they believed thatMurat was invulnerable, and the Emperor had been seen to cross a bridgewhere so many bullets whistled that they wondered if he were mortal. Andeven if one must die, what did it matter? Death itself was so beautiful, so noble, so illustrious, in its battle-scarred purple! It borrowed thecolor of hope, it reaped so many immature harvests that it became young, and there was no more old age. All the cradles of France, as indeedall its tombs, were armed with bucklers; there were no more graybeards, there were only corpses or demi-gods. 

Nevertheless the immortal Emperor stood one day on a hill watching sevennations engaged in mutual slaughter, not knowing whether he would bemaster of all the world or only half. Azrael passed, touched the warriorwith the tip of his wing, and hurled him into the ocean. At the noise ofhis fall, the dying Powers sat up in their beds of pain; and stealthilyadvancing with furtive tread, the royal spiders made partition ofEurope, and the purple of Caesar became the motley of Harlequin. 

Just as the traveller, certain of his way, hastes night and day throughrain and sunlight, careless of vigils or of dangers, but, safe at homeand seated before the fire, is seized by extreme lassitude and canhardly drag himself to bed, so France, the widow of Caesar, suddenlyfelt her wound. She fell through sheer exhaustion, and lapsed into acoma so profound that her old kings, believing her dead, wrapped abouther a burial shroud. The veterans, their hair whitened in service, returned exhausted, and the hearths of deserted castles sadly flickeredinto 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 native fields and foundthemselves so old, so mutilated, that they bethought themselves of theirsons, in order that these might close the paternal eyes in peace. Theyasked where they were; the children came from the schools, and, seeingneither sabres, nor cuirasses, neither infantry nor cavalry, asked inturn where were their fathers. They were told that the war was ended, that Caesar was dead, and that the portraits of Wellington and ofBlucher were suspended in the ante-chambers of the consulates and theembassies, with this legend beneath: 'Salvatoribus mundi'. 

Then came upon a world in ruins an anxious youth. The children weredrops of burning blood which had inundated the earth; they were bornin the bosom of war, for war. For fifteen years they had dreamed of thesnows of Moscow and of the sun of the Pyramids. 

They had not gone beyond their native towns; but had been told thatthrough each gateway of these towns lay the road to a capital of Europe. They had in their heads a world; they saw the earth, the sky, thestreets and the highways; but these were empty, and the bells of parishchurches resounded faintly in the distance. 

Pale phantoms, shrouded in black robes, slowly traversed thecountryside; some knocked at the doors of houses, and, when admitted, drew from their pockets large, well-worn documents with which theyevicted the tenants. From every direction came men still trembling withthe fear that had seized them when they had fled twenty years before. All began to urge their claims, disputing loudly and crying for help;strange that a single death should attract so many buzzards. 

The King of France was on his throne, looking here and there to see ifhe could perchance find a bee [symbol of Napoleon D. W. ] in the royaltapestry. Some men held out their hats, and he gave them money; othersextended a crucifix and he kissed it; others contented themselves withpronouncing in his ear great names of powerful families, and he repliedto these by inviting them into his grand salle, where the echoes weremore sonorous; still others showed him their old cloaks, when they hadcarefully effaced the bees, and to these he gave new robes. 

The children saw all this, thinking that the spirit of Caesar wouldsoon land at Cannes and breathe upon this larva; but the silence wasunbroken, and they saw floating in the sky only the paleness of thelily. When these children spoke of glory, they met the answer:

"Become priests;" when they spoke of hope, of love, of power, of life:"Become priests. "

And yet upon the rostrum came a man who held in his hand a contractbetween king and people. He began by saying that glory was a beautifulthing, and ambition and war as well; but there was something still morebeautiful, and it was called liberty. 

The children raised their heads and remembered that thus theirgrandfathers had spoken. They remembered having seen in certain obscurecorners of the paternal home mysterious busts with long marble hair anda Latin inscription; they remembered how their grandsires shook theirheads and spoke of streams of blood more terrible than those of theEmpire. Something in that word liberty made their hearts beat with thememory of a terrible past and the hope of a glorious future. 

They trembled at the word; but returning to their homes they encounteredin the street three coffins which were being borne to Clamart;within were 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 publicly to estimate whatambition had cost and how very dear was glory; they pointed out thehorror of war and called the battle-losses butcheries. 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 if awakening from a feverish dream. 

Some said: "The Emperor has fallen because the people wished no moreof him;" others added: "The people wished the king; no, liberty; no, reason; no, religion; no, the English constitution; no, absolutism;" andthe last one said: "No, none of these things, but simply peace. "

Three elements entered into the life which offered itself to thesechildren: behind them a past forever destroyed, still quivering on itsruins with all the fossils of centuries of absolutism; before themthe aurora of an immense horizon, the first gleams of the future; andbetween these two worlds--like the ocean which separates the Old Worldfrom the New--something vague and floating, a troubled sea filled withwreckage, traversed from time to time by some distant sail or some shiptrailing thick clouds of smoke; the present, in a word, which separatesthe past from the future, which is neither the one nor the other, whichresembles both, and where one can not know whether, at each step, onetreads on living matter or on dead refuse. 

It was in such chaos that choice had to 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 before Galatea, it wasfor them a lover in marble, and they waited for the breath of life toanimate that breast, for blood to color those veins. 

There remained then the present, the spirit of the time, angel ofthe dawn which is neither night nor day; they found him seated on alime-sack filled with bones, clad in the mantle of egoism, and shiveringin terrible cold. The anguish of death entered into the soul at thesight of that spectre, half mummy and half foetus; they approached itas does the traveller who is shown at Strasburg the daughter of anold count of Sarvenden, embalmed in her bride's dress: that childishskeleton makes one shudder, for her slender and livid hand wears thewedding-ring and her head decays enwreathed in orange-blossoms. 

As on the approach of a tempest there passes through the forests aterrible gust of wind which makes the trees shudder, to which profoundsilence succeeds, so had Napoleon, in passing, shaken the world; kingsfelt their crowns oscillate in the storm, and, raising hands to steadythem, found only their hair, bristling with terror. The Pope hadtravelled 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. Thus everything trembled in that dismal forest of old Europe; thensilence succeeded. 

It is said that when you meet a mad dog, if you keep quietly on yourway without turning, the dog will merely follow you a short distancegrowling and showing his teeth; but if you allow yourself to befrightened into a movement of terror, if you but make a sudden step, hewill leap at your throat and devour you; that when the first bite hasbeen taken there is no escaping him. 

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

Napoleon dead, human and divine power were reestablished, 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 fall 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 alivid shroud. 

There had been those who hated the nobles, who cried out againstpriests, who conspired against kings; abuses and prejudices had beenattacked; but all that was not so great a novelty as to see a smilingpeople. If a noble or a priest or a sovereign passed, the peasants whohad made war possible began to shake their heads and say: "Ah! when wesaw this man in such a time and place he wore a different face. " Andwhen the throne and altar were mentioned, they replied: "They are madeof four planks of wood; we have nailed them together and torn themapart. " And when some one said: "People, you have recovered from theerrors which led you astray; you have recalled your kings and yourpriests, " they replied: "We have nothing to do with those prattlers. "And when some one said "People, forget the past, work and obey, " theyarose from their seats and a dull jangling could be heard. It was therusty and notched sabre in the corner of the cottage chimney. Then theyhastened to add: "Then keep quiet, at least; if no one harms you, do notseek to harm. " Alas! they were content with that. 

But youth was not content. It is certain that there are in man twooccult powers engaged in a death-struggle: the one, clear-sighted andcold, is concerned with reality, calculation, weight, and judges thepast; the other is athirst for the future and eager for the unknown. When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning, him ofhis danger; but when man listens to the voice of reason, when he stopsat her request and says: "What a fool I am; where am I going?" passioncalls to him: "Ah, must 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 tothe sword or to the church. The poorest gave themselves up with coldenthusiasm to great thoughts, plunged into the frightful sea of aimlesseffort. As human weakness seeks association and as men are gregarious bynature, politics became mingled with it. There were struggles withthe 'garde du corps' on the steps of the legislative assembly; at thetheatre Talma wore a wig which made him resemble Caesar; every oneflocked to the burial of a 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 inner life ofsociety assumed a sombre aspect of silence; hypocrisy ruled in alldepartments of conduct; English ideas, combining gayety with devotion, had disappeared. Perhaps Providence was already preparing new ways, perhaps the herald angel of future society was already sowing in thehearts of women the seeds of human independence. But it is certain thata strange thing suddenly happened: in all the salons of Paris the menpassed on one side and the women on the other; and thus, the one cladin white like brides, and the other in black like orphans, began to takemeasure of one another with 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, sobeautiful, so full of youth, began to experience the universal change. Men in taking leave of women whispered the word which wounds tothe death: contempt. They plunged into the dissipation of wine andcourtesans. Students and artists did the same; love was treated as wereglory and religion: it was an old illusion. The grisette, that woman sodreamy, so romantic, so tender, and so sweet in love, abandoned herselfto the counting-house and to the shop. She was poor and no one lovedher; she needed gowns and hats and she sold herself. Oh! misery! theyoung man who ought to love her, whom she loved, who used to take herto the woods of Verrieres and Romainville, to the dances on the lawn, to the suppers under the trees; he who used to talk with her as she satnear the lamp in the rear of the shop on the long winter evenings; hewho shared her crust of bread moistened with the sweat of her brow, andher love at once sublime and poor; he, that same man, after abandoningher, finds her after a night of orgy, pale and leaden, forever lost, with hunger on her lips and 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 the elementsof anguish and of grief scattered over the universe. Goethe, thepatriarch of a new literature, after painting in his Weyther the passionwhich leads to suicide, traced in his Faust the most sombre humancharacter which has ever represented evil and unhappiness. His writingsbegan to pass from Germany into France. From his studio, surroundedby pictures and statues, rich, happy, and at ease, he watched with apaternal smile his gloomy creations marching in dismal procession acrossthe frontiers of France. Byron replied to him in a cry of grief whichmade Greece tremble, and hung Manfred over the abyss, as if oblivionwere the solution of the hideous enigma with which he enveloped him. 

Pardon, great poets! who are now but ashes and who sleep in peace!Pardon, ye demigods, for I am only a child who suffers. But while Iwrite all this I can not but curse you. Why did you not sing of theperfume of flowers, of the voices of nature, of hope and of love, ofthe vine and the sun, of the azure heavens and of beauty? You must haveunderstood life, you must have suffered; the world was crumblingto pieces about you; you wept on its ruins and you despaired; yourmistresses were false; your friends calumniated, your compatriotsmisunderstood; your heart was empty; death was in your eyes, and youwere the Colossi of grief. But tell me, noble Goethe, was there no moreconsoling voice in the religious murmur of your old German forests? You, for whom beautiful poesy was the sister of science, could not they findin immortal nature a healing plant for the heart of their favorite?You, who were a pantheist, and antique poet of Greece, a lover of sacredforms, could you not put a little honey in the beautiful vases you made;you who had only to smile and allow the bees to come to your lips? Andthou, Byron, hadst thou not near Ravenna, under the orange-trees ofItaly, under thy beautiful Venetian sky, near thy Adriatic, hadst thounot thy well-beloved? Oh, God! I who speak to you, who am only a feeblechild, have perhaps known sorrows that you have never suffered, and yetI believe and hope, and still bless God. 

When English and German ideas had passed thus over our heads thereensued disgust and mournful silence, followed by a terrible convulsion. For to formulate general ideas is to change saltpetre into powder, andthe Homeric brain of the great Goethe had sucked up, as an alembic, allthe juice of the forbidden fruit. Those who did not read him, did notbelieve it, knew nothing of it. Poor creatures! The explosion carriedthem away like grains of dust into the abyss of universal doubt. 

It was a denial of all heavenly and earthly facts that might be termeddisenchantment, or if you will, despair; as if humanity in lethargy hadbeen pronounced dead by those who felt its pulse. Like a soldier who isasked: "In what do you believe?" and who replies: "In myself, " so theyouth of France, hearing that question, replied: "In nothing. "

Then formed two camps: on one side the exalted spirits, sufferers, allthe expansive souls who yearned toward the infinite, bowed their headsand wept; they wrapped themselves in unhealthful dreams and nothingcould be seen but broken reeds in an ocean of bitterness. On the otherside the materialists remained erect, inflexible, in the midst ofpositive joys, and cared for nothing except to count the money they hadacquired. It was but a sob and a burst of laughter, the one coming fromthe soul, the other from the body. 

This is what the soul said:

"Alas! Alas! religion has departed; the clouds of heaven fall in rain;we have no longer either hope or expectation, not even two little piecesof black wood in the shape of a cross before which to clasp our hands. The star of the future is loath to appear; it can not rise above thehorizon; it is enveloped in clouds, and like the sun in winter its discis the color of blood, as in '93. There is no more love, no more glory. What heavy darkness over all the earth! And death will come ere the daybreaks. "

This is what the body said:

"Man is here below to satisfy his senses; he has more or less of whiteor yellow metal, by which he merits more or less esteem. To eat, todrink, and to sleep, that is life. As for the bonds which exist betweenmen, friendship consists in loaning money; but one rarely has a friendwhom he loves enough for that. Kinship determines inheritance; love isan exercise 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 ona marble altar in the midst of perfumes and holy incense. Already thechildren were clenching idle hands and drinking in a bitter cup thepoisoned brewage of doubt. Already things were drifting toward theabyss, when the jackals suddenly emerged from the earth. A deathly andinfected 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 sang 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 seed 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 havemade shudder with terror the still thickets of Versailles. The Communionof Christ, the Host, those wafers that stand as the eternal symbol ofdivine love, were used to seal letters; the children spit upon the Breadof God. 

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

It is unfortunately true that there is in blasphemy a certain outletwhich solaces the burdened heart. When an atheist, drawing his watch, gave God a quarter of an hour in which to strike him dead, it is certainthat it was a quarter of an hour of wrath and of atrocious joy. It wasthe paroxysm of despair, a nameless appeal to all celestial powers; itwas a poor, wretched creature squirming under the foot that was crushinghim; it was a loud cry of pain. Who knows? In the eyes of Him who seesall things, it was perhaps a prayer. 

Thus these youth found employment for their idle powers in a fondnessfor despair. To scoff at glory, at religion, at love, at all the world, is a great consolation for those who do not know what to do; they mockat themselves, and in doing so prove the correctness of their view. Andthen it is pleasant to believe one's self unhappy when one is only idleand tired. Debauchery, moreover, the first result of the principles 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:"There is nothing real but oblivion, all else is a dream; let usforget and let us die. " And the poor said: "There is nothing real butunhappiness, all else is a dream; let us blaspheme and die. "

Is this too black? Is it 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 Christians, so admirable when in thedesert, did to the State when they were in power. "When I think, " saidMontesquieu, "of the profound ignorance into which the Greek clergyplunged the laity, I am obliged to compare them to the Scythians of whomHerodotus speaks, who put out the eyes of their slaves in order thatnothing might distract their attention from their work. . . . No affairof State, no peace, no truce, no negotiations, no marriage could betransacted by any one but the clergy. The evils of this system werebeyond belief. "

Montesquieu might have added: Christianity destroyed the emperors butit saved 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 corruptto the very marrow of its bones, than the sombre galvanism under theinfluence of which the skeleton of tyranny danced upon the tombs ofHeliogabalus and Caracalla? How beautiful that mummy of Rome, embalmedin the perfumes of Nero and swathed in the shroud of Tiberius! It hadto do, my friends the politicians, with finding the poor and givingthem life and peace; it had to do with allowing the worms and tumorsto destroy the monuments of shame, while drawing from the ribs of thismummy a virgin as beautiful as the mother of the Redeemer, Hope, thefriend of the oppressed. 

That is what Christianity did; and now, after many years, what have theydone who destroyed it? 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 waitpatiently for the day of justice: there is no justice; you wait for thelife eternal to achieve your vengeance: there is no life eternal; yougather up your tears and those of your family, the cries of childrenand the sobs of women, to place them at the feet of God at the hour ofdeath: 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 stooderect upon the soil with the power of a bull. He said to the rich: "Thouwho oppressest me, thou art only man, " and to the priest: "Thou whohast consoled 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; if the poor man, believing in himselfand in 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 areequal. " Oh! reasoners sublime, who have led him to this, what will yousay to him if he 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 thecause of our malady. 

Here is a man whose house falls in ruins; he has torn it down in orderto build another. The rubbish encumbers the spot, and he waits for newmaterials 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. Whatcan you expect this man to do who is unwilling to build his nest outof ruins? 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 meantime he has lost his old house, and has not yet built the new; he doesnot know 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. Oh! 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 browthe holy baptism of sweat, you cast your eye over the vast horizon, where there will not be one blade higher than another in the humanharvest, but only violets and marguerites in the midst of ripening ears;oh! free men! when you thank God that you were born for that harvest, think of those who are no more, tell yourself that we have dearlypurchased the repose which you enjoy; pity us more than all yourfathers, for we have suffered the evil which entitled them to pity andwe have lost that which consoled them. 

CHAPTER III. THE BEGINNING OF THE CONFESSIONS

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

I was at table, at a great supper, after a masquerade. About me weremy friends, richly costumed, on all sides young men and women, allsparkling with beauty and joy; on the right and on the left exquisitedishes, flagons, splendor, flowers; above my head was an obstreperousorchestra, and before me my loved one, whom I idolized. 

I was then nineteen; I had passed through no great misfortune, I hadsuffered from no disease; my character was at once haughty and frank, my heart full of the hopes of youth. The fumes of wine fermented in myhead; it was one of those moments of intoxication when all that onesees and hears speaks to one of the well-beloved. All nature appeareda beautiful stone with a thousand facets, on which was engraven themysterious name. One would willingly embrace all who smile, and feelthat he is brother of all who live. My mistress had granted me arendezvous, and I was gently raising my glass to my lips while my eyeswere fixed on her. 

As I turned to take a napkin, my fork fell. I stooped to pick it up, and not 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 touched 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, on their side, were very quiet, talking butlittle and never looking at each other. The young man had his elbows onthe table and was chatting with another woman, who was showing him hernecklace and bracelets. My mistress sat motionless, her eyes fixed andswimming with languor. I watched both of them during the entire supper, and I 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 escort my mistress to her home that night. She was awidow and therefore free, living alone with an old relative who servedas chaperon. As I was crossing the hall she called to me:

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

I laughed, and passed out without replying. After walking a shortdistance I sat down on a stone projecting from a wall. I do not knowwhat my thoughts were; I sat as if stupefied by the unfaithfulness ofone of whom I had never been jealous, whom I had never had cause tosuspect. What I had seen left no room for doubt; I was felled as if by astroke from a club. The only thing I remember doing as I sat there, waslooking mechanically up at the sky, and, seeing a star shoot across theheavens, I saluted that fugitive gleam, in which poets see a worn-outworld, and gravely took off my hat to it. 

I returned to my home very quietly, experiencing nothing, as if deprivedof all sensation and reflection. I undressed and retired; hardly had myhead touched the pillow when the spirit of vengeance seized me with suchforce that I suddenly sat bolt upright against the wall as if all mymuscles were made of wood. I then jumped from my bed with a cry of pain;I could walk only on my heels, the nerves in my toes were so irritated. I passed an hour in this way, completely beside myself, and stiff as askeleton. 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 younglawyer named Desgenais; we took pistols, another witness, and repairedto the woods of Vincennes. On the way I avoided speaking to my adversaryor even approaching him; thus I resisted the temptation to insult orstrike him, a useless form of violence at a time when the law recognizedthe code. But I could not remove my eyes from him. He was the companionof my childhood, and we had lived in the closest intimacy for manyyears. He understood perfectly my love for my mistress, and had severaltimes intimated that bonds of this kind were sacred to a friend, andthat he would be incapable of an attempt to supplant me, even if heloved the same woman. In short, I had perfect confidence in him and Ihad perhaps never pressed the hand of any human creature more cordiallythan his. 

Eagerly and curiously I scrutinized this man whom I had heard speakof love like an antique hero and whom yet 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 what manner of man was this. Hewhom I had known since he was ten years old, with whom I had lived inthe most perfect friendship, it seemed to me I had never seen him. Allowme a comparison. 

There is a Spanish play, familiar to all the world, in which a stonestatue comes to sup with a profligate, sent thither by divine justice. The profligate puts a good face on the matter and forces himself toaffect indifference; but the statue asks for his hand, and when hehas extended it he feels himself seized by a mortal chill and falls inconvulsions. 

Whenever I have loved and confided in any one, either friend ormistress, and suddenly discover that I have been deceived, I can onlydescribe the effect produced on me by comparing it to the clasp of thatmarble hand. It is the actual impression of marble, it is as if a man ofstone had embraced me. Alas! this horrible apparition has knocked morethan once at my 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 theother hand; but my strength failed, I could not raise it; I fell on oneknee. 

Then I saw my enemy running up to me with an expression of great anxietyon his face, and very pale. Seeing that I was wounded, my secondshastened to my side, but he pushed them aside and seized my woundedarm. His teeth were set, and I could see that he was suffering intenseanguish. His agony was as frightful as man can experience. 

"Go!" he cried; "go, stanch 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 properly to dress my wound. As theywere about to drive from the field I saw a trembling hand at the door ofmy cab; it was that of my adversary. I shook my head in reply; I wasin such a rage that I could not pardon him, although I felt that hisrepentance was sincere. 

By the time I reached home I had lost much blood and felt relieved, forfeebleness saved me from the anger which was doing me more harm than mywound. I willingly retired to my bed and called for a glass of water, which I gulped down 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 thatshe could deceive me. I could not comprehend why a woman, who was forcedto it by neither duty nor interest, could lie to one man when she lovedanother. Twenty times a day I asked my friend Desgenais how that couldbe possible. 

"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 child, then, 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 Ihave confessed it 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 promisedall, with some surprise that he should consider it necessary to exactsuch a pledge. 

Nevertheless, the first thing I did when I was able to leave my roomwas to visit my mistress. I found her alone, seated in the corner ofher room, with an expression of sorrow on her face and an appearanceof general disorder in her surroundings. I overwhelmed her with violentreproaches; I was intoxicated with despair. In a paroxysm of grief Ifell on the bed and 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 tempted, that my rival had intoxicated her at that fatal supper, but that shehad never been his; that she had abandoned herself in a moment offorgetfulness; that she had committed a fault but not a crime; butthat if I would not pardon her, she, too, would die. All that sincererepentance has of tears, all that sorrow has of eloquence, she exhaustedin order to console me; pale and distraught, her dress deranged, herhair falling over her shoulders, she kneeled in the middle of herchamber; never have I seen anything so beautiful, and I shuddered withhorror as my senses revolted at the sight. 

I went away crushed, scarcely able to direct my tottering steps. Iwished never to see her again; but in a quarter of an hour I returned. I do not know what desperate resolve I had formed; I experienced afull desire to know her mine once more, to drain the cup of tears andbitterness to the dregs, and then to die with her. In short I abhorredher, yet I idolized her; I felt that her love was ruin, but that to livewithout her was impossible. I mounted the stairs like a flash; I spoketo none of the servants, but, familiar with the house, opened the doorof her chamber. 

I found her seated calmly before her toilette-table, covered withjewels; she held in her hand a piece of red crepe which she passedgently over her cheeks. I thought I was dreaming; it did not seempossible that this was the woman I had left, just fifteen minutesbefore, overwhelmed with grief, abased to the floor; I was as motionlessas a statue. She, hearing the door open, turned her head and smiled:

"Is it you?" she said. 

She was going to a 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 jewelled comb;that neck, the seat of vital force, was blacker than hell; two shiningtresses had fallen there and some light silvern hairs balanced above it. Her shoulders and neck, whiter than milk, displayed a heavy growthof down. There was in that knotted mass of hair something maddeninglylovely, which seemed to mock me when I thought of the sorrowful abandonin which I had seen her a moment before. I suddenly stepped up to herand struck that neck with the back of my hand. My mistress gave vent toa cry of terror, and fell on her hands, while I hastened from the room. 

When I reached my room I was again attacked by fever and was obligedto take 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 listenedin silence, then paced up and down the room as if undecided as to hisnext course. Finally he stopped before my bed and burst out laughing. 

"Is she your first love?" he asked. 

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

Toward midnight, while sleeping restlessly, I seemed to hear in mydreams a profound sigh. I opened my eyes and saw my mistress standingnear my bed with arms crossed, looking like a spectre. I could notrestrain a cry of fright, believing it to be an apparition conjured upby my diseased brain. I leaped from my bed and fled to the farther endof the room; but she 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 toyou, I am an infamous wretch and I am miserable; but I love you, and Ican not live without you. "

I looked at her; how beautiful she was! Her body was quivering; hereyes were languid with love and moist with voluptuousness; her bosom wasbare, her lips were 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 man can love, and 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 yourlover to-night, no one shall take my place tomorrow. Before God, beforeGod, " I repeated, "I would not take you back as my mistress, for I hateyou as much as I love you. Before God, if you wish to stay here to-nightI will kill you in the morning. "

When I had spoken these words I fell into a delirium. She threw hercloak over 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?Do you know that she confesses that another attracts her, and do youexpect me, loving her as I do, to share my love? If that is the way youlove, I pity 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 sortof love; perhaps you are capable of it; I believe you are, but I do notenvy you. You will have other mistresses, my friend, and you will liveto regret what happened last night. If that woman came to you it iscertain that she loved you; perhaps she does not love you at thismoment--indeed, she may be in the arms of another; but she loved youlast night in that room; and what should you care for the rest? Youwill regret it, believe me, for she will not come again. A womanpardons everything except such a slight. Her love for you must have beensomething terrible when she came to you knowing and confessing herselfguilty, risking rebuff and contempt at your hands. Believe me, you willregret it, for I am satisfied that you will soon be cured. "

There was such an air of simple conviction about my friend's words, such a despairing certainty based on experience, that I shuddered asI listened. 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 herwaiting for my rival or perhaps in his company. But I could write toher; in spite of myself I doubted whether she would come if I shouldwrite. 

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 beggedher not 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 himback. He did not hear me; I did not dare call again; covering my facewith my hands, I yielded to an overwhelming sense of despair. 

CHAPTER IV. THE PATH OF DESPAIR

The next morning the first question that occurred to my mind was: "Whatshall I do?"

I had no occupation. I had studied medicine and law without being ableto decide on either of the two careers; I had worked for a banker forsix months, and my services were so unsatisfactory that I was obligedto resign to avoid being discharged. My studies had been varied butsuperficial; my memory was active but not retentive. 

My only treasure, after love, was reserve. In my childhood I had devotedmyself to a solitary way of life, and had, so to speak, consecrated myheart to it. One day my father, solicitous about my future, spoke to meof several careers among which he allowed me to choose. I was leaning onthe window-sill, looking at a solitary poplar-tree that was swayingin the breeze down in the garden. I thought over all the variousoccupations and wondered which one I should choose. I turned them allover, one after another, in my mind, and then, not feeling inclined toany of them, I allowed my thoughts to wander. Suddenly it seemed tome that I felt the earth move, and that a secret, invisible force wasslowly dragging me into space and becoming tangible to my senses. Isaw it mount into the sky; I seemed to be on a ship; the poplar near mywindow resembled a mast; I arose, 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 done nothing, except in obedienceto 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 Idid not care to know anything more. So, falling in love upon leavingcollege, I sincerely believed that it was for life, and every otherthought disappeared. 

My life was indolent. I was accustomed to pass the day with my mistress;my greatest pleasure was to take 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 we see nowadays in which are collected andmingled the furniture of all times and countries. Our age has no impressof its own. We have impressed the seal of our time neither on our housesnor our gardens, nor on anything that is ours. On the street may be seenmen who have their beards trimmed 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 richare cabinets of curiosities: the antique, the gothic, the style 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, another for antiquity, still another for itsugliness even, so that we live surrounded by debris, as if the end ofthe world were at hand. 

Such was the state of my mind; I had read much; moreover I had learnedto paint. I knew by heart a great many things, but nothing in order, sothat my head was like a sponge, swollen but empty. I fell in love withall the poets one after another; but being of an impressionable naturethe last acquaintance disgusted me with the rest. I had made of myselfa great warehouse of odds and ends, so that having no more thirst afterdrinking of the novel and the unknown, I became an oddity myself. 

Nevertheless, about me there was still something of youth: it was thehope of my heart, which was still childlike. 

That hope, which nothing had withered or corrupted and which 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, the convulsive flutter of a wounded bird in agony. 

Society, which works so much evil, is like that serpent of the Indieswhose habitat is under a shrub, the leaves of which afford the antidoteto its venom; in nearly every case it brings the remedy with the woundit causes. For example, the man whose life is one of routine, who hashis business cares to claim his attention upon rising, visits atone hour, loves at another, can lose his mistress and suffer no evileffects. His occupations and his thoughts are like impassive soldiersranged in line of battle; a single shot strikes one down, his neighborsclose the gap and the line is intact. 

I had not that resource, since I was alone: nature, the kind mother, seemed, on the contrary, vaster and more empty than before. Had I beenable to forget my mistress, I should 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, is admirable in its firmness. But is it thus one loves at nineteen when, knowing nothing of the world, desiring everything, one feels, within, the germ of all the passions? Everywhere some voice appeals to him. Allis desire, all is revery. 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 but love, and when any one spoke to me of other occupations I did not reply. Mypassion for my mistress had something fierce about it, for all my lifehad been severely monachal. Let me cite a single instance. She gave meher miniature in a medallion. I wore it over my heart, a practice muchaffected by men; but one day, while idly rummaging about a shop filledwith curiosities, I found an iron "discipline whip" such as was usedby the mediaeval flagellants. At the end of this whip was a metal platebristling with sharp iron points; I had the medallion riveted to thisplate and then returned it to its place over my heart. The sharp pointspierced my bosom with every movement and caused such strange, voluptuousanguish that I sometimes pressed it down with my hand in order tointensify the sensation. I knew very well that I was committing a folly;love is responsible for many such idiocies. 

But since this woman deceived me I loathed the cruel medallion. I cannot tell with what sadness I removed that iron circlet, and what a sighescaped me when 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 this 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 a memory of fleshand blood? Lady Macbeth, having killed Duncan, saw that the ocean wouldnot wash her hands clean again; it would not have washed away my wounds. I said to Desgenais: "When I sleep, her head is on my pillow. "

My life had been wrapped up in this woman; to doubt her was to doubtall; to deny her, to curse all; to lose her, to renounce all. I nolonger went out; the world seemed peopled with monsters, with horneddeer and crocodiles. To all that was said to distract my mind, Ireplied:

"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 thecorner at this moment, I can feel her approach. She can no more livewithout me than I without her. What shall I say? How shall I receiveher?"

Then the thought of her perfidy occurred 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 willlove another also. Whom shall I love?"

While thinking, 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 sucha great 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 can lie downin a corner with the sword of the matador 'twixt his shoulders, and diein peace. What can I do, tell me? What do you mean by first comer? Youwill show me a cloudless sky, trees and houses, men who talk, drink, sing, women who dance and horses that gallop. All that is not life, itis the noise of life. Go, go, leave me in peace. "

CHAPTER V. A PHILOSOPHER'S ADVICE

Desgenais saw that my despair was incurable, that I would neither listento any advice nor leave my room, he took the thing seriously. I saw himenter one evening with an expression of gravity on his face; he spoke ofmy mistress and continued in his tone of persiflage, saying all mannerof evil of women. While he was speaking I was leaning on my elbow, and, rising in my bed, I listened attentively. 

It was one of those sombre evenings when the sighing of the wind recallsthe moaning of a dying man. A fitful storm was brewing, and betweenthe plashes of rain on the windows there was the silence of death. Allnature suffers in such moments, the trees writhe in pain and hide 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 meand the 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 wasunder the influence of a horrible dream and that I had but to awake tofind myself cured; at times it seemed that my entire life had been adream, ridiculous and puerile, the falseness of which had just beendisclosed. Desgenais was seated near the lamp at my side; he was firmand serious, although a smile hovered about his lips. He was a man ofheart, but as dry as a pumice-stone. An early experience had made himbald before his time; he knew life and had suffered; but his grief was acuirass; he was a materialist and he waited for death. 

"Octave, " he said, "after what has happened to you, I see that youbelieve in love such as the poets and romancers have represented; in aword, you believe in what is said here below and not in what is done. That is because you do not reason soundly, and it may lead you intogreat misfortune. 

"Poets represent love as sculptors design beauty, as musicians createmelody; that is to say, endowed with an exquisite nervous organization, they gather up with discerning ardor the purest elements of life, the most beautiful lines of matter, and the most harmonious voices ofnature. There lived, it is said, at Athens a great number of beautifulgirls; Praxiteles drew them all one after another; then from thesediverse types of beauty, each one of which had its defects, he formed asingle faultless beauty and created Venus. The man who first created amusical instrument, and who gave to harmony its rules and its laws, hadfor a long time listened to the murmuring of reeds and the singing ofbirds. Thus the poets, who understand life, after knowing much of love, more or less transitory, after feeling that sublime exaltation whichreal passion can for the moment inspire, eliminating from human natureall that degrades it, created the mysterious names which through theages fly from lip to lip: Daphnis and Chloe, Hero and Leander, Pyramusand Thisbe. 

"To try to find in real life such love as this, eternal and absolute, is but to seek on public squares a woman such as Venus, or to expectnightingales 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;it was to possess the infinite that Cato cut his throat, that theChristians delivered themselves to lions, the Huguenots to theCatholics; all the people of the earth have stretched out their handsto that immensity and have longed to plunge into it. The fool wishesto possess heaven; the sage admires it, kneels before it, but does notdesire it. 

"Perfection, my friend, is no more made for us than immensity. 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 say that upon a close examination you discoverin one of the figures a gross defect of design, a limb distorted, or amuscle that belies nature, such as has been discovered, they say, in oneof the arms of an antique gladiator. You would experience a feeling ofdispleasure, but you would not throw that picture in the fire; you wouldmerely say that it is not perfect, but that it has qualities that areworthy of admiration. 

"There are women whose natural singleness of heart and sincerity aresuch that they could not have two lovers at the same time. You believedyour mistress such an one; that is best, I admit. You have discoveredthat she has deceived you; does that oblige you to depose and to abuseher, to believe her deserving of your hatred?

"Even if your mistress had never deceived you, even if at this momentshe loved none other than you, think, Octave, how far her love wouldstill be from perfection, how human it would be, how small, howrestrained by the hypocrisies and conventions of the world; rememberthat another man possessed her before you, that many others will possessher after you. 

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

"I think you will readily admit that your mistress has had otheradmirers, and that she will have still others in the future; you willdoubtless reply that it matters little, so long as she loved you. But Iask you, since she has had others, what difference does it make whetherit was yesterday or two years since? Since she loves but one at a time, what does it matter whether it is during an interval of two years orin the course of a single night? Are you a man, Octave? Do you see theleaves falling from the trees, the sun rising and setting? Do you hearthe ticking of the horologe of time with each pulsation of your heart?Is there, then, such a difference between the love of a year and thelove of an hour? I challenge you to answer that, you fool, as you sitthere looking out at the infinite through a window not larger than yourhand. 

"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 thewoman who sells herself for money and the one who gives herself forpleasure; between the one who gives herself through pride and the onewho gives herself through devotion. Among women who are for sale, somecost more than others; among those who are sought for pleasure someinspire more confidence than others; and among those who are worthy ofdevotion there are some who receive a third of a man's heart, others aquarter, others a half, depending upon her education, her manner, hername, her birth, her beauty, her temperament, according to the occasion, according to what is said, according to the time, according to what youhave drunk at dinner. 

"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, from the summit of the mountain to the bottom of the sea, lifeis opposed to death. God, to conserve the work of His hands, hasestablished this law-that the greatest pleasure of all sentient beingsshall be to procreate. 

"Oh! my friend, when you feel bursting on your lips the vow ofeternal love, do not be afraid to yield, but do not confound wine withintoxication; do not think of the cup divine because the draught is ofcelestial flavor; do not be astonished to find it broken and empty inthe evening. It is but woman, but 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 themselvescan not escape the clouds; there is a region where air fails them andthe lark, rising with its song into the morning fog, sometimes fallsback dead in 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 isnot, 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 beloved exclusively, 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 hearts are sincereand violent, but they wear a dagger just above them. 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 are false at heart. 

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

"Nature, who thinks of everything, made the virgin for love; but withthe first child her bosom loses form, her beauty its freshness. Womanis made for motherhood. Man would perhaps abandon her, disgusted bythe loss of beauty; but his child clings to him and weeps. Beholdthe family, the human law; everything that departs from this law ismonstrous. 

"Civilization thwarts the ends of nature. In our cities, according toour customs, the virgin destined by nature for the open air, made torun in the sunlight; to admire the nude wrestlers, as in Lacedemonia, to choose and to love, is shut up in close confinement and bolted in. Meanwhile she hides romance under her cross; pale and idle, shefades away and loses, in the silence of the nights, that beauty whichoppresses her and needs the open air. Then she is suddenly snatched fromthis solitude, knowing nothing, loving nothing, desiring everything; anold woman instructs her, a mysterious word is whispered in her ear, andshe is thrown into the arms of a stranger. There you have marriage, thatis to say, the civilized family. 

"A child is born. This poor creature has lost her beauty and she hasnever loved. The child is brought to her with the words: 'You are amother. ' She replies: 'I am not a mother; take that child to some womanwho can nurse it. I can not. ' Her husband tells her that she is right, 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 childis at Chaillot, at Auxerre; her husband with another woman. Then youngmen speak to her of love, of devotion, of sympathy, of all that is inthe heart. She takes one, draws him to her bosom; he dishonors her andreturns to the Bourse. She cries all night, but discovers that tearsmake her eyes red. She takes a consoler, for the loss of whom anotherconsoles her; thus up to the age of thirty or more. Then, blase andcorrupted, with no human sentiment, not even disgust, she meets a fineyouth with raven locks, ardent eye and hopeful heart; she recalls herown youth, she remembers what she has suffered, and telling him thestory of her life, she teaches him to eschew love. 

"That is woman as we have made her; such are your mistresses. But yousay they are women and that 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 tobe dominated by opinion, to take root wherever you see a little soil, make for yourself a shield that will resist everything, for if you yieldto your weaker nature you will not grow, you will dry up like a deadplant, and you will bear neither fruit nor flowers. The sap of your lifewill dissipate into the formation of useless bark; all your actions willbe as colorless as the leaves of the willow; you will have no tears towater you, but those from your own eyes; to nourish you, no heart butyour own. 

"But if you are of an 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 throughthe boundless prairies with a body having four arms, two heads, and twohearts. Love is faith, it is the religion of terrestrial happiness, itis a luminous triangle suspended in the temple of the world. To loveis to walk freely through that temple, at your side a being capable ofunderstanding why a thought, a word, a flower makes you pause and raiseyour eyes to that celestial triangle. To exercise the noble faculties ofman is a great good--that is why genius is glorious; but to double thosefaculties, to place a heart and an intelligence upon a heart and anintelligence--that is supreme happiness. God has nothing better for man;that is why love is better than genius. 

"But tell me, is that the love of our women? No, no, it must beadmitted. Love, for them, is another thing; it is to go out veiled, towrite in secret, to make trembling advances, to heave chaste sighs understarched and unnatural robes, then to draw bolts and throw them aside, to humiliate a rival, to deceive a husband, to render a lover desolate. To love, for our women, is to play at lying, as children play at hideand seek, a hideous orgy of the heart, worse than the lubricity of theRomans, or the Saturnalia of Priapus; a bastard parody of vice itself, as well as of virtue; a loathsome comedy where all is whispering andsidelong glances, where all is small, elegant, and deformed, like thoseporcelain monsters brought from China; a lamentable satire on all thatis beautiful and ugly, divine and infernal; a shadow without a body, askeleton of all that God has made. "

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

CHAPTER VI. MADAME LEVASSEUR

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

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

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

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

"Well?" she said. 

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

After dinner we sat before the fire. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When she had unburdened her heart she became silent. 

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII. THE WISDOM OF SIRACH

Upon returning to my apartments I found a large box in the centre ofthe room. One of my aunts had died, and I was one of the heirs to herfortune, which was not large. 

The box contained, among other things, a number of musty old books. Notknowing what to do, and being afflicted with ennui, I began to read oneof them. They were for the most part romances of the time of Louis XV;my pious aunt had probably inherited them herself and never 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 arrivalof these books at this time. I devoured them with a bitterness and asadness born of despair. "Yes, you are right, " I said to myself, "youalone possess the secret of life, you alone dare to say that nothing istrue and real but debauchery, hypocrisy, and corruption. Be my friends, throw on the wound in my soul your corrosive poisons, teach me tobelieve in you. "

While buried in these shadows, I allowed my favorite poets andtext-books to accumulate dust. I even ground them under my feet inexcess of wrath. "You wretched dreamers!" I said to them; "you who teachme only suffering, miserable shufflers of words, charlatans, if you knowthe truth, fools, if you speak in good faith, liars in either case, whomake fairy-tales of the woes of the human heart. I will burn the lastone of you!"

Then tears came to my aid and I perceived that there was nothing realbut my grief. "Very well, " I cried, in my delirium, "tell me, good andbad genii, counselors 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 hast thou for me?"My eye fell on this passage in Ecclesiastes, Chapter IX:

 For all this I considered in my heart even to declare all this, that the righteous and the wise, and their works, are in the hand of God; no man knoweth either love or hatred by all that is before them. 

 All things come alike to all: 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 to him that sacrificeth not: as is the good, so is the sinner; and he that sweareth, as he that feareth an oath. 

 This is an evil among all things that are done under the sun, that there is one event unto all: yea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart 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 hourand place, the passage of a comet, that most eccentric of celestialtravellers? What do the naturalists think when they reveal the myriadforms of life concealed in a drop of water? Do they think they haveinvented what they see and that their lenses and microscopes make thelaw of nature? What did the first law-giver think when, seeking forthe corner-stone in the social edifice, angered doubtless by some idleimportunity, he struck the tables of brass and felt in his bowels theyearning for a law of retaliation? Did he, then, invent justice? Andthe first who plucked the fruit planted by his neighbor and who fledcowering under his mantle, did he invent shame? And he who, havingovertaken that same thief who had robbed him of the product of his toil, forgave him his sin, and, instead of raising his hand to smite him, said, "Sit thou down and eat thy fill;" when, after thus returning goodfor evil, he raised his eyes toward Heaven and felt his heart quivering, tears welling from his eyes, and his knees bending to the earth, did heinvent virtue? Oh, Heaven! here is a woman who speaks of love and whodeceives me; here is a man who speaks of friendship and counsels meto seek consolation in debauchery; here is another woman who weeps andwould console me with the flesh; here is a Bible that speaks of God andsays: "Perhaps; but nothing is of any real importance. "

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, eyeslost in space, a swallow uttered a plaintive cry; in spite of myself Ifollowed it with my eyes; while the swallow disappeared from sight likea flash, a little girl passed singing. 

CHAPTER VIII. THE SEARCH FOR HEALING

Yet I was unwilling to yield. 

Before taking life on its pleasant side--a side which to me seemedrather sinister--I resolved to test everything. I remained thus for sometime, a prey to countless sorrows, tormented by terrible 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. 

It had been my fate--a fate as rare as happy--to give to love myunsullied youth. But the result of this was that all my senses unitedin idealizing love; there was the cause of my unhappiness. For not beingable to think of anything but women, I could not help turning over in myhead, day and night, all the ideas of debauchery, of false love and offeminine treason, with which my mind was filled. For me to possess awoman was to love her; I thought of nothing but women, but I believed nomore in the possibility of true love. 

All this suffering inspired me with a sort of rage. At times I wastempted to imitate the monks and starve my body in order to conquer mysenses; at times I felt like rushing out into the street to throw myselfat the feet of the first woman I met and vow to her 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 hauntof vice and hypocrisy, where all were like my mistress, I resolved toseparate myself from them and live in complete isolation. I resumed myneglected studies, and plunged into history, poetry, and anatomy. Therehappened to be on the fourth floor of the same house an old and learnedGerman. I determined to learn his language; the German was poor andfriendless, and willingly accepted the task of instructing me. Myperpetual state of distraction worried him. How many times he waitedin patient astonishment while I, seated near him with a smoking lampbetween us, sat with my arms crossed on my book, lost in revery, oblivious of 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 tomy fate; 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, and so I completely changed my system. I went into the country, andgalloped through the woods with the huntsmen; I would ride until I wasout of breath, trying to cure myself with fatigue, and when, after aday of sweat in the fields, I reached my bed in the evening smelling ofpowder and the stable, I would bury my head in the pillow, roll aboutunder the covers and cry: "Phantom, phantom! are you not satiated? Willyou not leave me for one single night?"

But why these vain efforts? Solitude sent me to nature, and nature tolove. Standing in the street of Mental Observation, I saw myself paleand wan, surrounded by corpses, and, drying my hands on my bloodyapron, stifled by the odor of putrefaction, I turned my head in spiteof myself, and saw floating before my eyes green harvests, balmy fields, and the pensive harmony of the evening. "No, " said I, "science can notconsole me; rather will I plunge into this sea of irresponsive natureand die there myself by drowning. I will not war against my youth; Iwill live where there is life, or at least die in the sunlight. " I beganto mingle with the throngs at Sevres and Chaville, and stretch myselfon flowery swards in secluded groves. Alas! all the forests and fieldscried to me:

"What do you seek here? We are young, 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 its windows, into 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 inthose tortuous streets where all are hurrying hither and thither, working and sweating, where thousands of strangers rub against yourelbows; a sewer where society is of bodies only, while soulsare solitary and alone, where all who hold out a hand to you areprostitutes! "Become corrupt, corrupt, and you will cease to suffer!"This has been the cry of all cities unto man; it is written withcharcoal on the walls, on the streets with mud, on men's faces withextravasated blood. 

At times, when seated in the corner of some salon I watched the women asthey danced, some rosy, some blue, and others white, their arms bare andtheir hair gathered gracefully about their shapely heads, looking likecherubim drunk with light, floating in spheres of harmony and beauty, Iwould think: "Ah, what a garden, what flowers to gather, to breathe!Ah! Marguerites, Marguerites! What will your last petal say to him whoplucks it? A little, a little, but not all. That is the moral of theworld, that is the end of your smiles. It is over this terrible abyssthat you are walking in your spangled gauze; it is on this hideousreality 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. Give me a daintyfish-hook gilded with sweet words, a drop of honey for bait, and quick!catch in the stream of oblivion a pretty consoler, as fresh and slipperyas an eel; you will still have the hook when the fish shall have glidedfrom your hands. Youth must pass away, and if I were you I would carryoff 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. BACCHUS, THE CONSOLER

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

I had written my mistress that I wished never to see her again; I keptmy 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. So much was he under theinfluence of liquor that he walked at times on one side of the gutterand then on the other. Finally he fell upon a bench facing another houseopposite me. There he lay still, supported on his elbows, and sleptprofoundly. 

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

The man served to divert my grief; I arose to leave him in fullpossession, but returned and resumed my seat. I could not leave thatfateful door, at which I would not have knocked for an empire. Finally, after walking up and down a few times, I stopped before the sleeper. 

"What sleep!" I said. "Surely this man does not dream. His clothes arein tatters, his cheeks are wrinkled, his hands hardened with toil; he issome unfortunate who does not have a meal every day. A thousand gnawingcares, a thousand mortal sorrows await his return to consciousness;nevertheless, this evening he had money in his pocket, and entered atavern where he purchased oblivion. He has earned enough in a week toenjoy a night of slumber, and perhaps has purchased it at the expense ofhis children's supper. Now his mistress can betray him, his friend canglide like a thief into his hut; I could shake him by the shoulder andtell him that he is being murdered, that his house is on fire; he wouldturn over and continue to sleep. "

"And I--I do not sleep, " I continued, pacing up and down the street, "Ido not 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 entera tavern, and it seems I do not understand that if unfortunates enterthere, it is to come out happy. O God! grapes crushed beneath the footsuffice to dissipate the deepest sorrow and to break the invisiblethreads that the fates weave about our pathway. We weep like women, wesuffer like martyrs; in our despair it seems that the world is crumblingunder our feet, and we sit down in tears as did Adam at Eden's gate. And to cure our griefs we have but to make a movement of the hand andmoisten our throats. How contemptible our sorrow since it can be thusassuaged! We are surprised that Providence does not send angels to grantour prayers; it need not take the trouble, for it has seen our woes, it knows our desires, our pride and bitterness, the ocean of evil thatsurrounds us, and is content to hang a small black fruit along ourpaths. Since that man sleeps so soundly on his bench, why do not I sleepon mine? My rival is doubtless passing the night with my mistress; hewill leave her at daybreak; she will accompany him to the door and theywill see me asleep on my bench. Their kisses will not awaken me, andthey will shake me by the shoulder; I will turn over on the other sideand sleep on. "

Thus, inspired by fierce joy, I set out in quest of a tavern. As it waspast midnight some were closed; this 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, andthen a third. I dosed myself as with medicine, and forced the wine downas if it had been prescribed by some physician to save my life. 

The heavy fumes of the liquor, doubtless adulterated, mounted tomy 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, but were not bourgeois; in short, they belonged to that ambiguous class, the vilest of all, which has neither fortune nor occupation, which neverworks except at some criminal plot, a class which, neither poor norrich, combines the vices of one with the misery of the other. 

They were quarrelling over a dirty pack of cards. Among them was a girlwho appeared to be very young and very pretty, was decently clad, andresembled her companions in no way, except in the harshness of hervoice, which was as rough and broken as if it had performed the officeof public crier. She looked at me closely, as if astonished to see mein such a bad 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 handand begged her to be seated; she consented with good grace and askedwhat we should have for supper. 

I looked at her without saying a word, while my eyes began to fillwith tears; she observed my emotion and inquired the cause. I could notreply. She understood that I had some secret sorrow and forebore anyattempt to learn the cause; with her handkerchief she dried my tearsfrom time to time as we dined. 

There was something about this girl at once repulsive and sweet, asingular boldness 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 anddry my tears with her handkerchief, that I was rendered speechless; itrevolted, yet charmed me. What I had done had been done so quickly thatI seemed to have obeyed some impulse of despair. Perhaps I was a fool, or the victim of some supernatural 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 anddo you think I desire you? I would not touch you with the tip of myfinger. What are you doing here? Reply at once. Is it money you want?What price do 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 stool. 

"You are not well, " she said, taking me by the arm, "you have drunk, like the child that you are, without knowing what you were doing. Sitdown in this chair and wait until a cab passes. You will tell me whereyou live and I will order the driver to take you home to your mother, since, " she added, "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 girl a fatal resemblance to my mistress. I shudderedat the sight. There is a certain shudder that affects the hair; some sayit is death passing over the head, but it was not death that passed overmine. 

It was the malady of the age, or rather was it that girl herself; and itwas she who, with her pale, halfmocking features and rasping voice, cameand sat with me at the end of the tavern room. 

The moment I perceived her resemblance to my mistress a frightful ideaoccurred to me; it took irresistible possession of my muddled mind, andI put it into execution at once. 

I escorted that girl to my home; and I arranged my room just as I hadbeen wont to do when my mistress was with me, for 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 loved one used to sing beganto run through my head:

 Altra volta gieri biele, Blanch' a 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 thedesert of my heart. I said: "Behold the happiness of man; behold mylittle Paradise; behold my queen Mab, a girl from the streets. Mymistress is no better. Behold what is found at the bottom of the glasswhen the nectar of the gods has been drained; behold the corpse oflove. "

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

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

Let me ask you, O men of the time, bent upon pleasure, who attend theballs and the opera and who, upon retiring this night, will seek slumberwith the aid of some threadbare blasphemy of old Voltaire, some sensiblesatire by Paul Louis Courier, or some essay on economics, you who dallywith the cold substance of that monstrous water-lily that Reason hasplanted in the hearts of our cities-let me ask, if by some chance thisobscure book falls into your hands, not to smile with noble disdain orshrug your shoulders. Be not too sure that I complain of an imaginaryevil; be not too sure that human reason is the most beautiful offaculties, that there is nothing real here below but quotations on theBourse, gambling in the salon, wine on the table, the glow of health, indifference toward others, and the pleasures of the 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; despair will overtake you, heedless ones, and tearswill dim your eyes. I will not say that your mistresses will deceiveyou--that would not grieve you so much as the loss of a horse--but youcan lose on the Bourse. For the first plunge is not the last, and evenif you do not gamble, bethink you that your moneyed tranquillity, yourgolden happiness, are in the care of a banker who may fail. In short, Itell you, frozen as you are, you are capable of loving something; somefibre of your being can be torn and you can give vent to cries that willresemble a moan of pain. Some day, wandering about the muddy streets, when daily material joys shall have failed, you will find yourselfseated 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; and in losing her he lost more than yourmonarch Satan would lose in falling again from the battlements ofHeaven. He loved her with a love of which the gazettes do not speak, the shadow of which your wives and your daughters do not perceive in ourtheatres and in our books. He passed half of his life kissing her whiteforehead, teaching her to sing the psalms of David and the canticles ofSaul; he had but her on earth alone; and God consoled him. 

Believe me, when in your distress you think of Abelard you will not lookwith the same eye upon the rich blasphemy of Voltaire and the badinageof Courier; you will feel that human reason can cure illusions but cannot heal sorrows; that God has use for Reason but that He has not madeher a sister of Charity. You will find that when the heart of man said:"I believe in nothing, for I see nothing, " it did not speak the lastword on the subject. You will look about you for something like hope, you will shake the doors of churches to see if they still swing, butyou will find them walled up; you will think of becoming Trappists, anddestiny will mock at you, and for reply will give you a bottle of wineand a courtesan. 

And if you drink the wine, and take the courtesan, you will learn howsuch things come to pass. 

PART II

CHAPTER I. AT THE CROSSWAYS

Upon awaking the following morning I experienced a feeling of such deepdisgust with myself, and felt so degraded in my own eyes that a horribletemptation assailed me. 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 stretches its hands, so to speak, towardannihilation, when the soul forms some violent resolution, there seemsto be an independent physical horror in the act of touching the coldsteel of some deadly weapon; the fingers stiffen in anguish, the armgrows cold and hard. Nature recoils as the condemned walks to death. Ican not express what I experienced, unless it was as if my pistol hadsaid 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 the one should not leave us alone with the other. Once relieved ofthe presence 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 preyto dangerous delirium, the creature, standing before my mirror, thoughtof nothing but how best to arrange her dress and fix her hair, smilingthe while. This lasted more than a quarter of an hour, during whichI 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 aroseprecipitately, and had only time to open the closet door and motion thecreature into 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 meritthe attention which Heaven shows them, and that the color of purpleattracts gods as well as bulls. 

As to what rules the course of these little events, or what objects andcircumstances, in appearance the least important, lead to changes infortune, there is not, to my mind, a deeper cause and opportunity forthought. For something in our ordinary actions resembles the littleblunted arrows we shoot at targets; little by little we make of oursuccessive deeds an abstract and regular entity that we call ourprudence or our will. Then comes a gust of wind, and lo! the smallest ofthese arrows, the very lightest and most ineffective, is wafted beyondour vision, beyond the very horizon to the dwelling-place of Godhimself. 

What a strange feeling of unrest seizes us then! What becomes of thosephantoms 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 wardoff with it a blow which threatens us; an invisible power turns asidethe point, and all the impetus of 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 test. 

Desgenais was in good humor; stretching himself out on my sofa he beganto chaff me about my appearance, which indicated, he said, that 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, 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, she had treated my rival as badly as she had treated me; the poor boy, having discovered her inconstancy, made a great ado and all Paris knewit. At first I did not catch the meaning of Desgenais's words, as Iwas not listening attentively; but when he had repeated his story threetimes in detail I was so stupefied that I could not reply. My firstimpulse was to laugh, for I saw that I had loved the most unworthy ofwomen; but it was no less true that I loved her still. "Is it possible?"was all I could say. 

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

It was easy for me to see that in all this ridicule a great part wasdirected at me, not only on account of my duel in connection with thiswoman, but from my whole conduct in regard to her. To say that shedeserved severest censure, that she had perhaps committed far worse sinsthan those she was charged with, was but to make me feel that I had beenone of her dupes. 

All this did not please me; but Desgenais had undertaken the task ofcuring me of my love, and was prepared to treat my disease heroically. A long friendship, founded on mutual services, gave him certain rights, and as his motive 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 thathe could 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 the story was well-nigh insupportable, I wishedto hear it again. I tried to assume a smiling face and tranquil air, butin vain. Desgenais suddenly became silent after having shown himselfto be a most virulent gossip. While I was pacing up and down my room helooked at me calmly, as if I were a caged fox. 

I can not express my state of mind. That a woman who had so long beenthe idol of my heart, and who, since I had lost her, had caused me suchdeep affliction, the only one I had ever loved, for whom indeed Imight sorrow till death, should become suddenly a shameless wretch, thesubject of coarse jests, of universal censure and scandal! It seemed tome that I felt on my shoulder the brand of a glowing iron and that I wasmarked with a burning stigma. 

The more I reflected, the more the darkness thickened about me. Fromtime to 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, and sawthat I might go to any lengths 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 certainnight when the moon was shining brightly. While the two lovers werequarrelling over their fair one, and talking of cutting her throat asshe sat before the fire, down in the street a certain shadow was seento pass up and down before the house, a shadow that resembled you soclosely that it was decided it must be you. "

"Who says so?" I asked, "who saw me in the street?"

"Your mistress herself; she told it to every one who cared to listen, just as cheerfully as we tell you her story. She claims that you loveher still, that you keep guard at her door, in short--everything you canthink of; but you ought to know that she talks about you publicly. "

I have never been able to lie, for whenever I have tried to disguise thetruth my face has betrayed me. 'Amour propre', the shame of confessingmy weakness before witnesses induced me, however, to make the effort. "It is very true that I was in the street, " I thought, "but had I knownthat my mistress was as bad as she is, I should not have been there. "

Finally I persuaded myself that I had not been seen distinctly; Iattempted to deny it. A deep flush 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 if 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 timethat encounter within! What! that very night! Mocked by her! Surely, Desgenais, you are dreaming. Is it true? Can it be possible? What canyou know about it?"

Thus talking at haphazard, 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 madeyou ill; I see you have need of distraction. Come to supper with me thisevening, and tomorrow morning we will go to the country. "

The tone in which he said this hurt me more than anything else; in vainI tried 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 is my despair that is insulted. Mockery! She mocks at me as I weep!"That appeared incredible to me. All the memories of the past crowdedabout my heart when I thought of it. I seemed to see the spectres ofour nights of love; they hung over a bottomless, eternal abyss, blackas chaos, and from the bottom of that abyss arose a shriek of laughter, sweet but mocking, that said: "Behold your reward!"

Had I been told that the world mocked at me I would have replied: "Somuch the worse for it, " and I should not have been angry; but at thesame time I was told that my mistress was a shameless wretch. Thus, onone side, the ridicule was public, vouched for, stated by two witnesseswho, before telling what they knew, must have felt that the world wasagainst me; and, on the other hand, what reply could I make? How could Iescape? What could I do when the centre of my life, my heart itself, wasruined, killed, annihilated. What could I say when the woman for whom Ihad braved all, ridicule as well as blame, for whom I had borne a loadof misery, whom I loved, and who loved another, of whom I demanded nolove, of whom I desired nothing but permission to weep at her door, nofavor but that of vowing my youth to her memory and of writing her name, her name alone, on the tomb of my hopes!--Ah! when I thought of it, Ifelt 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 erstwhile so manytimes pressed to mine, it was that body, that soul of my life, my fleshand my blood, it was from that source the injury came; yea, the lastpang of all, the most cowardly and the most bitter, the pitiless laughthat sneers in the face of grief. 

The more I thought of it the more enraged I became. Did I say enraged?I do not know what passion possessed me. What I do know is that aninordinate desire for vengeance entered into my soul. How could Irevenge myself on a woman? I would have paid any price for a weaponthat could 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 my prisoner. 

"Listen to me!" I cried, rising, "I have loved, I have loved like afool. I deserve all the ridicule you have subjected me to. But, byHeaven! I will show you something that will prove to you that I am notsuch a fool as 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, " I added, "that is not all I have to say. You give a supper to-night and to-morrowgo to the country; I am with you, and shall not leave you from now on. We will not separate, but will 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, marvelling how indignation can solace griefand restore happiness. Whoever is astonished to learn that, from thatday, I completely changed my course of life does not know the heart ofman, and does not understand that a young man of twenty may hesitatebefore taking a step, but does not retreat when he has once taken it. 

CHAPTER II. THE CHOSEN WAY

The first steps in debauchery resemble vertigo, for one feels a sort ofterror mingled with sensuous delight, as if peering downward from somegiddy--height. While shameful, secret dissipation ruins the noblestof men, in the frank and open defiance of conventionality there issomething that compels respect even in the most depraved. He who goesat nightfall, muffled in his cloak, to sully his life in secret, andclandestinely to shake off the hypocrisy of the day, resembles anItalian who strikes his enemy from behind, not daring to provoke him toopen quarrel. There are assassinations in the dark corners of the cityunder shelter of the night. He who goes his way without concealmentsays: "Every one does it and conceals it; I do it and do not concealit. " Thus speaks pride, and once that cuirass has been buckled on, itglitters with the refulgent light 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, but remember, I hang not by a thread. " Those masked carriages thatare seen during Carnival are the faithful images of their life. Adilapidated open wagon, flaming torches lighting up painted faces; somelaugh, some sing. Among them you see what appear to be women; they arein fact what once were women, with human semblance. They are caressedand insulted; no one knows who they are or what their names. They floatand stagger under the flaming torches in an intoxication that thinks ofnothing, and over which, it is said, a pitying God watches. 

But if the first impression be astonishment, the second is horror, andthe third pity. There is evident so much force, or rather such anabuse of force, that often the noblest characters and the strongestconstitutions are ruined. The life appears hardy and dangerous to these;they would make prodigies of themselves; bound to debauchery as Mazeppato his horse, they gallop, making Centaurs of themselves and seeingneither the bloody trail that the shreds of their flesh leave, nor theeyes of the wolves that gleam in hungry pursuit, nor the desert, nor thevultures. 

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

Before I had a close view of one of those famous gatherings calledtheatrical masked balls, I had heard the debauchery of the Regencyspoken of, and a reference to the time when a queen of France appeareddisguised as a violet-seller. I found there flower-merchants disguisedas vivandieres. I expected to find libertinism there, but in fact Ifound none at all. One sees only the scum of libertinism, some blows, and drunken women lying in deathlike stupor on broken bottles. 

Ere I saw debauchery at table I had heard of the suppers of Heliogabolusand of the philosophy of Greece, which made the pleasures of the sensesa kind of natural religion. I expected to find oblivion or somethinglike joy; I found there the worst thing in the world: ennui trying tolive, and some Englishmen who said: "I do this or that, and so I amusemyself. I have spent so many sovereigns, and have procured so muchpleasure. " And thus they wear out their life on that grindstone. 

I had known nothing of courtesans when I heard of Aspasia, who sat onthe knees of Alcibiades while discussing philosophy with Socrates. I expected to find something bold and insolent, but gay, free, andvivacious, something with the sparkle of champagne; I found a yawningmouth, a fixed eye, and light fingers. 

Before I saw titled courtesans I had read Boccaccio and Bandello; aboveall, I had read Shakespeare. I had dreamed of those beautiful triflers;of those cherubim of hell. A thousand times I had drawn those heads sopoetically foolish, so enterprising in audacity, heads of harebrainedmistresses who wreck a romance with a glance, and who pass through lifeby waves and by pulsations, like the sirens of the tides. I thought ofthe fairies of the modern tales, who are always drunk with love if notwith wine. I found, instead, writers of letters, exact arrangers ofassignations, who practised lying as an art and cloaked their basenessunder hypocrisy, whose only thought was to give themselves for profitand to forget. 

Ere first I looked on the gaming-table I had heard of floods of gold, of fortunes made in a 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. 

Unknown to me were those dance-halls, public or other, open to any ofthose thirty thousand women who are permitted to sell themselves inParis; I had heard of the saturnalia of all ages, of every imaginableorgy, from Babylon to Rome, from the temple of Priapus to theParc-aux-Cerfs, and I have always seen written on the sill of that doorthe word, "Pleasure. " I found nothing suggestive of pleasure, but in itsplace another word; and it has always seemed ineffaceable, not gravenin that glorious metal that takes the sun's light, but in the palest ofall, the cold colors of which seem tinted by the moonlight silver. 

The first time I saw a mob, it was a depressing morning--Ash Wednesday, near Courtille. A cold, fine rain had been falling since the eveningbefore; the streets were covered with pools of water. Carriages withblinds down were strung out hither and thither, crowding between hedgesof hideous men and women standing on the sidewalks. That sinister wallof spectators had tigerish eyes, red with wine, gleaming with hatred. The carriage-wheels splashed mud over them, but they did not move. I wasstanding on the front seat of an open carriage; from time to time a manin rags would step out from the wall, hurl a torrent of abuse at us, then cover us with a cloud of flour. Mud would soon follow; yet we kepton our way toward the Isle of Love and the pretty wood of Romainville, consecrated by so many sweet kisses. One of my friends fell from hisseat into the mud, narrowly escaping death on the paving. The peoplethrew themselves on him to overpower him, and we were obliged to hastento his assistance. One of the trumpeters who preceded us on horsebackwas struck on the shoulder by a paving-stone; the flour had given out. Ihad never heard of anything like that. 

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

CHAPTER III. AFRICAN HOSPITALITY

Desgenais had planned a reunion of young people at his country house. The best wines, a splendid table, gaming, dancing, hunting, nothingwas lacking. Desgenais was rich and generous. He combined an antiquehospitality with modern ways. Moreover one could always find in hishouse the best books; his conversation was that of a man of learning andculture. He was a problem. 

I took with me a taciturn humor that nothing could overcome; herespected it scrupulously. I did not reply to his questions and hedropped the subject; he was satisfied that I had forgotten my mistress. I went to the chase and appeared at the table, and was as convivial asthe best; he asked no more. 

One of the most unfortunate tendencies of inexperienced youth is tojudge of the world from first impressions; but it must be confessed thatthere is a race of men who are also very unhappy; a race which says toyouth: "You are right in believing in evil, for we know what it is. "I have heard, for example, a curious thing spoken of, a medium betweengood and evil, a certain arrangement between heartless women and menworthy of them--apparently love, but in reality a passing sentiment. They speak of love as of an engine constructed by a wagon-builder or abuilding-contractor. They said to me: "This and that are agreed upon, such and such phrases are spoken, and certain others are repeatedin reply; letters are written in a prescribed manner, you kneel in acertain attitude. " All is regulated as in a parade. 

This 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 tothe ground when my heart did not go with it. So that class of womenknown as facile is unknown to me, or if I allow myself to be taken withthem, it is without knowing it, and through innate simplicity. 

I can understand that one's soul can be put aside, but not that itshould be handled. That there is some pride in this, I confess, but Ido not intend either to boast or abase myself. Above all things I hatethose women who laugh at love, and I permit them to reciprocate thesentiment; there will never be any dispute between us. 

Such women are beneath courtesans, for courtesans may lie as well asthey; but courtesans are capable of love, and these 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 despisedby society. 

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 and was so new to me, I experienced at first a kind of bizarre curiosity, at once sad andprofound, which made me look timorously at things as does a restlesshorse. Then an incident occurred which made a deep impression on me. 

Desgenais had with him a very beautiful woman who loved him much. Oneevening as I was walking with him I told him that I considered heradmirable, as much on account of her attachment for him as because ofher beauty. In short, I praised her highly and with warmth, giving himto understand that he ought to be happy. 

He made no reply. It was his manner, for he was the dryest of men. Thatnight when all had retired, and I had been in bed some fifteen minutesI heard 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, carryinga bouquet in her hands, to which was attached a piece of paper bearingthese words "To Octave, from his friend Desgenais. "

I had no sooner read these words than a flash of light came to me. Iunderstood the meaning of this action of Desgenais in making me thisAfrican gift. It made me think. The poor woman was weeping and did notdare dry her tears for fear I would see them. I said to her: "You mayreturn and fear nothing. "

She replied that if she should return Desgenais would send her backto Paris. "Yes, " I replied, "you are beautiful and I am susceptible totemptation, but you weep, and your tears not being shed for me, I carenothing for the rest. Go, therefore, and I will see to it that you arenot sent back to Paris. "

One of my peculiarities is that meditation, which with many is a firmand constant quality of the mind, is in my case an instinct independentof the will, and seizes me like a fit of passion. It comes to me atintervals in its own good time, regardless of my will and in almostany place. But when it comes I can do nothing against it. It takes mewhither 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 offeryou lips 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, but they ran no risk. She might employ all the seduction she pleased;you alone 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 thata scratch 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 he who treats his soul as the flagellants treat theirbodies? Can one live without a head?

"Think of it. Here is a man who possesses one of the most beautifulwomen in the world; he is young and ardent; he finds her beautiful andtells her so; she replies that she loves him. Some one touches him onthe shoulder and says to him: 'She is unfaithful. ' Nothing more, he issure of himself. If some one had said: 'She is a poisoner, ' he would, perhaps have continued to love her, he would not have given her a kissless; but she is unfaithful, and it is no more a question of love withhim than of the star of Saturn. 

"What is there in that word? A word that is merited, positive, withering, at will. But why? It is still but a word. Can you kill a bodywith a word?

"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 it mayintoxicate you!

"But Desgenais loves his mistress, since he keeps her; he must, therefore, have a peculiar fashion of loving? No, he has not; hisfashion of loving is not love, and he cares no more for the woman whomerits affection than for her who is unworthy. He loves no one, simplyand truly. 

"What has led him to this? Was he born thus? To love is as natural asto eat and to drink. He is not a man. Is he a dwarf or a giant? Ishe always so impassive? Upon what does he feed, what beverage doeshe drink? Behold him at thirty like old Mithridates; poisons are hisfamiliar friends. 

"There is the great secret, my child, the key you must grasp. Bywhatever process of reasoning debauchery may be defended, it willbe proven that it is natural at a given day, hour, or night, but notto-morrow nor every day. There is not a nation on earth which has notconsidered woman either the companion and consolation of man or thesacred instrument of life, and has not under either of these two formshonored her. And yet here is an armed warrior who leaps into the abyssthat God has dug with His own hands between man and brute; as well mighthe deny that fact. What mute Titan is this who dares repress under thekisses of the body the love of the soul, and place on human lips thestigma of the brute, the seal of eternal silence?

"There is a word that should be studied. In it you hear the faint moanof those dismal labyrinths we know as secret societies, mysteries thatthe angels of destruction whisper in the ear of night as it descendsupon the earth. That man is better or worse than God has made him. Heis like a sterile woman, in whom nature has not completed her work, orthere is distilled in the shadow of his life some venomous poison. 

"Ah! yes, neither occupation nor study has been able to cure you, myfriend. To forget and to learn, that is your device. You turn the leavesof dead books; you are too young for antiquities. Look about you, thepale throng of men surrounds you. The eyes of life's sphynx glitter inthe midst of divine hieroglyphics; decipher the book of life! Courage, scholar, launch out on the Styx, the deathless flood, and let the wavesof sorrow waft you to oblivion or to God. "

CHAPTER IV. MARCO

"All the good there was in it, 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 wordsspoken with reference to his youth by a man who was the most manly ofany who have lived--St. Augustine. Of those who have done as I, fewwould say those words; all have them in their hearts; I have found noothers in mine. 

Returning to Paris in the month of December, I passed the winterattending pleasure parties, masquerades, suppers, rarely leavingDesgenais, who was delighted with me: not so was I with him. The moreI went about, the more unhappy I became. It seemed to me after a shorttime that the world which had at first appeared so strange would hamperme, so to speak, at every step; yet where I had expected to see aspectre, I discovered, upon closer inspection, a shadow. 

Desgenais asked what ailed me. 

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

At times he seemed to understand and did not question me. Occasionallywe sat down at a cafe table and drank until our heads swam; or in themiddle of the night took horses and rode ten or twelve leagues into thecountry; returning to the bath, then to table, then to gambling, thento bed; and on reaching 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 boastedof being 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 a recital of an orgy with which I had nothing todo, it seemed to me that my heart was better satisfied, although I knownot why. 

Whenever I joined a party of pleasure-seekers and visited some spotmade sacred by tender associations I became stupid, went off by myself, looked gloomily at the trees and bushes as if I would like to tramplethem 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 its disguisevirtue, its chaplet religion, its flowing mantle convenience. Honor andMorality are man's chambermaids; 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, tothe assembly, and when evening has come he removes his mantle and thereappears a naked bacchante with the 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 becamelike a 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 thatI feared that it was love. I happened to have had beside me at supperthe most charming and the most distinguished woman whom it had ever beenmy good fortune to meet. When I closed my eyes to sleep I saw her imagebefore me. I thought I was lost, and I at once resolved that I wouldavoid meeting her again. A sort of fever seized me, and I lay on mybed for fifteen days, repeating over and over the lightest words I hadexchanged with her. 

As there is no spot on earth where one can be so well-known byhis neighbors as in Paris, it was not long before the people of myacquaintance who had seen me with Desgenais began to accuse me of beinga great libertine. In that I admired the discernment of the world: inproportion as I had passed for inexperienced and sensitive at thetime of my rupture with my mistress, I was now considered corrupt andhardened. Some one had just told me that it was clear I had never lovedthat woman, that I had doubtless merely played at love, thereby payingme a compliment which I really did not deserve; but the truth of it wasthat I was so swollen with vanity I was charmed with it. 

My desire was to pass as blase, even while I was filled with desires andmy exalted imagination was carrying me beyond all limits. I began tosay that I could not make any headway with the women; my head wasfilled with chimeras which I preferred to realities. In short, my uniquepleasure consisted in altering the nature of facts. If a thought werebut extraordinary, if it shocked common sense, I became its ardentchampion at the risk of advocating the most dangerous sentiments. 

My greatest fault was imitation of everything that struck me, not byits beauty but by its strangeness, and not wishing to confess myselfan imitator 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 strong 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 quells '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 away from myself. 

But while my vanity was thus occupied, my heart was suffering, so thatever within me were a man who laughed and a man who wept. It was aperpetual struggle 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 bedand then concealed themselves in an adjoining room to wait for hisreturn. They did not hear any noise, but in the morning they found himdressed and sitting on the bed playing with the bones; he had lost hisreason. 

I might be that man but for the fact that my favorite bones are those ofa well-beloved skeleton; they are the debris of my first love, all thatremains of the past. 

But it must not be supposed that there were no joyous moments in allthis maddened whirl. Among Desgenais's companions were several youngmen of distinction and a number of artists. We sometimes passed togetherdelightful evenings imagining ourselves libertines. One of them wasinfatuated with a beautiful singer, who charmed us with her fresh andexpressive voice. How many times we sat listening to her while supperwas waiting! How many times, when the flagons had been emptied, oneof us held a volume of Lamartine and read aloud in a voice choked byemotion! Every other thought disappeared. The hours passed by unheeded. What strange "libertines" we were! We did not speak a word and therewere tears in our eyes. 

Desgenais especially, habitually the coldest and dryest of men, was inexplicable on such occasions; he delivered himself of suchextraordinary sentiments that he might have been a poet in delirium. Butafter these effusions he would be seized with furious joy. Whenwarmed by wine he would break everything within reach; the genius ofdestruction stalked forth in him armed to the teeth. I have seen himpickup a chair and hurl it through a closed window. 

I could not help making a study of this singular man. He appeared to methe exact type of a class which ought to exist somewhere but whichwas unknown 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 nervousexcitement that he acted like a schoolboy. Once he persuaded me to goout on foot with him, muffled in grotesque costumes, with masks andinstruments of music. We promenaded all night, in the midst of the mostfrightful din of horrible sounds. We found a driver asleep on his boxand 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. Thatsame evening we had passed through the Champs Elysees; Desgenais, seeinganother carriage passing, stopped it after the manner of a highwayman;he intimidated the coachman by threats and forced him to climb down andlie flat on his stomach. He opened the carriage door and found withina young man and a lady motionless with fright. He whispered to me toimitate him, and we began to enter one door and go out by the other, so that in the obscurity the poor young people thought they saw aprocession of bandits going through their carriage. 

As I understand it, the men who say that the world gives experienceought to be astonished if they are believed. The world is merely anumber of whirlpools, each one independent of the others; they circlein groups like flocks of birds. There is no resemblance between thedifferent quarters of the same city, and the denizen of the Chausseed'Antin has as much to learn at Marais as at Lisbon. It is truethat these various whirlpools are traversed, and have been since thebeginning of the world, by seven personages who are always the same: thefirst is called hope; the second, conscience; the third, opinion; thefourth, desire; the fifth, sorrow; the sixth, pride; and the seventh, man. 

"But, " the reader objects, "where are the women in all this?"

Oh! 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 seekfor it? What is there more dumb in human memory? What is there morecompletely 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 young womenprowled who were licensed and recognized by these same police; whatcould you expect of her, when after wearying her hands and eyes all daylong on a dress or a hat, she leans out of that window as night falls?That dress she has sewed, that hat she has trimmed with her poor andhonest hands in order to earn a supper for the household, she seespassing along the street on the head or on the body of a notoriouswoman. Thirty times a day a hired carriage stops before the door, andthere steps out a dissolute character, numbered as is the hack in whichshe rides, who stands before a glass and primps, taking off and puttingon the results of many days' work on the part of the poor girl whowatches her. She sees that woman draw from her pocket gold in plenty, she who has but one louis a week; she looks at her feet and her head, she examines her dress and eyes her as she steps into her carriage; andthen, what can you expect? When night has fallen, after a day when workhas been scarce, when her mother is sick, she opens her door, stretchesout her hand and stops a passerby. 

Such is the story of a girl I once knew. 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 work of nature, mutilated by society!How many times have I followed in the darkness the pale and vacillatinggleams of a spark flickering in abortive life! How many times have Itried to revive the fire that smouldered under those ashes! Alas! herlong 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 dayI threatened that if she did not work she should have no money; shesilently resumed her task, and I learned that she stole out of the housea few minutes later. Where did she go? God knows. Before she left Iasked her to embroider a purse for me. I still have that sad relic, ithangs in my 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, werepaired to Desgenais's, who had left us some hours before to makehis preparations. The orchestra was ready and the room filled when wearrived. 

Most of the dancers were girls from the theatres. 

As soon as we entered I plunged into the giddy whirl of the waltz. Thatdelightful exercise has always been dear to me; I know of nothing morebeautiful, more worthy of a beautiful woman and a young man; all dancescompared with the waltz are but insipid conventions or pretexts forinsignificant converse. It is truly to possess a woman, in a certainsense, to hold her for a half hour in your arms, and to draw her on inthe dance, palpitating in spite of herself, in such a way that it cannot be positively asserted whether she is being protected orseduced. Some deliver themselves up to the pleasure with such modestvoluptuousness, with such sweet and pure abandon, that one does not knowwhether he experiences desire or fear, and whether, if pressed to theheart, they would faint or break in pieces like the rose. Germany, wherethat dance was invented, is surely the land of love. 

I held in my arms a superb danseuse from an Italian theatre who had cometo Paris for the carnival; she wore the costume of a Bacchante with arobe 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 if by enchantment. 

On her bosom rested an enormous bouquet, the perfume of whichintoxicated me. She yielded to my encircling arms as would an Indianvine, with a gentleness so sweet and so sympathetic that I seemedenveloped with a perfumed veil of silk. At each turn there could beheard a light tinkling from her metal girdle; she moved so gracefullythat I thought I beheld a beautiful star, and her smile was that of afairy about to vanish from human sight. The tender and voluptuous musicof the dance seemed to come from her lips, while her head, covered witha wilderness of black tresses, bent backward as if her neck was tooslender to support its weight. 

When the waltz was over I threw myself on a chair; my heart beat wildly:"Oh, heaven!" I murmured, "how can it be possible? Oh, superb monster!Oh! beautiful reptile! How you writhe, how you coil in and out, sweetadder, with supple and spotted skin! Thy cousin the serpent has taughtthee to coil about the tree of life holding between thy lips the appleof temptation. Oh! Melusina! Melusina! The hearts of men are thine. Youknow it 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 underthe magic 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 place your arms so gently on our shoulders. Oh, heaven! whatis your 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 not quote the dreamers who watch the wheeling flight ofSpallanzani's bat, and who think they have found a sixth sense innature. Such as nature is, her mysteries are terrible enough, her powersmighty enough--that nature which creates us, mocks at us, and killsus--without our seeking to deepen the shadows that surround us. Butwhere is the man who thinks he has lived that will deny woman's powerover us? Has he ever taken leave of a beautiful dancer with tremblinghands? Has he ever felt that indefinable enervating magnetism which, inthe midst of the dance, under the influence of music, and the warmth, making all else seem cold, that comes from a young woman, electrifyingher and leaping from her to him as the perfume of aloes from theswinging censer?

I was struck with stupor. I was familiar with that sensation similarto drunkenness which characterizes love; I knew that it was theaureole which crowned my well-beloved. But that she should excite suchheart-throbs, that she should evoke such phantoms with nothing but herbeauty, her flowers, her motley costume, and a certain trick of dancingshe 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 make such a being?

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 inmy body a cord that was not attuned to my heart. The sight of thatbeautiful animal had aroused a responsive roar from another animal in mynature. I felt sure I could never tell that woman that I loved her, orthat she pleased me, or even that she was beautiful; there was nothingon my lips but a desire to kiss her, and say to her: "Make a girdle ofthose listless arms and lean that head on my breast; place that sweetsmile on my lips. " My body loved hers; I was under the influence ofbeauty as of wine. 

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 the hall. The Italian saw us coming andsmiled. 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 weresoon lost in the crowd. 

"Is it possible, " I murmured; "have I come to this? Oh! heavens! isthis what 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. "

"Listen, " I said; "I hardly know what I am experiencing. It seems to meI see limping Vulcan covering Venus with kisses while his beard smokeswith the fumes of the forge. He fixes his staring eyes on the dazzlingskin of his prey. His happiness in the possession of his prize makes himlaugh for joy, and at the same time shudder with happiness, and then heremembers his father, Jupiter, seated 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 goto supper, that will refresh us. "

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

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

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, inspeaking of love, her Italian heart beat the faster. 

A scene of folly ensued. Heads were becoming heated, cheeks wereassuming that purple hue with which wine suffuses the face as if toprevent shame appearing there. A confused murmur, like to that of arising sea, could be heard all over the room; here and there eyes wouldbecome inflamed, then fixed and empty; I know not what wind stirredabove this drunkenness. A woman rises, as in a tranquil sea the firstwave that feels the tempest's breath foams up to announce it; she makesa sign with her hand to command silence, empties her glass at a gulp andwith the same movement undoes her hair, which falls in shining tressesover her shoulders; she opens her mouth as if to start a drinking-song;her eyes are half closed. She breathes with an effort; twice a harshsound comes from her throat; a mortal pallor overspreads her featuresand she drops 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 this Bacchanalian orgy the beautiful Marco remainedmute, drinking nothing and leaning quietly on her bare arm. She seemedneither astonished 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; shetook pleasure 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, and I imagined that if that pale statue should become somnambulant itwould resemble Marco. 

"Are you good or bad?" I asked. "Are you sad or gay? Are you loved?Do you wish to beloved? 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 thatexpressed neither joy nor sorrow, but which seemed to say, "What does itmatter?" 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 raisingher finger 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 stolethe silver. All the while songs were being sung in various parts of theroom, 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 I could think of nothing but the factthat my hand was trembling and hers motionless. 

Her room was, like her, sombre and voluptuous; it was dimly lighted byan alabaster lamp. The chairs and sofa were as soft as beds, and therewas everywhere suggestion of down and silk. Upon entering I was struckwith the strong odor of Turkish pastilles, not such as are sold here onthe streets, but those of Constantinople, which are more powerful andmore dangerous. She rang, and a maid appeared. She entered an alcovewithout a word, and a few minutes later I saw her leaning on her elbowin her habitual attitude of nonchalance. 

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. Ido not 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, free from exteriorattractions, falls back upon himself; he hears himself live. In spite ofmy fatigue I could not close my eyes; those of Marco were fixed on me;we looked 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 and saw that the first gleams of morning light wereshining 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 centre 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 gardens 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 gardensof the Luxembourg made my heart leap and banished every other thought. How many times had I stretched myself out on one of those little mounds, a sort of sylvan school, while I read in the cool shade some bookfilled with foolish poetry! For such, alas, were the extravagances of mychildhood. I saw many souvenirs of the past among those leafless treesand faded lawns. There, when ten years of age, I had walked withmy brother and my tutor, throwing bits of bread to some of the poorhalf-starved birds; there, seated under a tree, I had watched a group oflittle girls as they danced, and felt my heart beat in unison with therefrain of their childish song. There, returning from school, I hadfollowed a thousand times the same path, lost in meditation upon someverse of Virgil and kicking the pebbles at my feet. 

"Oh, my childhood! You are there!" I cried. "Oh, 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 beforean open secretary near one of the windows. A piece of paper caught myeye; it was an open letter and I looked at it mechanically. I read itseveral times before I thought what I was doing. Suddenly a gleam ofintelligence came to me, although I could not understand everything. Ipicked up the paper and read what follows, written in an unskilled handand filled with errors 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. SATIETY

One evening I was seated before the fire with Desgenais. The window wasopen; it was one of the early days in March, a harbinger of spring. 

It had been raining, and a light 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 goingto begin 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 Magdalen in the desert. Involuntarily I joined 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 Magdalen in tears has a spark of hopein her bosom; that pale and sickly hand on which she supports her head, 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, "with 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 mytrouble. "

He urged me to explain. 

"But what will it avail, " I asked, "since neither of us can helpmatters? Do you want the fulness of my heart or merely a word and anexcuse?"

"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 askwhat is 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 it wasthe greatest happiness that could be imagined. 

"'Then take that man into the centre of the whirl, place him at a tablewith a woman on either side, a glass in his hand, a handful of goldevery morning and say to him: 'This is your life. While you sleep nearyour mistress, your horses neigh in the stables; while you drive yourhorses along the boulevards, your wines are ripening in your vaults;while you pass away the night drinking, the bankers are increasing yourwealth. You have but to express a wish and your desires are gratified. You are the happiest of men. But take care lest some night of carousalyou drink too much and destroy the capacity of your body for enjoyment. That would be a serious misfortune, for all the ills that afflict humanflesh can be cured, except that. You ride some night through the woodswith joyous companions; your horse falls and you are thrown into a ditchfilled with mud, and it may be that your companions, in the midst oftheir happy shoutings will not hear your cry of anguish; it may be thatthe sound of their trumpets will die away in the distance while you dragyour broken limbs through the deserted forest. 

"'Some night you will lose at the gaming-table; fortune has its baddays. When you return home and are seated before the fire, do not strikeyour forehead with your hands, and allow sorrow to moisten your cheekswith tears; do not anxiously cast your eyes about here and there as ifsearching for a friend; do not, under any circumstances, think of thosewho, under some thatched roof, enjoy a tranquil life and who sleepholding each other by the hand; for before you on your luxurious bedreclines a pale creature who loves--your money. From her you will seekconsolation for your grief, and she will remark that you are very sadand ask if your loss was considerable; the tears from your eyes willconcern her deeply, for they may be the cause of allowing her dress togrow old or the rings to drop from her fingers. Do not name him who wonyour money that night, for she may meet him on the morrow, and may makesweet eyes at him that would destroy your remaining happiness. 

"'That is what is to be expected of human frailty; have you the strengthto endure it? Are you a man? Beware of disgust, it is an incurable evil;death is more to be desired than a living distaste for life. Have you aheart? Beware of love, for it is worse than disease for a debauchee, and it is ridiculous. Debauchees pay their mistresses, and the woman whosells herself has no right but that of contempt for the purchaser. Areyou passionate? Take care of your face. It is shameful for a soldier tothrow down his arms and for a debauchee to appear to hold to anything;his glory consists in touching nothing except with hands of marble thathave been bathed in oil in order that nothing may stick to them. 

"'Are you hot-headed? If you desire to live, learn how to kill, for wineis a wrangler. Have you a conscience? Take care of your slumber, for adebauchee who repents too late is like a ship that leaks: it can neitherreturn to land nor continue on its course; the winds can with difficultymove it, the ocean yawns for it, it careens and disappears. If you havea body, look out for suffering; if you have a soul, despair awaits you. 

"'O unhappy one! beware of men; while they walk along the same path withyou, you will see a vast plain strewn with garlands where a happy throngof dancers trip the gladsome farandole standing in a circle, each a linkin an endless chain. It is but a mirage; those who look down knowthat they are dancing on a silken thread stretched over an abyss thatswallows up all who fall and shows not even a ripple on its surface. What foot is sure? Nature herself seems to deny you her divineconsolation; trees and flowers are yours no more; you have broken yourmother's laws, you are no longer one of her foster children; the birdsof 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, its 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 phantoms; wherever falls a drop of your 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 theearth, do not wait for old age; do not leave a child behind you, do notperpetuate 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. Didyou not 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, and a tear trickled slowly down his cheek. 

A moment of silence ensued. The clock struck; I suddenly remembered thatit was on 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 whatit means at this moment, but it is a terrible hour, and one that willcount in my life. "

I was beside myself, and scarcely knew what I was saying. But at thatinstant a servant rushed into the room; he took my hand and led measide, 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. "

BOOK 2. 

PART III

CHAPTER I. DEATH, THE INEVITABLE

My father lived in the country some distance from Paris. When I arrivedI found a physician in the house, 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, "please have everyone retire that I may be alone here; my father hadsomething to say to me, and he will say it. "

In obedience to my order the servants left the room. I approached thebed and raised the shroud which covered the face. But when my eyes fellon that countenance, 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, andso I feigned that I had heard nothing. When they saw that I was restingquietly, they left me. I waited until the house was quiet, and thentook a candle and made my way to my father's room. I found there a youngpriest seated 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. You may 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 itwas open; I kneeled before it; on the 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 wasswollen and 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. I supposed that before dying he wished to see me to try once more toturn me from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly; he feltthat he could express all he had to say in one word, and he wrote in hisbook that he loved me. 

CHAPTER II. THE BALM OF SOLITUDE

A little wooden railing surrounded my father's grave. According tohis expressed wish, he was buried in the village cemetery. Every dayI visited 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 housein which he died, and kept with me only one servant. 

Whatever sorrows the passions may cause, the woes of life are not tobe compared 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 thoughteither of the past or of the future. It did not seem to be I who hadlived up to that time; what I felt was not despair, and in no wayresembled the terrible griefs I had experienced in the past; there wasa sort of languor in every action, a sense of disgust with life, apoignant bitterness that was eating out my heart. I held a book inmy hand all day long, but I did not read; I did not even know whatI dreamed about. I had no thoughts; within, all was silence; I hadreceived such a violent blow, and yet one that was so prolonged in itseffects, that I remained a purely passive being and there seemed to beno reaction. 

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

He was of about the same age--that is, his hair was turning gray, andduring the twenty years he had lived with my father, he had learned someof his ways. While I was pacing up and down the room after dinner, Iheard him doing the same in the hall; although the door was open he didnot enter, and not a word was spoken; but from time to time we wouldlook at each other and weep. The entire evening would pass thus, and itwould be late in the night before I would ask for a light, or get onemyself. 

Everything about the house was left unchanged, not a piece of paper wasmoved. The great leather armchair in which my father used to sit stoodnear the fire; his table and his books were just as he left them; Irespected even the dust on these articles, which in life he neverliked to see disturbed. The walls of that solitary house, accustomed tosilence and a most tranquil life, seemed to look down on me in pity as Isat in my father's chair, enveloped in his dressing-gown. A feeble voiceseemed to whisper: "Where is the father? It is plain to see that this isan orphan. "

I received several letters from Paris, and replied to each that Idesired to pass the summer alone in the country, as my father wasaccustomed to do. I began to realize that in all evil there is somegood, and that sorrow, whatever else may be said of it, is a means ofrepose. Whatever the message brought by those who are sent by God, theyalways accomplish the happy result of awakening us from the sleep of theworld, and when they speak, all are silent. Passing sorrows blasphemeand accuse heaven; great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--theylisten. 

In the morning I passed entire hours in the contemplation of nature. My windows overlooked a valley, in the midst of which arose a 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 the 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, likethe torch at some hideous vigil; but what can the budding leaves say toa child who mourns a lost father? The tears of his eyes are sisters ofthe rose; the leaves of the willow are themselves tears. It is when Ilook at the sky, the woods and the prairies, that I understand men whoseek consolation. 

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, butI had noticed his anxiety, and, when he saw me settle down in the oldhome, he gave me a glance that went to my heart. One day I had a largeportrait of my father sent from Paris, and placed it in the dining-room. When Larive entered the room to serve me, he saw it; he hesitated, looked at the portrait and then at me; in his eyes there shone amelancholy joy that 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;when he saw me he went away and returned home. He followed me in myrambles; when I was on my horse I did not expect him to follow me, butwhen I saw him trudging down the valley, wiping the sweat from his brow, I bought a small horse from a peasant and gave it to him; thus we rodethrough the woods together. 

In the village were some people of our acquaintance who frequentlyvisited us. My door was closed to them, although I regretted it; butI could not see any one with patience. Some time, when sure to be freefrom interruption, I hoped to examine my father's papers. Finally Larivebrought them to me, and untying the package with trembling hand, spreadthem 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 countthe diurnal throbbings of that noble heart. I began to yield to theinfluence of a dream that was both sweet and profound, and in spite ofthe serious firmness of his character, I discovered an ineffable grace, the flower of kindness. While I read, the recollection of his deathmingled with the narrative of his life, I can not tell with what sadnessI followed that limpid stream until its waters mingled with those of theocean. 

"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 heartfor anything else. The spotless snow on the mountain's summit is notmore pure than thy saintly old age; thy white hair resembles it. Oh!father, father! Give thy snowy locks to me, they are younger than myblond head. Let me live and die as thou hast lived and died. I wish toplant in the soil over your grave the green branch of my young life; Iwill water it with my tears, and the God of orphans will protect thatsacred twig nourished by the grief of youth and the memory of age. "

After examining these precious papers, I classified them and arrangedthem in order. I formed a resolution to write a journal myself. I hadone made just like that of my father's, and, carefully searching outthe minor details of his life, I tried to conform my life to his. Thus, whenever 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. ThusI accustomed myself to a calm and regular life; there was an indefinablecharm about this orderly conduct 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. I soon became known among the poor; my message to them was: "When theheart is good, sorrow is sacred!" For the first time in my life I washappy; God blessed my tears and sorrow taught me virtue. 

CHAPTER III. BRIGITTE

One evening, as I was walking under a row of lindens at the entrance tothe village, I saw a young woman come from a house some distance fromthe road. She was dressed simply and veiled so that I could not see herface; but her form and her carriage seemed so charming that I followedher with my eyes for some time. As she was crossing a field, a whitegoat, straying at liberty through the grass, ran to her side; shecaressed it softly, and looked about as if searching for some favoriteplants to feed to it. I saw near me some wild mulberry; I plucked abranch and stepped up to her holding it in my hand. The goat watchedmy approach with apprehension; he was afraid to take the branch from myhand. His mistress made him a sign as if to encourage him, but he lookedat her with an air of anxiety; she then took the branch from my hand, and the goat promptly accepted it from hers. I bowed, and she passed onher way. 

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; asI had 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 place, 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 calledto him. Just then the door opened, and I was surprised to see MadamePierson, who inquired 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. I could 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 seal of death on herface. 

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

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, saidthat she had been coming every night since the mother's illness. Sheperformed the duties of a sister of charity; there was no one else inthe country who could do it; there was but one physician, and he wasdensely ignorant. 

"That is Brigitte la Rose, " said the child; "don't you 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, holdingin her hand a cup, which she was offering the sick woman who hadawakened. She appeared to be pale and thin; her hair was ashen blond. Her beauty was not of the regular type. How shall I express it? Herlarge dark eyes were fixed on those of her patient, and those eyes thatshone with approaching death returned her gaze. There was in that simpleexchange of 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 observedthe helpless despair of the farmer, the superstitious terror of thechildren, the fury of the elements besieging the bed of death; and inthe midst of all, seeing that gentle, pale-faced woman going and coming, bravely meeting the duties of the moment, regardless of the tempestand of our presence, it seemed to me there was in that calm performancesomething more serene than the most cloudless sky, something, indeed, superhuman about this woman who, surrounded by such horrors, did not foran instant lose her faith in God. 

What kind of woman is this, I wondered; whence comes she, and how longhas she been here? A long time, since they remember when her cheeks wererosy. How is it I have never heard of her? She comes to this spot aloneand at this hour? Yes. She has traversed these mountains and valleysthrough storm and fair weather, she goes hither and thither bearinglife and hope wherever they fail, holding in her hand that fragile cup, caressing her goat as she passes. And this is what has been going on inthis valley while I have been dining and gambling; she was probably bornhere, and will be buried in a corner of the cemetery, by the side of herfather. Thus will that obscure woman die, a woman of whom no one speaksand of whom the children say: "Don't you know her?"

I can not express what I experienced; I sat quietly in my cornerscarcely 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 shouldhave been guilty of sacrilege, I should 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 intotheir mother's face with great eyes that expressed both surprise andjoy. 

"I am very sure you are better, " said the husband, who had not stirredfrom his seat, "for we have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us alarge sum. "

At that coarse and stupid expression I glanced at Madame Pierson; herswollen eyes, her pallor, her attitude, all clearly expressed fatigueand the 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 ofthese brutes who were capable of crediting the work of charity to theavarice of a cure. 

I was about to reproach them for their ingratitude and treat them asthey deserved, when Madame Pierson took one of the children in her armsand said, with a smile:

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

I stopped when I heard these words. 

Never was the simple contentment of a happy and benevolent heart paintedin such beauty on so sweet a face. Fatigue and pallor seemed to vanish, 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; Itold her that it was useless to awaken the boy as I was going in thesame direction, and that she would do me an honor by accepting my offer. She asked me if I was not Octave de T--------. 

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

We walked along in silence; the wind was going down; 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 whimsicalness 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 distraught 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 quitted, of the scenes alongthe route; 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 toneI had noted when I first revealed my name--that is, cheerfully, almostgayly. 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 had sometimes played cardstogether after dinner. She urged me to visit them, assuring me awelcome. 

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 herface. 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 that, coming from you, I can not look upon exceptas 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 ourfeet retarded our progress. Finally, like two birds, spent with flight, we reached 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, "you should treat your experience as I have treated my fatigue. We havemade good time, and shall enjoy supper the more on that account. "

CHAPTER IV. RIPENING ACQUAINTANCE

I went to see her in the morning. I found her at the piano, her old auntat the window sewing, the little room filled with flowers, the sunlightstreaming through the blinds, a large bird-cage at her side. 

I expected to find her something of a religieuse, at least one of thosewomen of the provinces who know nothing of what happens two leaguesaway, and who live in a certain narrow circle from which they neverescape. I confess that such isolated life, which is found here and therein small towns, under a thousand unknown roofs, had always had on me theeffect of stagnant pools of water; the air does not seem respirable: ineverything on earth that is forgotten, there is something of death. 

On Madame Pierson's table were some papers and new books; they appearedas if 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. 

Her conversation 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 freesoared 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 gayety, 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 gayety. 

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 spiteof man; and there were times when she reminded one of the carefulhousewife, who, when the wind blows, holds her hand before the candle. 

After 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 mean time 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, ata given price, with the honor of its particular favor. They dress up init wisdom, 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 eveningbefore was lying in the grass; it came up to her and followed us aboutthe garden. 

When we reached the end of the garden walk, a large young man with apale face, clad in a kind of black cassock, suddenly appeared at therailing. He entered without knocking and bowed to Madame Pierson; itseemed to me that his face, which I considered a bad omen, darkened alittle when he saw me. He was a priest I had often seen in the village, and his name was Mercanson; he came from St. Sulpice and was related tothe cure of the parish. 

He was large and at the same time pale, a thing which always displeasesme and which is, in fact, unpleasant; it impresses me as a sort ofdiseased healthfulness. Moreover, he had the slow yet jerky way ofspeaking that characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of walking, which was not that of youth and health, repelled me; as for his glance, it might 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 me to anunfavorable opinion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfortunatelycorrect. 

He sat down on a bench and began to talk about Paris, which he calledthe modern Babylon. He had been there, he knew every one; he knew Madamede B------, who was an angel; he had preached sermons in her salonand was listened to on bended knee. (The worst of this was that itwas true. ) One of his friends, who had introduced him there, had beenexpelled from school for having seduced a girl; a terrible thing todo, very sad. He paid Madame Pierson a thousand compliments forher charitable deeds throughout the country; he had heard of herbenefactions, her care for the sick, her vigils at the bed of sufferingand of death. It was very beautiful and noble; he would not fail tospeak of it at St. Sulpice. Did he not seem to say that he would notfail 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 onme his dull and lifeless eye:

"The celebrated Vergniaud, " said he, "was afflicted with the habit ofsitting on the ground and playing with animals. "

"It is a habit that is innocent enough, " I replied. "If there were noneworse the world would get along very well, without so much meddling onthe part of others. "

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 efface thememory of the priest's voice with her gentle tones. She merely bowed andhe retired. 

When he had gone our gayety returned. We entered a greenhouse in therear of the garden. 

Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and herpeasants: everything about her must be well cared for, each flower musthave its drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that it might be gayand happy 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 domainends here. "

"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 myeyes a little white house; I saw myself walking through the villageand knocking at the garden gate. "Oh, my poor heart!" I cried. "Godbe praised, you are still young, you are still capable of life and oflove!"

One evening I was with Madame Pierson. More than three months hadpassed, during which I had seen her almost every day; and what can Isay of that time except that I saw her? "To be with those we love, " saidBruyere, "suffices; to dream, to talk to them, not to talk to them, tothink of them, to think of the most indifferent things, but to be nearthem, that is all. "

I loved. During the three months we had taken many long walks; I wasinitiated into the mysteries of her modest charities; we passed throughdark streets, she on her pony, I on foot, a small stick in my hand; thushalf conversing, half dreaming, we went from cottage to cottage. Therewas a little bench near the edge of the wood where I was accustomed torest after dinner; we met here regularly, as though by chance. In themorning, music, reading; in the evening, cards with the aunt as in thedays of my father; and she always there, smiling, her presence fillingmy heart. By what road, O Providence! have you led me? What irrevocabledestiny am I to accomplish? What! a life so free, an intimacy socharming, so much repose, such buoyant hope! O God! Of what do mencomplain? What is there sweeter than love?

To live, yes, to feel intensely, profoundly, that one exists, that oneis a sentient man, created by God, that is the first, the greatest giftof love. We can not deny, however, that love is a mystery, inexplicable, profound. With all the chains, with all the pains, and I may even say, with all the disgust with which the world has surrounded it, buried asit is under a mountain of prejudices which distort and deprave it, inspite of all the ordure through which it has been dragged, love, eternaland fatal love, is none the less a celestial law as powerful and asincomprehensible as that which suspends the sun in the heavens. 

What is this mysterious bond, stronger and more durable than iron, thatcan neither be seen nor touched? What is there in meeting a woman, inlooking at her, in speaking one word to her, and then never forgettingher? Why this one rather than that one? Invoke the aid of reason, ofhabit, of the senses, the head, the heart, and explain it if you can. You will find nothing but two bodies, one here, the other there, andbetween them, what? Air, space, immensity. O blind fools! who fondlyimagine yourselves men, and who reason of love! Have you talked withit? No, you have felt it. You have exchanged a glance with a passingstranger, and suddenly there flies out from you something that can notbe defined, that has no name known to man. You have taken root in theground like the seed concealed in the turf which feels the life withinit, and which is on its way to maturity. 

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, all the water that fell while we were sitting there, while she wastalking and I was answering. It was there that I became intoxicated withher to the 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. How pricelessthe slightest words! What signifies the conversation, when you listenfor the heart to answer? What sweetness in the glance of a woman whobegins to attract you! At first it seems as though everything thatpasses between you is timid and tentative, but soon there is born astrange joy, an echo answers you; you know a dual life. What a touch!What a strange attraction! And when love is sure of itself and knowsresponse in the object beloved, what serenity in the soul! Words dieon the lips, for each one knows what the other is about to say beforeutterance has shaped the thought. Souls expand, lips are silent. Oh!what silence! What forgetfulness of all!

Although my love began the first day and had since grown to ardor, therespect I felt for Madame Pierson sealed my lips. If she had been lessfrank in permitting me to become her friend, perhaps I should 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 thefrankness 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 Ihad never questioned her about her past life and was unwilling to do so, I respected her obvious wishes. 

Sunday there was dancing in the village; she was almost always there. Onthose occasions her toilet, although quite 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 gayety. 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 enoughto render me serious in the midst of gayety. I conceived the idea ofwriting to her, but burned the letters before they were 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, ofmy happiness since I had known her, and said to myself: "Why ask formore? Does not this suffice? Who knows, perhaps God has nothing more foryou? If I should tell her that I love her, what would happen? Perhapsshe would 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 reflectionssadness 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 herglance. I arose and stepped to the window. The air was balmy, the moonwas rising beyond those lindens where I had first met her. I fell intoa profound revery; I even forgot that she was present and, extending myarms toward heaven, 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. WheneverI found a bench I sat down only to rise precipitately. Toward midnightI approached Madame Pierson's house; she was at the window. Seeingher there I began to tremble and tried to retrace my steps, but I wasfascinated; I advanced gently and sadly and sat down beneath her window. 

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, andat the same instant a flower fell on my shoulder. It was a rose shehad worn that evening on her bosom; I picked it up and pressed it to mylips. 

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

She called me by name. The gate leading into the garden was open; Iarose without replying and entered it, I stopped before a plot of grassin the centre of the garden; I was walking like a somnambulist, withoutknowing what 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. "

When Madame Pierson had spoken these words she waited in silence asthough expecting a reply. As I remained overwhelmed with sadness, 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. He brought a large trunk and busied himself with preparations fordeparture. 

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 chairand my 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 confusedthat I 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 somedays with a relative who lived at N------, a small town some distancenorth. He handed me a letter that had been given him. It was couched inthe following terms:

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

 "What you take for love is nothing more than desire. I am well aware that many women seek to arouse it; it would be better if they did not feel the necessity of pleasing those who approach them. Such a feeling is a dangerous thing, and 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; what has passed between us can neither be repeated nor forgotten. 

 "I do not take leave of you without sorrow; I expect to be absent some time; if, when I return, I find that you have gone away, I shall appreciate your action as the final evidence of your friendship and esteem. 

 "BRIGITTE PIERSON. "

CHAPTER V. AN INTERVIEW

The fever kept me in bed a week. When I was able to write I assuredMadame Pierson that she should be obeyed, and that I would go away. Iwrote in good faith, without any intention to deceive, but I was veryfar from keeping my promise. Before I had gone ten leagues I ordered thedriver to stop, and stepped out of the carriage. I began to walk alongthe road. I could not resist the temptation to look back at the villagewhich was still visible in the distance. Finally, after a period offrightful irresolution, I felt that it was impossible for me to continueon my route, and rather than get into the carriage again, I would havedied on the spot. I told the driver to turn around, and, instead ofgoing to Paris as I had intended, I made straight for N------, whitherMadame 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. I asked if Madame Pierson was there, and directed him to tell her thatsome one wished to speak to her on the part of M. Desprez. That was thename of our village cure. 

While the servant was executing my order I remained alone in a sombrelittle court; as it was raining, I entered the hall and stood atthe foot of the stairway, which was not lighted. Madame Pierson soonarrived, preceding the servant; she descended rapidly, and did notsee me in the darkness; I stepped up to her and touched her arm. Sherecoiled with terror 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. Wasit possible 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 touched. 

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 todeny that I love you. You have written me that what has passed betweenus can not be forgotten, and that is true; but you say that on thataccount we can not meet on the same footing as heretofore, and you aremistaken. I love you, but I have not offended you; nothing is changedin our relations since you do not love me. If I am permitted to seeyou, 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;I was 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 fromthe first day I met you. When you discovered it, you did not refuse tosee me on that account. If you had at that time enough esteem for me tobelieve me incapable of offending you, why have you lost that esteem?

"That is what I have come to ask you. What have I done? I have bent myknee, but I have not said a word. What have I told you? What you alreadyknew. I have been weak because I have suffered. It is true, Madame, thatI am twenty years of age and what I have seen of life has only disgustedme (I could use a stronger word); it is true that there is not at thishour on earth, either in the society of men or in solitude, a place, however small and insignificant, that I care to occupy. 

"The space enclosed within the four walls of your garden is the onlyspot in the world where I live; you are the only human being who hasmade me love God. I had renounced everything before I knew you; whydeprive me of the only ray of light that Providence has spared me? Ifit is on account of fear, what have I done to inspire it? If it is onaccount of dislike, in what respect am I culpable? If it is on accountof pity and because I suffer, you are mistaken in supposing that I cancure myself; it might have been done, perhaps, two months ago; but Ipreferred to see you and to suffer, and I do not repent, whatever maycome of it. The only misfortune that can reach me is to lose you. Put meto the proof. If I ever feel that there is too much suffering for me inour bargain I will go away; and you may be sure of it, since you send meaway to-day, and I am ready to go. What risk do you run in giving me amonth or two of the only happiness I shall ever know?"

I waited her reply. She suddenly rose from her seat, and then sat downagain. 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 areand 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 sucha frightful sensation of loneliness at the idea of going away that myblood froze in my veins. She saw me standing before her, my eyes fixedon her, awaiting her reply; all my life was hanging in suspense upon herlips. 

"Very well, " she said, "listen to me. This move of yours in coming tosee me was an act of great imprudence; however, it is not necessary toassume that you have come here to see me; accept a commission that Iwill give you for a friend of my family. If you find that it is a littlefar, let it be the occasion of an absence which shall last as long asyou choose, but which must not be too short. Although you said a momentago, " she added with a smile, "that a short trip would calm you. Youwill stop in the Vosges and you will go as far as Strasburg. Then in amonth, or, better, in two months, you will return and report to me; Iwill see you again and give you further instructions. "

CHAPTER VI. THE RUGGED PATH OF LOVE

That evening I received from Madame Pierson a letter addressed to M. R. D. , at Strasburg. Three weeks later my mission had been accomplished andI returned. During my absence I had thought of nothing but her, and Idespaired of ever forgetting her. Nevertheless I determined to restrainmy feelings in her presence; I had suffered too cruelly at the prospectof losing her to run any further risks. My esteem for her rendered itimpossible for me to suspect her sincerity, and I did not see, inher plan of getting me to leave the country, anything that resembledhypocrisy. In a word, I was firmly convinced that at the first word oflove her door would be closed to me. Upon my return I found her thin andchanged. Her habitual smile seemed to languish on her discolored lips. She told me that she had been suffering. We did not speak of the past. She did not appear to wish to recall it, and I had no desire to refer toit. We resumed our old relations of neighbors; yet there was somethingof constraint between us, a sort of conventional familiarity. It wasas if we had agreed: "It was thus before, let it still be thus. " Shegranted me her confidence, a concession that was not without its charmsfor me; but our conversation was colder, for the reason that our eyesexpressed as much as our tongues. In all that we said there was more tobe surmised than was actually spoken. We no longer endeavored to fathomeach other's minds; there was not the same interest attaching to eachword, to each sentiment; that curious analysis that characterized ourpast intercourse; she treated me with kindness, but I distrustedeven that kindness; I walked with her in the garden, but no longeraccompanied her outside of the premises; we no longer wandered throughthe woods and valleys; she opened the piano when we were alone; thesound of her voice no longer awakened in my heart those transports ofjoy which are like sobs that are inspired by hope. When I took leave ofher, she gave me her hand, but I was conscious of the fact that it waslifeless; there was much effort in our familiar ease, many reflectionsin our lightest remarks, much sadness at the bottom of it all. We feltthat 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. Andyet in all our conversations I insisted on my disgust with the world, onmy 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;I depicted my past life in the most sombre 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 tenderlight over 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 goingaway sad, but resigned, she sweetened the cup of bitterness by adding:"I am not sure of it, come whenever you please;" or her adieu was morefriendly than 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 from the abyss. Hehas confided a sacred mission to you; who knows, if I should lose you, whither the sorrow that consumes me might lead me, because of the sadexperience I have been through, the terrible combat between my youth andmy ennui?"

That thought, sincere enough on my part, had great weight with a womanof lofty devotion whose soul was as pious as it was ardent. It wasprobably the only consideration that induced Madame Pierson to permit meto see her. 

I was preparing to visit her one day when some one knocked at my door, and I saw Mercanson enter, that priest I had met in the garden onthe occasion 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 the other with an air of constraint, searching for phrases and fingering everything on the table before himas if 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 thirdperson? She does not live so far away that a useless call would harmme. "

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

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

His hesitation continued. 

"Madame Pierson has also told me--that I should inform you--in fact, Iam requested 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 MadamePierson did not wish to see me, and I could not explain why; orMercanson had interfered 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;he was surrounded by a number of schoolchildren, his uncle's pupils. I stopped him in the midst of his harangue and asked if I could have aword with 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, as there is not a physician in the neighborhood who can be called in, in case of necessity, it is important that I should know whether hercondition is serious. "

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, Monsieur? You intend to resort to violence?" hecried. 

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

"Monsieur, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought toknow. "

"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 notdare use violence in the presence of a third person. I released him, butso roughly that he staggered back and fell against a tree. He clenchedhis fist and turned away without a word. 

For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three times a day I called atMadame Pierson's and each time was refused admittance. I received oneletter from her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in thevillage, and begged me to call less frequently. Not a word aboutMercanson or her illness. 

This precaution on her part was so unnatural, and contrasted so stronglywith her former proud indifference in matters of this kind, that atfirst I could hardly believe it. Not knowing what else to say, I repliedthat there was no desire in my heart but obedience to her wishes. But inspite of 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, andno longer sent to inquire about her condition, as I wished to have herknow that I did not believe in her illness. I did not know why shekept me at a distance; but I was so miserably unhappy that, at times, I thought seriously of putting an end to a life that had becomeinsupportable. I was accustomed to spend entire days in the woods, andone day I happened to 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 thedays I was obliged to pass without seeing her, and live in the hope ofa visit. All the time I was sorely tempted to throw myself at her feet, and tell her of my despair. I knew that she would not be insensible toit, and that she would at least express her pity; but her severity andthe abrupt manner of her departure recalled me to my senses; I trembledlest I should lose her, and I would rather die than expose myself tothat danger. 

Thus denied the solace of confessing 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 Sainte-Luce (a neighboring village), and it istoo far to go on foot. Be here with your horse early in the morning, ifyou have nothing to do, and go with me. "

I was on hand promptly, as may readily be imagined. I had sleptover that word with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house, I experienced a feeling of deep dejection. In restoring me to theprivilege I had formerly enjoyed of accompanying her on her missionsabout the country, she had clearly been guilty of a cruel caprice ifshe did not love me. She knew how I was suffering; why abuse my courageunless she had changed her mind?

This reflection had a strange influence on me. When she mounted herhorse my heart beat violently as I took her foot; I do not know whetherit was from desire or anger. "If she is touched, " I said to myself, "whythis reserve? 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 headfrom time 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 forme, as I was some distance in the rear; when I had overtaken her sheset out at a gallop. We soon reached the foot of the mountain and werecompelled to slacken our pace. I then made my way to her side; our headswere bowed; 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 everyday and every evening, I have asked myself if I have been importunate. During the last two months, while strength and hope have been failingme, have I said a word of that fatal love which is consuming me? Raiseyour head and answer me. Do you not see that I suffer and that my nightsare given to weeping? Have you not met in the forest an unfortunatewretch sitting in solitary dejection with his hands pressed to hisforehead? Have you not seen tears on these bushes? Look at me, look atthese mountains; do you realize that I love you? They know it, they aremy witnesses; these rocks and these trees know my secret. Why lead mebefore them? Am I not wretched enough? Do I fail in courage? Have Iobeyed you? To what tests, what tortures am I subjected, and for whatcrime? 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 trymy patience, you have set my sorrow at defiance, perhaps that you mighthave the right to drive me from your presence; you have become tired ofthat sorrowful lover who suffered without complaint and who drank withresignation the bitter chalice of your disdain! You knew that, alonewith you in the presence of these trees, in the midst of this solitudewhere my love had its birth, I could not be silent! You wish tobe offended. Very well, Madame, I lose you! I have wept and I havesuffered, I have too long nourished in my heart a pitiless love thatdevours me. You have been 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;she pushed 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 crimson, whereonshone pearly tears. 

"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 asyou choose; you may go away now, you may send me away! I know that youlove me, 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. I crossed the road and knelt before her. How little he loves who canrecall the words he uses when he confesses that love!

CHAPTER VII. THE VENUSBERG AGAIN

If I were a jeweler and had in stock a pearl necklace that I wished togive a friend, it seems to me I should take great pleasure in placing itabout her neck with my own hands; but were I that friend, I would ratherdie than snatch the necklace from the jeweler's hand. I have seen manymen 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 abudding rose. At times she would abandon herself to an impulse of suddengayety, then she would suddenly check herself; treating me like a child, and then look at me with eyes filled with tears; indulging in a thousandpleasantries as a pretext for a more familiar word or caress, she wouldsuddenly leave me, go aside and abandon herself to revery. Was ever amore beautiful sight? When she returned she would find me waiting forher in the same spot where I had remained watching her. 

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

Yet I could conceal neither the violence of my desires nor the pain Iendured struggling against them. One evening I told her that I hadjust learned 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 atthe same 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 morecheerful than usual. When we played cards with her aunt and I lost shewas merciless in her scorn, saying that I knew nothing of the game, andshe bet 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 freighted 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 welling up in my heart. Around the form ofmy dear mistress I slipped my arm; she gently turned her head; her eyeswere bathed in tears. Her body yielded as does the rose, her open lipsfell on mine, and the universe was forgotten. 

Eternal angel of happy nights, who shall interpret thy silence?Mysterious vintage that flows from lips that meet as from a stainlesschalice! Intoxication of the senses! O, supremest joy! Yes, likeGod, thou art immortal! Sublime exaltation of the creature, universalcommunion of beings, thrice sacred pleasure, what have they sung whohave celebrated thy praise? They have called thee transitory, O thou whodost create! And they have said that thy passing beams have illuminedtheir fugitive life. Words that are as feeble as the dying breath! Wordsof a sensual brute who is astonished that he should live for an hour, and who mistakes the rays of the eternal lamp for the spark which isstruck 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! Centreof all, by whom all exists, the spirit of destruction would itselfdie, 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 you, O rapturous delights, languishing smiles, and first caressing, stammering utterance of love, you who can be seen, who are you? Are youless in God's sight than all the rest, beautiful cherubim who soarin the alcove and who bring to this world man awakened from the dreamdivine! Ah! dear children of pleasure, how your mother loves you! Itis you, curious prattlers, who behold the first mysteries, touches, trembling yet chaste, glances that are already insatiable, who beginto trace on the heart, as a tentative sketch, the ineffaceable image ofcherished beauty! O royalty! O conquest! It is you who make lovers. And thou, true diadem, serenity of happiness! The first true concept ofman's life, and first return of happiness in the many little things oflife which are seen only through the medium of joy, first steps made bynature in the direction of the well-beloved! Who will paint you? Whathuman word will ever express thy slightest caress?

He who, in the freshness of youth, has taken leave of an adoredmistress; he who has walked through the streets without hearing thevoices of those who speak to him; he who has sat in a lonely spot, laughing and weeping without knowing why; he who has placed his hands tohis face in order to breathe the perfume that still clings to them; hewho has suddenly forgotten what he had been doing on earth; he who hasspoken to the trees along the route and to the birds in their flight;finally, he who, in the midst of men, has acted the madman, and thenhas fallen on his knees and thanked God for it; let him die withoutcomplaint: he has known the joy of love. 

PART IV

CHAPTER I. THE THORNS OF LOVE

I have now to recount 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 morenor less, I was Madame Pierson's lover. One fine night I set out andtraversed the road that led to her house. I was feeling so well in bodyand soul that I leaped for joy and extended my arms to heaven. I foundher at the top of the stairway leaning on the railing, a lighted candlebeside her. She was waiting for me, and when she saw 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 againstme; 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 I saw in her room that pleased my taste, whateverbagatelle on her table attracted my attention, she would give me; thatwhatever she did in the future, in the morning, in the evening, at anyhour, I should regulate as I pleased; that the judgments of the worlddid not concern her; that if she had appeared to care for them, it wasonly to send me away; but that she wished to be happy and close herears, that she was thirty years of age and had not long to be loved byme. "And you will love me a long time? Are those fine words, with whichyou have beguiled me, true?" And then loving reproaches because I hadbeen late in coming to her; that she had put on her slippers in orderthat I might see her foot, but that she was no longer beautiful; thatshe could wish she were; that she had been at fifteen. She went hereand there, silly with love, rosy with joy; and she did not know what toimagine, what to say or do, in order to give herself and all that shehad. 

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 risingin my sky, and it seemed to me I was like a tree filled with sap thatshakes off 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. More than all else I love sacred music, and that morceauwhich she had sung 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; butI wanted 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 if a dark 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 myhand over my forehead as if 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. Atfirst she thought I, too, must be joking; but when she saw me growingpaler every moment as if about to faint, she stood with open lips andbent body, 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 centre ofthe room and brought out some supper. She had prepared it herself, andI did not drink a drop that was not first borne to her lips. The bluelight of day, piercing through the curtains, illumined her charmingface and tender eyes; she was tired and allowed her head to fall on myshoulder with a thousand terms of endearment. 

I could not struggle against such charming abandon, and my heartexpanded with joy; I believed I had rid myself of the bad dream that hadjust tormented me, and I begged her pardon for giving way to a suddenimpulse which I myself did not understand. 

"My friend, " I said, from the bottom of my heart, "I am very sorry thatI unjustly reproached you for a piece of innocent badinage; but if youlove me, 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 if quite by chance:

"I have a large book in which I have written my thoughts, everythingthat has occurred to my mind, and I want you to see what I said of youthe first 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. A phrase written in capital letters caught my eye on one of the pages Iwas turning; I distinctly saw some words that were insignificant enough, and 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 readit. "

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 thoughtI saw, 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 headhad injected into my veins a drop of poison; the vapor mounted tomy head and I staggered like a drunken man. What secret was Brigitteconcealing from me? I knew very well that I had only to bend over andopen the book; but at what place? How could I recognize the leaf onwhich my eye had chanced to 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 spectre? 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 mymind; and strange to say, while formerly I did not believe in making aparade of them, now it seemed that they were real, or at least that theyhad been. 

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 meafter his manner, joked me about the ease with which I could be duped. The story of my life was an incontestable proof that I was credulousrather than suspicious; and when the words in that book suddenly struckme, it seemed to me I felt a new being within me, a sort of unknownself; my reason revolted against the feeling, and I did not dare askwhither all this 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 ofmy friends, the corrupt life I had led, the sad truths I had learned, as well as those that I had unconsciously surmised during my sadexperience, ending in debauchery, contempt of love, abuse of everything, that is what I had in my heart although I did not suspect it; and atthe moment when life and hope were again being born within me, all thesefuries that were being atrophied by time seized me by the throat andcried that they were yet alive. 

I bent over and opened the book, then immediately closed it and threwit on the table. Brigitte was looking at me; in her beautiful eyes wasneither wounded pride nor anger; nothing but tender solicitude, as if Iwere ill. 

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

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

When I returned home to dinner I said to Larive:

"Who is 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 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 picquet with her aunt, and visit 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 Monsieur de Dalens duringvacation. "

"Who is this Monsieur 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 Monsieur 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 becomea man 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 Monsieur de Dalens?But, doubtless, you have some reason unknown to me for inquiring abouthim to-day. All I can say is that as far as I know, he is an honestman, kind and charitable; he was, like you, very intimate with MadamePierson; he is fond of hunting and entertains handsomely. He and MadamePierson were accustomed to devote much of their time to music. Hepunctually attended to his works of charity and, when--in the country, accompanied that lady on her rounds, just as you do. His family enjoysan excellent reputation at Paris; I used to find him with Madame Piersonwhenever I called; his manners were excellent. As for the rest, I speaktruly and frankly, as becomes me when it concerns persons of his merit. I believe that he only comes here for the chase; he was a friend of herhusband; he is said to be rich and very generous; but I know nothingabout it except that--"

With what tortured phrases was this dull tormentor teasing me. I wasashamed to listen to him, yet not daring 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 experience the happiness of being pursued:it is the feminine instinct. Was it not she who confessed her love byher own act, at the very moment I had decided that she would never bemine? Did she not accept my arm the first day I met her? If Dalens hasbeen her lover, he probably is still; there is a certain sort of liaisonthat has neither beginning nor end; when chance ordains a meeting, it isresumed; when parted, it is forgotten. 

If that man comes here this summer, she will probably see him withoutbreaking with me. Who is this aunt, what mysterious life is this thathas charity for its cloak, this liberty that cares nothing for opinion?May they not be adventurers, these two women with their little house, their prudence, and their caution, which enable them to impose on peopleso easily? Assuredly, for all I know, I have fallen into an affair ofgallantry when I thought I was engaged in a romance. But what can I do?There is no one here who can help me except the priest, who does notcare to tell me what he knows, and his uncle, who will say still less. Who will save me? How can I learn the truth?

Thus spoke jealousy; thus, forgetting so many tears and all that Ihad suffered, 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 todispute with facts, to attach myself to the letter and dissect my love. 

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

I found the 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 bent, a common deformity in people who have workedin the fields. I found her shaking a cooking utensil over a filthy sink. A dirty candle fluttered in her trembling hand; about her were pots, kettles, and dishes, the remains of dinner that a dog sniffed at, fromtime to time, as though ashamed; a warm, nauseating odor emanated fromthe reeking walls. When the old woman caught sight of me, she smiled ina confidential way; she had seen me take leave of her mistress. 

I shuddered as I thought what I had come to seek in a spot so wellsuited to my ignoble purpose. I fled from that old woman as fromjealousy personified, and as if the stench of her cooking had come frommy heart. 

Brigitte was at the window watering her well-beloved flowers; a childof one of her neighbors was lying in a cradle at her side, and she wasgently rocking the cradle with her disengaged hand; the child's mouthwas full of bonbons, and in gurgling eloquence it was addressing anincomprehensible apostrophe to its nurse. I sat down near her and kissedthe child on its fat cheeks, as if to imbibe some of its innocence. Brigitte accorded me a timid greeting; she could see her troubled imagein my eyes. For my part I avoided her glance; the more I admired herbeauty and her air of candor, the more I was convinced that such a womanwas either an angel or a monster of perfidy; I forced myself to recalleach one of Mercanson's words, and I confronted, so to speak, the man'sinsinuations with her presence and her face. "She is very beautiful, " Isaid to myself, "and very dangerous if she knows how, to deceive; butI will fathom her and I will sound her heart; and she shall know who Iam. "

"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, forget her; if she is pretty and you do not love her, keep her foryour pleasure; there will always be time to quit 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 andsat 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 Ihad uttered 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 menot to 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 besideher; 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 Monsieur de Dalens who lives onthe mountain 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 if to inquire: "Why do you ask?" It seemed to methat her face wore a grieved expression. I bit my lips. "If she wants todeceive me, " I thought, "I was foolish to question her. "

Brigitte rose 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 to 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 feelmyself other than I had ever been, so I saw in her a woman I did notknow. 

"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; sitdown and you shall learn it. You will open these drawers, and you willread all that 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 hearthas been seared by the treachery of others. A frightful experience hasled me to the very brink of the precipice, and for a year I have seennothing but evil here below. God is my witness that, up to this day, I did not believe myself capable of playing the ignoble role I haveassumed, the meanest role of all, that of a jealous lover. God is mywitness that I love you and that you are the only one in the world whocan cure me of the past. 

"I have had to do, up to this time, with women who deceived me, or whowere unworthy of love. I have led the life of a libertine; I bear onmy heart certain marks that will never be effaced. Is it my fault ifcalumny, and base suggestion, to-day planted in a heart whose fibreswere still trembling with pain and ready to assimilate all thatresembles sorrow, have driven me to despair? I have just heard the nameof a man I have never met, of whose existence I was ignorant; I havebeen given to understand that there has been between you and him acertain intimacy, which proves nothing. I do not intend to question you;I have suffered from it, I have confessed to you, and I have done you anirreparable wrong. But rather than consent to what you propose, I willthrow it all in the fire. Ah! my friend, do not degrade me; do notattempt to justify yourself, do not punish me for suffering. How couldI, in the bottom of my heart, suspect you of deceiving me? No, you arebeautiful and you are true; a single glance of yours, Brigitte, tells memore than words could utter and I am content. If you knew what horrors, what monstrous deceit, the man who stands before you has seen! If youknew how he has been treated, how they have mocked at all that is good, how they have taken pains to teach him all that leads to doubt, tojealousy, to despair!

"Alas! alas! my dear mistress, if you knew whom you love! Do notreproach me, but rather pity me; I must forget that other beings thanyou exist. Who can know through what frightful trials, through whatpitiless suffering I have passed! I did not expect this, I did notanticipate this moment. Since you have become mine, I realize what Ihave done; I have felt, in kissing you, that my lips were not, likeyours, unsullied. In the name of heaven, help me live! God made me abetter man than the one you see before you. "

Brigitte held out her hands and caressed me tenderly. She begged meto tell 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, dissipatedand inconstant; she had given him to understand that, not wishing toremarry, she could only request that he drop the role of suitor, andhe had yielded to her wishes with good grace; but his visits had becomemore rare since that time, until now they had ceased altogether. Shedrew from the bundle a certain letter which she showed me, the dateof which was recent; I could not help blushing as I found in it theconfirmation of all she had said; she assured me that she pardoned me, and exacted a promise that in the future I would promptly tell her ofany cause I might have to suspect her. Our treaty was sealed with akiss, and when I left her we had both forgotten that M. De Dalens everexisted. 

CHAPTER II. UNCERTAINTY

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 accordingto the fantasy of the mind, and one must be always ready to obey thebehests of the other. Youth and will can resist excess; but naturesilently avenges herself, and the day when she decides to repair herforces, the will 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 sang-froid; all that the debauchesloves, he seizes; his life is a fever; his organs, in order to searchthe depths of joy, are forced to avail themselves of the stimulant offermented liquors and sleepless nights; in the days of ennui and ofidleness he feels more keenly than other men the disparity between hisimpotence and his temptations, and, in order to resist the latter, pridemust come to his aid and make him believe that he disdains them. Itis thus he spits on all the feasts and pleasures of his life, and so, between an ardent thirst and a profound satiety, a feeling of tranquilvanity leads him to his death. 

Although I was no longer a debauches, it came to pass that my bodysuddenly remembered that it had been. It is easy to understand why Ihad not felt the effects of it sooner. While mourning my father's deathevery 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, rarely found unmixed, drawn from the vein where it liessleeping, attracts to itself a ray of light when placed near greenleather, thus Brigitte's kisses gradually awakened in my heart what hadbeen buried there. At her side I perceived what I really was. 

There were days when I felt such a strange sensation in the morningsthat 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 tothe point of exhaustion. All external sensations caused me insupportablefatigue, all well-known objects of daily life repelled and annoyedme; if I spoke it was in ridicule of what others thought or of whatI thought myself. Then, extended on the bed, as if incapable of anymotion, I dismissed any thought of undertaking whatever had been agreedupon the evening before; I recalled all the tender and loving things Ihad said to my mistress during my better moments, and was not satisfieduntil I had spoiled and poisoned those memories of happy days. "Can younot forget all that?" Brigitte would sadly inquire, "if there are twodifferent men in you, can you not, when the bad rouses himself, forgetthe good?"

The patience with which Brigitte opposed these vagaries only served toexcite my sinister gayety. Strange that the man who suffers wishes tomake her whom he loves suffer! To lose control of one's self, is thatnot the worst of evils? Is there anything more cruel for a woman than tohear a man turn to derision all that is sacred and mysterious? Yet shedid not flee from me; she remained at my side, while in my savage humorI insulted 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; "youdo not understand what I say. There is nothing like those careless oneswho make love without believing in it. " Was that not the same as sayingthat I did not believe in it?

"Very well, " Brigitte replied, "teach me how to please you always. Iam perhaps as pretty as those mistresses whom you mourn; if I have nottheir skill to divert you, I beg that you will instruct me. Act as ifyou did not love me, and let me love you without saying anything aboutit. If I am devoted to religion, I am also devoted to love. What can Ido to make you believe it?"

Then she would stand before the mirror arraying herself as if for asoiree, affecting a coquetry that she was far from feeling, tryingto adopt my tone, laughing and skipping about the room. "Am I to yourtaste?" she would ask. "Which one of your mistresses do I resemble? AmI beautiful, enough to make you forget that any one can believe in love?Have I a sufficiently careless air to suit you?" Then, in the midst ofthat factitious joy, she would turn her back and I could see her shudderuntil the flowers she had placed in her hair trembled. I threw myself ather feet. 

"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 thephantoms in my heart were full of reality. In yielding to an impulseof horror I merely gave her to understand that her resignation and herdesire to please me only served to call up an impure image. 

And it was true; I reached her side transported with joy, swearing thatI would regret my past life; on my knees I protested my respect forher; then a gesture, a word, a trick of turning as she approached me, recalled to my mind the fact that such and such a woman had made thatgesture, had used 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 thekiss died on my lips, and the full glance of love, that pure ray ofGod's light, fled from my eyes like an arrow turned by the wind! Ah!Brigitte! what diamonds trickled from thine eyes! What treasures ofcharity didst thou 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 Desgenais, which had at first appeared to me as though to warn me whither Iwas drifting, was now constantly before me. On my days of doubt andcoldness, I conversed, so to speak, with him; often when I had offendedBrigitte by some cruel mockery I said to myself "If he were in my placehe would do as I do!"

And then at other times, when putting on my hat to visit 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 toa libertine, let her take me for what I am. " I reached her side witha smile 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 lostmyself in 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 whose name was Madame Daniel. Shepossessed some beauty, and still more coquetry; she was poor, but triedto pass for rich; she would come to see us after dinner and alwaysplayed a heavy game against us, although her losses embarrassed her; shesang, but had no voice. In the solitude of that unknown village, wherean unkind fate had buried her, she was consumed with an uncontrollablepassion for pleasure. She talked of nothing but Paris, which she visitedtwo or three times a year. She pretended to keep up with the fashions, and my dear Brigitte assisted her as best she could, while smiling withpity. Her husband was employed by the government; once a year he wouldtake her to the house of the chief of his department, where, attiredin her best, the little woman danced to her heart's content. She wouldreturn with shining eyes and tired body; she would come to us to tell ofher prowess, and her success in assaulting the masculine heart. The restof the time she read novels, never taking the trouble to look after herhousehold affairs, which were not always in the best condition. 

Whenever I saw her, I laughed at her, finding nothing so ridiculousas the high life she thought she was leading. I would interrupther description of a ball to inquire about her husband and herfather-in-law, both of whom she detested, the one because he was herhusband, and the other because he was only a peasant; in short, we werealways disputing on some subject. 

In my evil moments I thought of paying court to her just for the sake ofannoying 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 senselesschatting I 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. She was a strange creature, as good and sincere--when you couldget finery out of her head--as she was stupid when absorbed in suchfrivolous affairs. On occasion she could be both good and stupid. One fine day, when they were walking together, she threw herself intoBrigitte's arms, and told her that she had noticed I was beginning topay court to her, and that I had made certain proposals to her, themeaning of which was not doubtful; but she knew that I was another'slover, and as for her, whatever might happen, she would die rather thandestroy the happiness of a friend. Brigitte thanked her, and MadameDaniel, having set her conscience at ease, considered it no sin torender me desolate by languishing glances. 

In the evening, when she had gone, Brigitte, in a severe tone, toldme what 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 did it only to pass awaythe time. "

"Ah! my friend, my friend, " said Brigitte, "it is a pity that you mustseek pastimes. "

A few days later I proposed that we go to the prefecture to see MadameDaniel dance; she unwillingly consented. While she was arranging hertoilette, 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. ) "Whythat morose air that never leaves you? In truth, you make our life quitesad. I have known you when you were more joyous, more free and moreopen; I am not flattered by the thought that I am responsible for thechange. But you have a cloistral disposition; you were born to live in aconvent. "

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 littlerustic dance was very dear to her; she dried her eyes with herhandkerchief. 

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 wouldgreet me kindly; then we would sit down facing each other, both ofus preoccupied, hardly exchanging a word. The third day she spoke, overwhelmed me with bitter reproaches, told me that my conductwas unreasonable, that she could not account for it except on thesupposition that I had ceased to love her; but she could not endure thislife and would resort to anything rather than submit to my caprices andcoldness. Her eyes were full of tears, and I was about to ask her pardonwhen some words escaped her that were so bitter that my pride revolted. I replied in the same tone, and our quarrel became violent. 

I told her that it was absurd to suppose that I could not inspire enoughconfidence in my mistress to escape the necessity of explaining my everyaction; that Madame Daniel was only a pretext; that she very well knewI did not think of that woman seriously; that her pretended jealousy wasnothing but the expression of her desire for despotic power, and that, moreover, if she had tired of this life, it was easy enough to put anend to it. 

"Very well, " she replied; "it is true that I do not recognize you asthe same 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 shall 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 tyrannyin order that I may become your slave. Since I trouble your repose, Ileave you 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 melancholythat I could not resist. I shed a torrent of tears; I overwhelmed myselfwith reproaches that I richly deserved. I told myself that I was nothingbut a fool, and a cowardly fool at that, to make the noblest, the bestof creatures, suffer in this way. I ran to her to throw myself at herfeet. 

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, " Isaid to 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, Ishould have gone to you. Pardon me, I was wrong. Madame Daniel comesto dinner 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. EXPLANATIONS

But quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation; itwas attended, on Brigitte's part, by a mystery which frightened me atfirst and then planted 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 gayety, anaffected cheerfulness, that mockingly outraged whatever I held mostdear. Thus the inexorable spectres of the past pursued me withoutrespite; thus Brigitte, seeing herself treated alternately as afaithless mistress and a shameless woman, fell into a condition ofmelancholy that clouded our entire life; and worst of all, that sadnesseven, the cause of which I knew, was not the most burdensome of oursorrows. I was young and I loved pleasure; that daily association witha woman older than I, who suffered and languished, that face, more andmore serious, which was always before me, all this repelled my youth andaroused within me bitter regrets for the liberty I had lost. 

One night we were passing through the forest in the beautiful light ofthe moon, and both experienced a profound melancholy. Brigitte lookedat me in pity. We sat down on a rock near a wild gorge and passed twoentire hours there; her half-veiled eyes plunged into my soul, crossinga glance from mine; then wandered to nature, to the heavens and thevalley. 

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

To reach that rock we had to travel two leagues; two more in returningmakes four. Brigitte was afraid of neither fatigue nor darkness. Weset out at eleven at night, expecting to reach home some time in themorning. When we went on long tramps she always dressed in a blue blouseand the apparel of a man, saying that skirts were not made for bushes. She walked before me in the sand with a firm step and such a charmingmingling of feminine delicacy and childlike innocence, that I stoppedevery few moments to look at her. It seemed that, once started, she hadto accomplish a difficult but sacred task; she walked in front like asoldier, her arms swinging, her voice ringing through the woods in song;suddenly she would turn, come to me and kiss me. This was on theoutward journey; on the return she leaned on my arm; then more songs, confidences, tender avowals in low tones, although we were alone, twoleagues from anywhere. I do not recall a single word spoken on thereturn that was not of love or friendship. 

Another night we struck out through the woods, leaving the road whichled to the rock. Brigitte was tramping along so stoutly and her littlevelvet cap on her light hair made her look so much like a resoluteyouth, that I forgot she was a woman when there were no obstacles inour path. More than once she was obliged to call me to her aid when I, without thinking of her, had pushed on ahead. I can not describe theeffect produced on me in the clear night air, in the midst of theforest, by that voice of hers, half-joyous and half-plaintive, coming, as it were, from that little schoolboy body wedged in between roots andtrunks of trees, unable to 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 asa tinder-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 this inplay, like the children that we were. At a crossroad 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 outline themselves against the background of sky. Asthe light 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. 

"Oh, my child! You have in your heart a plague that can not be cured;that woman who deceived you, how you must have loved her! Yes, morethan you love me, alas! much more, since with all my poor love I can notefface her image; she must have deceived you most cruelly, since it isin vain that I am faithful!

"And the others, those wretches who then poisoned your youth! Thepleasures they sold must have been terrible since you ask me to imitatethem! You remember them with me! Alas! my dear child, that is too cruel. I like you better when you are unjust and furious, when you reproach mefor imaginary crimes and avenge on me the wrong done you by others, than when you are under the influence of that frightful gayety, when youassume that air of hideous mockery, when that mask of scorn affronts myeyes. 

"Tell me, Octave, why that? Why those moments when you speak of lovewith contempt and rail at the most sacred mysteries of love? Whatfrightful power over your irritable nerves has that life you have led, that such insults should 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 knowyou now. The first time I saw you thus, I was seized with a feeling ofterror of which I can give you no idea. I thought you were only a roue, that you had deliberately deceived me by feigning a love you did notfeel, and that I saw you such as you really were. O my friend! I thoughtit was time to die; what a night I passed! You do not know my life; youdo not know that I who speak to you have had an experience as terribleas yours. 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 destinedme, 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 the auntwhom you know. A journey she was compelled to take forced her to confideme to the care of my future father-in-law. He called me his daughter, and it was so well known about the country that I was to marry his sonthat we were 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, and had 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 he had 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 dayhe had met me in the garden and had spoken to me of love with more forcethan usual; he said that since the time was set, we were just the sameas married, and for that matter had been in the eyes of God, ever sinceour birth. I have no other excuse to offer than my youth, my ignorance, and my confidence in him. I gave myself to him before becoming his wife, and eight days afterward he left his father's house. He fled with awoman his new friend had introduced to him; he wrote that he had gone toGermany and that we should 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 shall 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 tocall up memories of the past. It inspires me at times with cruel terror;I should have more courage than you, for perhaps I have suffered more. It is my place to begin; my heart is not sure of itself, I am still veryfeeble; my life in this village was so tranquil before you came! I hadpromised myself that it should never change! All this makes me exacting. 

"Ah! well, it does not matter, I am yours. You have told me, in yourbetter 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 if I should sink under it, when my priderebels, when my heart is breaking, when all my life--"

She could not finish; her tears choked her. Oh, God! I saw her there onher knees, her hands clasped on the rock; she swayed in the breeze asdid the bushes about us. Frail and sublime creature! she prayed for herlove. I raised her in my arms. 

"Oh! my only friend, " I cried, "oh! my mistress, my mother, and mysister! Pray also for me that I may be able to love you as you deserve. Pray that I may have the courage to live; that my heart may be cleansedin your tears; that it may become a holy offering before God and that wemay share 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, andit still passes before my eyes wreathed in spotless white. 

CHAPTER IV. BRIGITTE'S LOSS

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 hearmore if possible; but they passed on as soon as they spied me. 

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

"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 am reduced to a single color, and I shall not change it for a longtime. "

"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. Oh, God! can it be truethat I count for nothing in your life, or that I am an influence in yourlife only 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 inthe village and in the neighboring country. Some say that I have beenruined; others accuse me of imprudence and folly; others represent youas a cruel and dangerous man. Some one has spied into our most secretthoughts; things that I thought no one else knew, events in your lifeand sad scenes to which they have led, are known to others; my pooraunt spoke to me about it not long ago, and she knew it some time beforespeaking to me. Who knows but that that has hastened her death?

"When I meet my old friends in the street, they either treat me coldly, or turn aside. Even my dear peasant girls, those good girls who loveme so much, shrug their shoulders when they see my place empty at theSunday afternoon balls. How has that come about? I do not know, nor doyou, I suppose; but I must go away, I can not endure it. And my aunt'sdeath, so sudden, so unexpected, above all, this solitude! this emptyroom! Courage fails me; my friend, my friend, 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 had triedto go away without seeing me, but could not. She was so overwhelmed withemotion that she could hardly speak; her condition was pitiful, and itwas I who had brought her to it. Not only was she unhappy, but she wasinsulted in public, and the man who ought to be her support and herconsolation in such an hour was the cause of all her troubles. 

I felt the wrong I had done her so keenly that I was overcome withshame. After so many promises, so much useless exaltation, so many plansand hopes, what had I, in fact, accomplished in three months? I thoughtI had a treasure in my heart, and out of it came 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 whether I ought not to leave her, whether it was not my duty to flee from her and rid her of the scourgeof my presence. 

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 wasnot so 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 house, and 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, for the home where your mistress languishes; you throw yourself upon thecushions where she has just knelt in prayer, for you and for her, andyou gently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You thinkit no evil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in yourdeliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes froma suit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy in making sport ofsuffering; you find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments incommitting murder by means of little pin pricks. 

"What will you say to the living God, when your work is finished? Whatwill become of the woman who loves you? Where will you fall while sheleans on you for support? With what face will you one day bury your paleand wretched creature, just as she buried the last man who protectedher? Yes, yes, you will doubtless have to bury her, for your love killsand consumes; you have devoted her to the Furies and it is she whoappeases them. If you follow that woman you will be the cause of herdeath. Take care! her guardian angel hesitates; he has just knocked atthe door of this house, in order to frighten away a fatal and shamefulpassion! He inspired Brigitte with the idea of flight; at this moment hemay be whispering in her ear his final warning. O assassin! O murderer!Beware! it is a matter of life 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 been awitness of our happy days. I took it up and examined it. 

"Must I leave you?" I said to it; "Must I lose you? O little dress, would you go away without me?"

No, I can not abandon Brigitte; in these circumstances it would becowardly. She has just lost her aunt, and is all alone; she is exposedto the 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 Imust repair the wrong I have done Brigitte. Fool that I am! I think ofleaving her, when I ought to consecrate my life to her, to the expiationof my sins, to rendering her happy after the tears I have drawn from hereyes-when I am her only support in the world, her only friend, heronly protector! 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 will 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 tomyself. "What have I come to do here? This priest will not fight; if Iseek a quarrel with him, he will say that his priestly robes forbid, andhe will continue his vile gossip when I have gone. Moreover, for whatcan I hold him responsible? What is it that has disturbed Brigitte? Theysay that her reputation has been sullied, that I ill-treat her, and thatshe ought not to submit to it. What stupidity! That concerns no one;there is nothing to do but allow them to talk; in such a case, to noticean insult is to give it importance. 

"Is it possible to prevent provincials from talking about theirneighbors? Can any one prevent a gossip from maligning a woman wholoves? What measures can be taken to stop a public rumor? If they saythat I ill-treat her, it is for me--to prove the contrary by my conductwith her, and not by violence. It would be as ridiculous to seek aquarrel with Mercanson as to leave the country on account of gossip. No, we must not leave the country; that would be a bad move; that would beto say to all the world that there is truth in its idle rumors, and togive excuse to the gossips. We must neither go away nor take any noticeof such things. "

I returned to Brigitte. A half hour had passed, and I had changed mymind three times. I dissuaded her from her plans; I told her what I hadjust done 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 matterof the wrongs I had done her, that my conduct would prove my repentance, that I would drive from me as a phantom all the evil that remained in myheart; that hence forth she should not be offended either by my pride orby my 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. 

One day I saw a little chamber she called her oratory; there was nofurniture except a prie-dieu 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 in 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 myflowers, as 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 herwhether it 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?

"Of what use are these remains? Brigitte la Rose is no more, nor theflowers that baptized her. " She went out. I heard her sobs, and the doorclosed on me; I fell on my knees and wept bitterly. When I returned toher room, I found her waiting for me; dinner was ready. I took my placein silence, and not a word was said of what was in our hearts. 

CHAPTER V. A TORTURED SOUL

It was Mercanson who had repeated in the village and in the chateau 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 had happened in this case. 

Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face with each other in anew position. However feebly she may have tried to flee, she hadnevertheless made the attempt. It was on account of my prayers thatshe remained; there was an obligation implied. I was under oath notto grieve her either by my jealousy or my levity; every thoughtless ormocking word that escaped me was a sin, every sorrowful glance from herwas a reproach acknowledged and merited. 

Her simple good-nature gave a charm even to solitude; she could seeme now at all hours without resorting to any precaution. Perhaps sheconsented to this arrangement in order to prove to me that she valuedher love more highly than her reputation; she seemed to regret havingshown that she cared for the representations of malice. At any rate, instead of making any attempt to disarm criticism or thwart curiosity, we lived the freest kind of life, more regardless of public opinion thanever. 

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 would 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 quarrelling, and that she would come to a badend. As they had praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, so theyblamed 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 hadlost all human respect and who deserved the frightful misfortunes shewas drawing 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 could be construed as an insultand to demand an explanation. I listened to whispered conversations ina salon where I was visiting, but could hear nothing; in order to do usbetter justice they waited until I had gone. I returned to Brigitte andtold her that all these stories were mere nonsense; that it was foolishto notice them; that they could talk about us as much as they pleasedand we would 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 nocturnalexcursions. Are you sure that they are wrong? Has nothing happenedin those romantic grottoes and by-paths in the forest? Have you neveraccepted the arm of an unknown as you accepted mine? Was it merelycharity that served as your divinity in that beautiful temple of verdurethat you visited so bravely?"

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 that my other mistress did--she would point me out as a ridiculousfool, and I should 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 akin to atheism. Having told Brigitte that I suspectedher 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 sayingthat 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 had gone 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 now seated at table. 

"Come, my dear, my former mistress used to sing for me at dessert; youpromised, you know, to imitate her. "

She sat down 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, this 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 can inflict on woman. 

After these distressing scenes, in which my own spirit exhausted itselfin suffering and in painful contemplation of the past; after recoveringfrom that frenzy, a strange access of love, an extreme exaltation, ledme to treat my mistress like an idol, or a divinity. A quarter of anhour after insulting 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, seized by a delirium of joy, I almost lostmy reason in the violence of my transports; I did not know what to do, 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 therewas a man in me other than the one she saw. When I asked her pardon sheshrugged her shoulders as if to answer: "Do you not know that I pardonyou?" She would not complain as long as a spark of love remained inmy heart; 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 sombre 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 started to abuse her she would leave mewithout a word and lock herself in her room. Thank God, I never raisedmy hand against her; in my most violent moments I would rather have diedthan touched her. 

One evening the rain was driving against the windows; we were alone, thecurtains were closed. 

"I am in happy humor this evening, " I said to Brigitte, "and yet thehorrible 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 for supper?"

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 theatres; I saw the lascivious dances, the gay costumes, the wine and the folly; all my youth bounded in myheart. 

"Let us disguise ourselves, " I said to Brigitte. "It will be for ourown amusement, but what does that matter? If you have no costumes we canmake them, 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 wished to dress my hair herself; we painted and powderedourselves freely; all that we lacked was found in an old chest that hadbelonged, I believe, to the aunt. In an hour we could not recognize eachother. The evening passed in singing, in a thousand follies; toward oneo'clock in 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 bookof which I have already spoken, the one in which Brigitte was accustomedto write. 

"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 if to prevent me;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, so long 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 this 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 forbade that herdeath should be charged to me. "Pray for him!" were her last words. 

I found in the closet on the same shelf a little box that I remembered Ihad seen before, filled with a fine bluish powder resembling salt. 

"What is this?" I asked of Brigitte, raising the box to my lips. Shegave vent to a scream of terror and threw herself upon me. 

"Brigitte, " I said, "bid me farewell. I shall carry this box away withme; you will forget me, and you will live if you wish to save me frombecoming a murderer. I shall set out this very night; you will agreewith me 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 momentthe carriage was starting, I felt two arms about my body and a sob whichspent itself on my lips. 

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-dayas yesterday; 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 leaveof the past. We can not live here; let us go elsewhere, wherever youplease; let us go and die together in some remote corner of the world. We must be happy, 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 eachother's arms, and the horses set out at a gallop. 

BOOK 3. 

PART V

CHAPTER I. SWEET ANTICIPATIONS

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. We had now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows ofeternal love; I wished, once for all, to make my dear mistress forgetall the suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist suchproof of tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only didBrigitte pardon me, but she was willing to make a still greatersacrifice and leave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of thedevotion she exhibited, I wished to requite her by my love; at last mygood angel had triumphed, and admiration and love resumed their sway inmy heart. Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should goand bury ourselves from the world. We had not yet decided, and we foundpleasure in that 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 uponher smiling face, a face that laughed at the future, although still palefrom the sorrows of the past! Blissful projects of future joy, you areperhaps the only true happiness known to man! For eight days we spentour time making purchases and preparing for our departure; then a youngman presented himself at our apartments: he brought letters to Brigitte. After their interview I found her sad and distraught; but I could notguess the cause unless the letters were from N------, that villagewhere I had confessed my love and where Brigitte's only 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 intoxicatedwith happiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love forBrigitte that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her skirt. Her lightestwords made me tremble as if her voice were strange to me; I alternatedbetween tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except withhorror and disgust. Our room was full of personal effects scatteredabout in disorder--albums, pictures, books, and the dear map we loved somuch. We went to and fro about the little apartment; at brief intervalsI would stop and kneel before Brigitte who would call me an idler, saying that she had to do all the work, and that I was good for nothing;and all sorts of projects flitted through our minds. Sicily was faraway, but the winters are so delightful there! Genoa is very prettywith its painted houses, its green gardens, and the Apennines in thebackground! But what noise! What crowds! Among every three men on thestreet, one is a monk and another a soldier. Florence is sad, it is theMiddle Ages living in the midst of modern life. How can any one endurethose grilled windows and that horrible brown color with which all thehouses are tinted?

What could we do at Rome? We were not travelling in order to forgetourselves, much less for the sake of instruction. To the Rhine? But theseason was over, and although we did not care for the world of fashion, still it is sad to visit its haunts when it has fled. But Spain? Toomany restrictions there; one travels like an army on the march, and mayexpect everything except repose. Switzerland? Too many people go there, and most of them are deceived as to the nature of its attractions;but in that land are unfolded the three most beautiful colors onGod's earth: the azure of the sky, the verdure of the plains, and thewhiteness of 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 met each other only yesterday. You met me at a ball, I pleased you and I love you; you tell me thatsome leagues distant, in a certain little town, you loved a certainMadame Pierson; what passed between you and her I do not know. You willnot tell me the story of your love for another! And I will whisperto you that not long since I loved a terrible fellow who made me veryunhappy; you will reprove me and close my mouth, and we will agree neverto speak of such things. "

When Brigitte spoke thus I experienced a feeling that resembled avarice;I caught her in my arms and cried:

"Oh, God! I know not whether it is with joy or with fear that I tremble. I am about to carry off my treasure. Die, my youth; die, all memories ofthe past; die, all cares and regrets! Oh, my good, my brave Brigitte!You have made a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I shall neverlove again. Perhaps, before I knew you, another woman might have curedme; but now you alone, of all the world, have power to destroy me or tosave me, for I bear in my heart the wound of all the evil I have doneyou. I have been an ingrate, blind and cruel. God be praised! You loveme still. If you ever return to that home under whose lindens I firstmet you, look carefully about that deserted house; you will find aphantom there, for the man who left it, and went away with you, is notthe man who entered it. "

"Is it true?" said Brigitte, and her face, 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, youshall really love. I shall have you as you are, and, wherever we go youwill make me forget the possibility of a day when you will no longerlove me. My mission will have been accomplished, and I shall always bethankful for it. "

Finally we decided to go to Geneva and then choose some resting placein the Alps. Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought I couldalready breathe the air which floats over its surface, and the odor ofthe verdure-clad valley; already I beheld Lausanne, Vevey, Oberland, and in the distance the summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain ofLombardy. Already oblivion, repose, travel, all the delights of happysolitude invited us; already, when in the evening with joined hands, welooked at each other in silence, we felt rising within us that sentimentof strange grandeur which takes possession of the heart on the eve of along journey, the mysterious and indescribable vertigo which has in itsomething of the terrors of exile and the hopes of pilgrimage. Arethere not in the human mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords thatvibrate? How shall I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in thesimple words: "All is ready, we are about to go"?

Suddenly Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head in silence. WhenI asked her whether 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 pale, and 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 told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw herarms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as if involuntarily. Finally, I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on which ourplaces were marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approached her andplaced it in her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed, and fellunconscious at my feet. 

CHAPTER II. THE DEMON OF DOUBT

All my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were asvain as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill, and remainedobstinately silent. After an entire day passed in supplication andconjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing theOpera, I entered it from mere force of habit. 

I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theatre, I was sooverwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak, except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses. All my powers were centred on a single thought, and the more I turned itover in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning. 

What obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and therealization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary eventor even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or the loss of afriend, why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done, when our dreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature ofa secret that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me?What! to conceal it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart tosuspect her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me withhorror. On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or ofcaprice in that woman, as I knew her? I was lost in an abyss of doubt, and I could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point, on whichto base conjecture. 

In front of me in the gallery sat a young man whose face was not unknownto me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him withoutthinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him. Suddenly I recognized him: it was he who had brought letters to Brigittefrom N------. I arose and started to accost him without thinking what Iwas doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without disturbinga large number of spectators, and I was forced to await the entr'acte. 

My first thought was that if any one could enlighten me it was thisyoung man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson in the lastfew days, and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressedafter his visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was takenill. 

The letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possiblethat he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he didnot know all the circumstances, but he could doubtless enlighten me asto the contents of those letters, and there was no reason why I shouldhesitate to question him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to thefoyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away andentered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stoodlooking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last he appeared. I bowed andapproached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared downa stairway. 

My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any otherexplanation than deliberate intention on his part to avoid me. He surelyknew my face, and, whether he knew it or not, a man who sees anotherapproaching him ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the onlypersons in the corridor at the time, and there could be no doubt he didnot wish to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatmentfrom a man whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why shouldhe insult me? He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid anawkward interview, during which questions might be asked which he didnot care to answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost asmuch as the first. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head, that young man's action in avoiding me seemed to have some connectionwith Brigitte's obstinate silence. 

Of all torments uncertainty is the most difficult to endure, and duringmy life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not waitpatiently. When I returned to my apartments I found Brigitte readingthose same fateful letters from N------. I told her that I could notremain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it atany cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden change whichhad taken place in her, and that, if she refused to speak, I should lookupon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an orderfor me to leave her forever. 

She reluctantly handed me the letters she was reading. Her relatives hadwritten her that her departure had disgraced them, that every one knewthe circumstances, and that they felt it their duty to warn her ofthe consequences; that she was living openly as my mistress, and that, although she was a widow and free to do as she chose, she ought to thinkof the name she bore; that neither they nor her old friends would eversee her again if she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts ofthreats and entreaties, they urged her to return. 

The tone of the letter angered me, and at first I took it as an insult. 

"And that young man who brings you these remonstrances, " I cried, "doubtless has orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail todo his own part to the best of his ability. Am I not right?"

Brigitte's dejection made me reflect and calm my wrath. 

"You will do as you wish, and achieve my ruin, " she said. "My fate restswith you; you have been for a long time my master. Avenge as you pleasethe last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to theworld that I formerly respected, to the honor that I have lost. I havenot a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply, I will obeyyou. "

"I care to know nothing, " I replied, "but your intentions; it is for meto comply with your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to do it. Tellme, do you desire to remain, to go away, or shall I go alone?"

"Why that question?" asked Brigitte; "have I said that I had changed mymind? I am suffering, and can not travel in my present condition, butwhen I recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned. "

We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she hadexpressed her resolution saddened me more than usual. It was not thefirst time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up tothis time whatever letters Brigitte had received she had never takenthem so much to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigittehad been so affected by protests which in less happy moments had had noeffect on her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoilsfrom an act of final significance? "I will do as you please, " she hadsaid. No, it does not please me to demand patience, and rather than lookat that sorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks I will setout alone. 

Fool that I was! Had I the strength to do it? I did not close my eyesthat night, and the next morning I resolved to call on that young man Ihad seen at the opera. I do not know whether it was wrath or curiositythat impelled me to this course, nor did I know just what I desired tolearn of him; but I reflected that he could not avoid me this time, andthat was all I desired. 

As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending thatI felt under an obligation to call on him after all the visits hehad made us; I had not said a word about my experience at the opera. Brigitte's eyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room sheheld out her hand and said:

"What do you wish?"

Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words, and I setout less unhappy. 

The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was livingnear us. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensationof uneasiness; I was dazed as though by a sudden flash of light. Hisfirst gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accentBrigitte had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he heldout his hand and said:

"What do you wish?"

Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which reason cannot explain. I sat as still as if awakened from a dream, and began torepeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could Itell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me, how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N------, andknew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to questionhim, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our firstwords were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness inbringing letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving Francewe would ask him to do the same favor for us; and then we were silent, surprised to find ourselves vis-a-vis. 

I looked about me in embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor;everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musical instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, buteverything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble. 

As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. Onthe mantel I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look atit, and he said it was his mother. 

I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had knownhim since childhood. Before I came to the country she used to see himoccasionally at N------, but at the time of her last visit there hewas away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned someparticulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honestemployment that enabled him to support his mother and sister. 

His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; hedeprived himself of everything for them, and although he possessedmusical talents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, theimmediate needs of those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, hadalways led him to prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances ofsuccess in larger ventures. 

In a word, he belonged to that small class who live quietly, and whoare worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I hadlearned of certain traits in his character which will serve to paintthe man he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighborhood, and, after a year of devotion to her, had secured her parents' consentto their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to besigned, the preparations for the wedding were complete, when his mothersaid:

"And your sister? Who will marry her?"

That simple remark made him understand that if he married he would spendall his money in the household expenses and his sister would haveno dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happyprospects; he then came to Paris. 

When I heard that story I wished to see the hero. That simple, unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all theglories of war. 

The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broachthe subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me, that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually mythoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemedto me that he was also examining me with curiosity. 

We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!He, accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of theclock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it whichlies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy governmentoffice; sending his mother all his savings, that farthing of human joywhich the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except forthe happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he hadbeen a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, soinexorable, during the time that with him had been a round of toil, whathad I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?

What I have said in a page can be comprehended in a moment. He spoke tome of our journey and the countries we were going to visit. 

"When do you go?" he asked. 

"I do not know; Madame Pierson is indisposed, and has been confined toher bed for three days. "

"For three days!" he repeated, in surprise. 

"Yes; why are you astonished?"

He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. Hewas trembling violently. 

"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand tohis head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently tospeak, he said:

"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when Ihave sufficiently recovered I will return your visit. "

CHAPTER III. THE QUESTION OF SMITH

Brigitte was better. She had told me that she desired to go away as soonas she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to restat least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey. 

Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured methat the letter was the only cause of her melancholy, and begged meto say nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what waspassing in her heart. We went to the theatre every night in order toavoid embarrassing interviews. There we sometimes pressed each other'shands at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, orexchanged, perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we weremute, absorbed in our thoughts. 

Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house hadbeen the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had leftsingular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and hissimplicity reassured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he hadbrought, and he did not appear offended, but saddened. He was ignorantof the contents, and his friendship for Brigitte led him to censure themseverely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, had he knownwhat they contained. On account of Brigitte's tone of reserve in hispresence, I did not think he was in her confidence. 

I therefore welcomed him with pleasure, although there was always asort of awkward embarrassment in our meeting. He was asked to act asintermediary between Brigitte and her relatives after our departure. When we three were together he noticed a certain coldness and restraintwhich he endeavored to banish by cheerful good-humor. If he spoke of ourliaison it was with respect and as a man who looks upon love as asacred bond; in fact, he was a kind friend, and inspired me with fullconfidence. 

But despite all this, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I couldnot get rid of strange thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I hadseen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time asBrigitte's, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discoveredbetween them, troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago Iwould have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspectBrigitte? Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she notgoing away with me? Even were it possible that Smith could share somesecret of which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of the mystery?What was there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship?

She had known him as a child; she met him again after long years justas she was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunatesituation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of addingto her sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowfulglances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories andregrets? Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a longjourney, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions?I felt this that must be the explanation, and that it was my duty toassure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers, and of requiting the other for the services he had rendered. And yeta deadly chill oppressed me, and I could not determine what course topursue. 

When Smith left us in the evening, we either were silent or talkedof him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about himcontinually. She, however, told me just what I have told my reader;Smith's life had never been other than it was now--poor, obscure, andhonest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times, without knowing why I took such an interest in it. 

There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would notconfess. If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatesthappiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had hepressed her hand while assisting her into the carriage, would I havepaid the least attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or hadhe not--had he shed tears for some unknown reason, what would itmatter so long as I was happy? But while unable to divine the cause ofBrigitte's sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever she might sayof it, had something to do with her present state. If I had been what Iought to have been for the last six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I was persuaded, could have troubled our love. 

Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted; his simpleand modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eyeseizes at the first glance; one could know him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspired confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinkingthat if he were Brigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him tothe ends of the earth. 

I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it. Brigitte, too, at times urged me to hasten the day. 

"Why do you wait?" she asked. "Here I am recovered and everything isready. "

Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know. 

Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from Smith to my loved one. Isaw that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why, andI could not help thinking that there was but one cause, or one secret tolearn. This was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such ashad formerly tormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. Whatstrange creatures are we! It pleased me to leave them alone before thefire, and to go out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet andlooking at the water. When they spoke of their life at N------, andwhen Brigitte, almost cheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall someincident of their childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, andyet took pleasure in it. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of hismother, of his plans and his prospects; I gave him an opportunity toshow himself in a favorable light, and forced his modesty to reveal hismerit. 

"You love your sister very much, do you not?" I asked. "When do youexpect to marry her off?"

He blushed, and replied that his expenses were rather heavy and that itwould probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health wouldpermit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provideher dowry; that there was a well-to-do family in the country, whoseeldest son was her sweetheart; that they were almost agreed on it, andthat fortune would one day come, like sleep, without thinking of it;that he had set aside for his sister a part of the money left by theirfather; that their mother was opposed to it, but that he would insist onit; that a young man can live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of ayoung girl is fixed on the day of her marriage. Thus, little by little, he expressed what was in his heart, and I watched Brigitte listening tohim. Then, when he arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door, andstood there, pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on thestairs. 

Upon examining our trunks we found that there were still a few thingsneeded before we could start; Smith was asked to purchase them. He wasremarkably active, and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When Ireturned to my apartments, I found him on the floor, strapping a trunk. Brigitte was at the piano we had rented by the week during our stay. Shewas playing one of those old airs into which she put so much expression, and which were so dear to us. I stopped in the hall; every note reachedmy ear distinctly; never had she sung so sadly, so divinely. 

Smith was listening with pleasure; he was on his knees holding thebuckle of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about theroom at the other goods he had packed and covered with a linen cloth. Satisfied with his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot;Brigitte, her hands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For thesecond time I saw tears fall from the young man's eyes; I was ready toshed tears myself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out myhand to him. 

"Were you there?" asked Brigitte. She trembled and seemed surprised. 

"Yes, I was there, " I replied. "Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me hearyour sweet voice. "

She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well asSmith's; her voice faltered. With the last notes she arose, and came tome and kissed me. 

On another occasion I had brought an album containing views ofSwitzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigittefound a scene that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. Therewas one view that seemed to attract her more than the others; it wasa certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues;some trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance a villageconsisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In theforeground a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, anda farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with hisiron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directingher attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above themwere the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits. Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. Thevalley resembled a lake of verdure, and the eye followed its contourwith delight. 

"Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced somefigures on the picture. 

"What are you doing?" she asked. 

"I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make itresemble yours. The pretty hat would become you, and can I not, if I amskilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?"

The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the twofaces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. Thefaces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that thelikenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door openedand I was called away by the servant. 

When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at thepicture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound revery, and was notaware of my presence; I sat down near the fire, and it was not untilI spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment, then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw himstrike his forehead with his hand. 

When I saw these signs of grief, I said to myself "What does it mean?"Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know; perhaps mygood angel, perhaps my evil fate. 

CHAPTER IV. IN THE FURNACE

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 sometimes we 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 were they bothso sad? Why was I as motionless as a statue where I had formerly beenviolent? Every evening in bed I said to myself: "Let me see; let methink that over. " Then I would spring up, crying: "Impossible!" The nextday 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. As for 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 allthe more striking. 

Was it curiosity that tormented me? I remember that one day I saw a mandrowning near the Pont Royal. It was midsummer and we were rowing on theriver; some thirty boats were crowded together under the bridge, whensuddenly 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. Iopened my eyes under the water and searched painfully here and therein the dark corners about the pier; then I returned to the surface forbreath, then resumed my horrible search. I was filled with hope andterror; the thought that I might feel myself seized by convulsive armsallured me, and at the same time thrilled me with horror; when I wasexhausted with fatigue, 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 called"knowing the world, " and experience is purchased at that price. Somerecoil in terror before that test; others, feeble and affrighted, vacillate like shadows. Some, the best perhaps, die at once. The largenumber forget, and thus all float on to death. 

But there are some men, who, at the fell stroke of chance, neither dienor 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; they are drunk with the desire to know; they no longer lookwith 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 give birth to amonster. 

Roues, more than all others, are exposed to that fury, and the reasonis very simple: ordinary life is the limpid surface, that of the roueis the rapid current swirling over and over, and at times touching thebottom. Coming from a ball, for instance, where they have danced witha modest girl, they seek the company of bad characters, and spend thenight in riotous feasting. The last words they addressed to a beautifuland virtuous woman are still on their lips; they repeat them and burstinto laughter. Shall I say it? Do they not raise, for some pieces ofsilver, the vesture of chastity, that robe so full of mystery, whichrespects the being it embellishes and engirds her without touching?What idea can they have of the world? They are like comedians in thegreenroom. Who, more than they, is skilled in that delving to the bottomof things, in that groping at once profound and impious? See how theyspeak of everything; always in terms the most barren, crude, and abject;such words appear true to them; the rest is only parade, convention, prejudice. Let them tell a story, let them recount some experience, theywill always use the same dirty and material expressions. They do not say"That woman loved me;" they say: "I betrayed that woman;" they do notsay: "I love;" they say, "I desire;" they never say: "If God wills;"they say: "If I will. " I do not know what they think of themselves andof such monologues as these. 

Hence, of a necessity, either from idleness or curiosity, while theystrive to find evil in everything, they do not comprehend that othersstill believe in the good. Therefore they have to be so nonchalant as tostop their ears, lest the hum of the busy world should suddenly startlethem from sleep. The father allows his son to go where so many othersgo, where Cato himself went; he says that youth is but fleeting. Butwhen he returns, the youth looks upon his sister; and see what has takenplace in him during an hour passed in the society of brutal reality! Hesays to himself: "My sister is not like that creature I have just left!"And from that day he is disturbed and uneasy. 

Sinful curiosity is a vile malady born of impure contact. It is theprowling instinct of phantoms who raise the lids of tombs; it is aninexplicable torture with which God punishes those who have sinned;they wish to believe that all sin as they have done, and would bedisappointed perhaps to find that it was not so. But they inquire, theysearch, they dispute; they wag their heads from side to side as does anarchitect who adjusts a column, and thus strive to find what they desireto find. Given proof of evil, they laugh at it; doubtful of evil, theyswear that it exists; the good they refuse to recognize. "Who knows?"Behold the grand formula, the first words that Satan spoke when he sawheaven closing against him. Alas! for how many evils are those wordsresponsible? How many disasters and deaths, how many strokes of fatefulscythes in the ripening harvest of humanity! How many hearts, how manyfamilies where there is naught but ruin, since that word was firstheard! "Who knows! Who knows!" Loathsome words! Rather than pronouncethem one should be as sheep who graze about the slaughter-house and knowit not. That is better than to be called a strong spirit, and to read LaRochefoucauld. 

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 didI delay? What would have been the result if I had started at once onour trip? Nothing but a moment of apprehension that would have beenforgotten after travelling three days. When with me, she had no thoughtbut of me; why should I care to solve a 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 iton the 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 Henri 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 wentout. I remained alone all evening; I had paper before me, and 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 revery, 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 anxiously as if they could tell me something. I revolved in my mindall the things I had heard and seen; from time to time I went to thedoor and cast my eyes over our trunks which had been piled against thewall for a month; I opened them and examined the contents so carefullypacked away by those delicate little hands; I listened to the sound ofpassing carriages; the slightest noise made me tremble. I spread out onthe table our map of Europe, and there, in the very presence of all myhopes, 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 seesand in spite of what he sees, he can conjure up a hundred objects ofwoe. In truth his brain resembles the dungeons of the Inquisition, wherethe walls are covered with so many instruments of torture that one isdazed, and asks whether these horrible contrivances he sees before himare pincers or playthings. Tell me, I say, what difference is there insaying to my mistress: "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 theconscience. "If I should lose Brigitte?" I said to the mind. "Shedeparts with you, " said the conscience. "If she deceives me?"--"How canshe deceive you? Has she not made out her will asking for prayers foryou?"--"If Smith loves her?"--"Fool! What does it matter so long as youknow that she loves you?"--"If she loves me why is she sad?"--"Thatis her secret, respect it. "--"If I take her away with me, will she behappy?"--"Love her and she will be. "--"Why, when that man looks at her, does she seem to fear to meet his glance?"--"Because she is a womanand he is young. "--"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 what you must remainignorant of. "--"Why can I not know these things?"--"Because you aremiserable and weak, and all mystery is of God. "

"But why is it that I suffer? Why is it that my soul recoils interror?"--"Think of your father and do good. "--"But why am I unable todo as he did? Why does evil attract me to itself?"--"Get down on yourknees and confess; if you believe in evil it is because your ways havebeen evil. "--"If my ways were evil, was it my fault? Why did thegood betray me?"--"Because you are in the shadow, would you denythe existence of light? If there are traitors, why are you one ofthem?"--"Because I am afraid of becoming the dupe. "--"Why do you spendyour nights in watching? Why are you alone now?"--"Because I think, I doubt, and I fear. "--"When will you offer your prayer?"--"When Ibelieve. Why have they lied to me?"--"Why do you lie, coward! at thisvery 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. TRUTH AT LAST

What a frightful weapon is human thought! It is our defense and oursafeguard, the most precious gift that God has made us. It is ours andit obeys us; we may launch it forth into space, but, once outside of ourfeeble brains, it is gone; we can no longer control it. 

While I was deferring the time of our departure from day to day I wasgradually losing strength, and, although I did not perceive it, my vitalforces were slowly wasting away. When I sat at table I experienced aviolent distaste for food; at night two pale faces, those of Brigitteand Smith, pursued me through frightful dreams. When they went to thetheatre in the evening I refused to go with them; then I went alone, concealed myself in the parquet, and watched them. I pretended that Ihad some business to attend to in a neighboring room and sat there anhour and listened to them. The idea occurred to me to seek a quarrelwith Smith and force him to fight with me; I turned my back on him whilehe was talking; then he came to me with a look of surprise on his face, holding out his hand. When I was alone in the night and every one slept, I felt a strong desire to go to Brigitte's desk and take from it herpapers. On one occasion I was obliged to go out of the house in orderto resist the temptation. One day I felt like arming myself with a knifeand threatening to kill them if they did not tell me why they were sosad; another day I turned all this fury against myself. With what shamedo I write it! And if any one should ask me why I acted thus, I couldnot reply. 

To see, to doubt, to search, to torture myself and make myselfmiserable, to pass entire days with my ear at the keyhole, and thenight in a flood of tears, to repeat over and over that I should die ofsorrow, to feel isolation and feebleness uprooting hope in my heart, to imagine that I was spying when I was only listening to the feverishbeating of my own pulse; to con over stupid phrases, such as: "Life isa dream, there is nothing stable here below;" to curse and blasphemeGod through misery and through caprice: that was my joy, the preciousoccupation for which I renounced love, the air of heaven, and liberty!

Eternal God, liberty! Yes, there were certain moments when, in spite ofall, I still thought of it. In the midst of my madness, eccentricity, and stupidity, there were within me certain impulses that at timesbrought me to myself. It was a breath of air which struck my face as Icame from my dungeon; it was a page of a book I read when, in my bitterdays, I happened to read something besides those modern sycophantscalled pamphleteers, who, out of regard for the public health, ought tobe prevented from indulging in their crude philosophizings. Since I havereferred to these good moments, let me mention one of them, they were sorare. One evening I was reading the Memoirs of Constant; I came to thefollowing lines:

"Salsdorf, a Saxon surgeon attached to Prince Christian, had his legbroken by a shell in the battle of Wagram. He lay almost lifeless on thedusty field. Fifteen paces distant, Amedee of Kerbourg, aide-de-camp (Ihave forgotten to whom), wounded in the breast by a bullet, fell to theground vomiting blood. Salsdorf saw that if that young man was not caredfor he would die of suffusion; summoning all his powers, he painfullydragged himself to the side of the wounded man, attended to him andsaved his life. Salsdorf himself died four days later from the effectsof amputation. "

When I read these words I threw down my book, and melted into tears. 

I do not regret those tears, for they were such as I could shed onlywhen my heart was right; I do not speak merely of Salsdorf, and do notcare for that particular instance. I am sure, however, that I did notsuspect any one that day. Poor dreamer! Ought I to remember that I havebeen other than I am? What good will it do me as I stretch out my armsin anguish to heaven and wait for the bolt that will deliver me forever?Alas! it was only a gleam that flashed across the night of my life. 

Like those dervish fanatics who find ecstasy in vertigo, so thought, turning on itself, exhausted by the stress of introspection and tired ofvain effort, falls terror-stricken. So it would seem that man must be avoid and that by dint of delving unto himself he reaches the last turnof a spiral. There, as on the summits of mountains and at the bottom ofmines, air fails, and God forbids man to go farther. Then, struck witha mortal chill, the heart, as if impaired by oblivion, seeks to escapeinto a new birth; it demands life of that which environs it, it eagerlydrinks in the air; but it finds round about only its own chimeras, whichhave exhausted its failing powers and which, self-created, surround itlike pitiless spectres. 

This could not last long. Tired of uncertainty, I resolved to resort toa test that would discover the truth. 

I ordered post-horses for ten in the evening. We had hired a caleche andI gave directions that all should be ready at the hour indicated. At thesame time I asked that nothing be said to Madame Pierson. Smith came todinner; at the table I affected unusual cheerfulness, and without aword about my plans, I turned the conversation to our journey. I wouldrenounce all idea of going away, I said, if I thought Brigitte did notcare to go; I was so well satisfied with Paris that I asked nothingbetter than to remain as long as she pleased. I made much of all thepleasures of the city; I spoke of the balls, the theatres, of the manyopportunities for diversion on every hand. In short, since we were happyI did not see why we should make a change; and I did not think of goingaway at present. 

I was expecting her to insist that we carry out our plan of going toGeneva, and was not disappointed. However, she insisted but feebly; but, after a few words, I pretended to yield, and then changing the subject Ispoke of other things, as though it was all settled. 

"And why will not Smith go with us?" I asked. "It is very true that hehas duties here, but can he not obtain leave of absence? Moreover, willnot the talents he possesses and which he is unwilling to use, assurehim an honorable living anywhere? Let him come along with us; thecarriage is large and we offer him a place in it. A young man shouldsee the world, and there is nothing so irksome for a man of his age asconfinement in an office and restriction to a narrow circle. Is it nottrue?" I asked, turning to Brigitte. "Come, my dear, let your wilesobtain from him what he might refuse me; urge him to give us six weeksof his time. We will travel together, and after a tour of Switzerland hewill return to his duties with new life. "

Brigitte joined her entreaties to mine, although she knew it was onlya joke on my part. Smith could not leave Paris without danger of losinghis position, and replied that he regretted being obliged to denyhimself the pleasure of accompanying us. Nevertheless I continuedto press him, and, ordering another bottle of wine, I repeated myinvitation. After dinner I went out to assure myself that my orders werecarried out; then I returned in high spirits, and seating myself at thepiano I proposed some music. 

"Let us pass the evening here, " I said; "believe me, it is better thangoing to the theatre; I can not take part myself, but I can listen. Wewill make Smith play if he tires of our company, and the time will passpleasantly. "

Brigitte consented with good grace and began singing for us; Smithaccompanied her on the violoncello. The materials for a bowl of punchwere brought and the flame of burning rum soon cheered us with variedlights. The piano was abandoned for the table; then we had cards;everything passed off as I wished and we succeeded in divertingourselves to my heart's content. 

I had my eyes fixed on the clock and waited impatiently for the hands tomark the hour of ten. I was tormented with anxiety, but allowed them tosee nothing. Finally the hour arrived; I heard the postilion's whip asthe horses entered the court. Brigitte was seated near me; I took her bythe hand and asked her if she was ready to depart. She looked at me withsurprise, doubtless wondering if I was not joking. I told her that atdinner she had appeared so anxious to go that I had felt justified insending for the horses, and that I went out for that purpose when I leftthe table. 

"Are you serious?" asked Brigitte; "do you wish to set out to-night?"

"Why not?" I replied, "since we have agreed that we ought to leaveParis?"

"What! now? At this very moment?"

"Certainly; have we not been ready for a month? You see there is nothingto do but load our trunks on the carriage; as we have decided to go, ought we not go at once? I believe it is better to go now and put offnothing until tomorrow. You are in the humor to travel to-night and Ihasten to profit by it. Why wait longer and continue to put it off? Ican not endure this life. You wish to go, do you not? Very well, let usgo and be done with it. "

Profound silence ensued. Brigitte stepped to the window and satisfiedherself that the carriage was there. Moreover, the tone in which I spokewould admit of no doubt, and, however hasty my action may appear toher, it was due to her own expressed desire. She could not deny her ownwords, nor find any pretext for further delay. Her decision was madepromptly; she asked a few questions as though to assure herself that allthe preparations had been made; seeing that nothing had been omitted, she began to search here and there. She found her hat and shawl, thencontinued her search. 

"I am ready, " she said; "shall we go? We are really going?"

She took a light, went to my room, to her own, opened lockers andclosets. She asked for the key to her secretary which she said she hadlost. Where could that key be? She had it in her possession not an hourago. 

"Come, come! I am ready, " she repeated in extreme agitation; "let us go, Octave, let us set out at once. "

While speaking she continued her search and then came and sat down nearus. 

I was seated on the sofa watching Smith, who stood before me. He had notchanged countenance and seemed neither troubled nor surprised; but twodrops of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I heard an ivory countercrack between his fingers, the pieces falling to the floor. He held outboth hands to us. 

"Bon voyage, my friends!" he said. 

Again silence; I was still watching him, waiting for him to add a word. "If there is some secret here, " thought I, "when shall I learn it, ifnot now? It must be on the lips of both of them. Let it but come outinto the light and I will seize it. "

"My dear Octave, " said Brigitte, "where are we to stop? You will writeto us, Henri, will you not? You will not forget my relatives and will dowhat you can for me?" He replied in a voice that trembled slightly thathe would do all in his power to serve her. 

"I can answer for nothing, " he said, "and, judging from the letters youhave received, there is not much hope. But it will not be my fault if Ido not send you good news. Count on me, I am devoted to you. "

After a few more kind words he made ready to take his departure. I aroseand left the room before him; I wished to leave them together a momentfor the last time and, as soon as I had closed the door behind me, in aperfect rage of jealousy, I pressed my ear to the keyhole. 

"When shall I see you again?" he asked. 

"Never, " replied Brigitte; "adieu, Henri. " She held out her hand. Hebent over it, pressed it to his lips and I had barely time to slip intoa corner as he passed out without seeing me. 

Alone with Brigitte, my heart sank within me. She was waiting for me, her shawl on her arm, and emotion plainly marked on her face. She hadfound the key she had been looking for and her desk was open. I returnedand sat down near the fire. "Listen to me, " I said, without daring tolook at her; "I have been so culpable in my treatment of you that Iought to wait and suffer without a word of complaint. The change whichhas taken place in you has thrown me into such despair that I have notbeen able to refrain from asking you the cause; but to-day I ask nothingmore. Does it cost you an effort to depart? Tell me, and if so I amresigned. "

"Let us go, let us go!" she replied. 

"As you please, but be frank; whatever blow I may receive, I ought notto ask whence it comes; I should submit without a murmur. But if I loseyou, do not speak to me of hope, for God knows I will not survive theloss. "

She turned on me like a flash. 

"Speak to me of your love, " she said, "not of your grief. "

"Very well, I love you more than life. Beside my love, my grief is buta dream. Come with me to the end of the world, I will die or I will livewith you. "

With these words I advanced toward her; she turned pale and recoiled. She made a vain effort to force a smile on her contracted lips, andsitting down before her desk she said:

"One moment; I have some papers here I want to burn. "

She showed me the letters from N------, tore them up and threw theminto the fire; she then took out other papers which she reread and thenspread out on the table. They were bills of purchases she had made andsome of them were still unpaid. While examining them she began to talkrapidly, while her cheeks burned as if with fever. Then she begged mypardon for her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival. 

She gave evidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever. Sheclapped her hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey; inshort, she was all love, or at least apparently all love. I can not tellhow I suffered at the sight of that factitious joy; there was in thatgrief which crazed her something more sad than tears and more bitterthan reproaches. I would have preferred to have her cold and indifferentrather than thus excited; it seemed to me a parody of our happiestmoments. There were the same words, the same woman, the same caresses;and that which, fifteen days before would have intoxicated me with loveand happiness, repeated thus, filled me with horror. 

"Brigitte, " I suddenly inquired, "what secret are you concealing fromme? If you love me, what horrible comedy is this you are enacting beforeme?"

"I!" said she, almost offended. "What makes you think I am acting?"

"What makes me think so? Tell me, my dear, that you have death in yoursoul and that you are suffering martyrdom. Behold my arms are ready toreceive you; lean your head on me and weep. Then I will take you away, perhaps; but in truth, not thus. "

"Let us go, let us go!" she again repeated. 

"No, on my soul! No, not at present; no, not while there is between usa lie or a mask. I like unhappiness better than such cheerfulness asyours. "

She was silent, astonished to see that I had not been deceived by herwords and manner and that I saw through them both. 

"Why should we delude ourselves?" I continued. 

"Have I fallen so low in your esteem that you can dissimulate before me?That unfortunate journey, you think you are condemned to it, do you?Am I a tyrant, an absolute master? Am I an executioner who drags you topunishment? How much do you fear my wrath when you come before me withsuch mimicry? What terror impels you to lie thus?"

"You are wrong, " she replied; "I beg of you, not a word more. "

"Why so little sincerity? If I am not your confidant, may I not atleast be your friend? If I am denied all knowledge of the source of yourtears, may I not at least see them flow? Have you not enough confidencein me to believe that I will respect your sorrow? What have I done thatI should be ignorant of it? Might not the remedy lie right there?"

"No, " she replied, "you are wrong; you will achieve your own unhappinessas well as mine if you press me farther. Is it not enough that we aregoing away?"

"And do you expect me to drag you away against your will? Is it notevident that you have consented reluctantly, and that you already beginto repent? Great God! What is it you are concealing from me? What is theuse of playing with words when your thoughts are as clear as that glassbefore which you stand? Should I not be the meanest of men to accept atyour hands what is yielded with so much regret? And yet how can I refuseit? What can I do if you refuse to speak?"

"No, I do not oppose you, you are mistaken; I love you, Octave; ceasetormenting me thus. "

She threw so much tenderness into these words that I fell down on myknees before her. Who could resist her glance and her voice?

"My God!" I cried, "you love me, Brigitte? My dear mistress, you loveme?"

"Yes, I love you; yes. I belong to you; do with me what you will. Iwill follow you, let us go away together; come, Octave, the carriage iswaiting. "

She pressed my hand in hers, and kissed my forehead. 

"Yes, it must be, " she murmured, "it must be. "

"It must be, " I repeated to myself. I arose. 

On the table there remained only one piece of paper that Brigitte wasexamining. She picked it up, then allowed it to drop to the floor. 

"Is that all?" I asked. 

"Yes, that is all. "

When I ordered the horses I had no idea that we would really go, Iwished merely to make a trial, but circumstances bid fair to force me tocarry my plans farther than I at first intended. I opened the door. 

"It must be!" I said to myself. "It must be!" I repeated aloud. 

"What do you mean by that, Brigitte? What is there in those words that Ido not understand? Explain yourself, or I will not go. Why must you loveme?"

She fell on the sofa and wrung her hands in grief. 

"Ah! Unhappy man!" she cried, "you will never know how to love!"

"Yes, I think you are right, but, before God, I know how to suffer. Youmust love me, must you not? Very well, then you must answer me. Were Ito lose you forever, were these walls to crumble over my head, I willnot leave this spot until I have solved the mystery that has beentorturing me for more than a month. Speak, or I will leave you. I may bea fool who destroys his own happiness; I may be demanding something thatis not for me to possess; it may be that an explanation will separateus and raise before me an insurmountable barrier, which will render ourtour, on which I have set my heart, impossible; whatever it may cost youand me, you shall speak or I will renounce everything. "

"No, I will not speak. "

"You will speak! Do you fondly imagine I am the dupe of your lies? WhenI see you change between morning and evening until you differ more fromyour natural self than does night from day, do you think I am deceived?When you give me as a cause some letters that are not worth the troubleof reading, do you imagine that I am to be put off with the firstpretext that comes to hand because you do not choose to seek another? Isyour face made of plaster, that it is difficult to see what is passingin your heart? What is your opinion of me? I do not deceive myself asmuch as you suppose, and take care lest in default of words your silencediscloses what you so obstinately conceal. "

"What do you imagine I am concealing?"

"What do I imagine? You ask me that! Is it to brave me you ask such aquestion! Do you think to make me desperate and thus get rid of me? Yes, I admit it, offended pride is capable of driving me to extremes. IfI should explain myself freely, you would have at your service allfeminine hypocrisy; you hope that I will accuse you, so that you canreply that such a woman as you does not stoop to justify herself. Howskilfully the most guilty and treacherous of your sex contrive to useproud disdain as a shield! Your great weapon is silence; I did not learnthat yesterday. You wish to be insulted and you hold your tongue untilit comes to that. Come, struggle against my heart--where yours beatsyou will find it; but do not struggle against my head, it is harder thaniron, and it has served me as long as yours!"

"Poor boy!" murmured Brigitte; "you do not want to go?"

"No, I shall not go except with my beloved, and you are not that now. Ihave struggled, I have suffered, I have eaten my own heart long enough. It is time for day to break, I have loved long enough in the night. Yesor no, will you answer me?"

"No. "

"As you please; I will wait. "

I sat down on the other side of the room, determined not to rise untilI had learned what I wished to know. She appeared to be reflecting, andwalked back and forth before me. 

I followed her with an eager eye, while her silence gradually increasedmy anger. I was unwilling to have her perceive it and was undecided whatto do. I opened the window. 

"You may drive off, " I called to those below, "and I will see that youare paid. I shall not start to-night. "

"Poor boy!" repeated Brigitte. I quietly closed the window and sat downas if I had not heard her; but I was so furious with rage that Icould hardly restrain myself. That cold silence, that negative force, exasperated me to the last point. Had I been really deceived andconvinced of the guilt of a woman I loved I could not have sufferedmore. As I had condemned myself to remain in Paris, I reflected that Imust compel Brigitte to speak at any price. In vain I tried to think ofsome means of forcing her to enlighten me; for such power I would havegiven all I possessed. What could I do or say? She sat there calm andunruffled, looking at me with sadness. I heard the sound of the horses'hoofs on the paving as the carriage drew out of the court. I had merelyto turn my hand to call them back, but it seemed to me that there wassomething irrevocable about their departure. I slipped the bolt on thedoor; something whispered in my ear: "You are face to face with thewoman who must give you life or death. "

While thus buried in thought I tried to invent some expedient thatwould lead to the truth. I recalled one of Diderot's romances in whicha woman, jealous of her lover, resorted to a novel plan, for the purposeof clearing away her doubts. She told him that she no longer loved himand that she wished to leave him. The Marquis des Arcis (the name of thelover) falls into the trap, and confesses that he himself has tired ofthe liaison. That piece of strategy, which I had read at too early anage, had struck me as being very skilful, and the recollection of it atthis moment made me smile. "Who knows?" said I to myself. "If I shouldtry this with Brigitte, she might be deceived and tell me her secret. "

My anger had become furious when the idea of resorting to such trickeryoccurred to me. Was it so difficult to make a woman speak in spite ofherself? This woman was my mistress; I must be very weak if I could notgain my point. I turned over on the sofa with an air of indifference. 

"Very well, my dear, " said I, gayly, "this is not a time forconfidences, then?"

She looked at me in astonishment. 

"And yet, " I continued, "we must some day come to the truth. Now Ibelieve it would be well to begin at once; that will make you confiding, and there is nothing like an understanding between friends. "

Doubtless my face betrayed me as I spoke these words; Brigitte did notappear to understand and kept on walking up and down. 

"Do you know, " I resumed, "that we have been together now six months?The life we are leading together is not one to be laughed at. You areyoung, I also; if this kind of life should become distasteful to you, are you the woman to tell me of it? In truth, if it were so, I wouldconfess it to you frankly. And why not? Is it a crime to love? If not, it is not a crime to love less or to cease to love at all. Would it beastonishing if at our age we should feel the need of change?"

She stopped me. 

"At our age!" said she. "Are you addressing me? What comedy are you nowplaying, yourself?"

Blood mounted to my face. I seized her hand. "Sit down here, " I said, "and listen to me. "

"What is the use? It is not you who speak. "

I felt ashamed of my own strategy and abandoned it. 

"Listen to me, " I repeated, "and come, I beg of you, sit down near me. If you wish to remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have tosay. "

"I am listening, what have you to say to me?"

"If some one should say to me: 'You are a coward!' I, who am twenty-twoyears of age and have fought on the field of honor, would throwthe taunt back in the teeth of my accuser. Have I not within me theconsciousness of what I am? It would be necessary for me to meet myaccuser on the field, and play my life against his; why? In order toprove that I am not a coward; otherwise the world would believe it. Thatsingle word demands that reply every time it is spoken, and it mattersnot by whom. "

"It is true; what is your meaning?"

"Women do not fight; but as society is constituted there is no being, of whatever sex, who ought to submit to the indignity involved in anaspersion on all his or her past life, be that life regulated as by apendulum. Reflect; who escapes that law? There are some, I admit;but what happens? If it is a man, dishonor; if it is a woman, what?Forgiveness? Every one who loves ought to give some evidence of life, some proof of existence. There is, then, for woman as well as for man, a time when an attack must be resented. If she is brave, she rises, announces that she is present and sits down again. A stroke of the swordis not for her. She must not only avenge herself, but she must forge herown arms. Someone suspects her; who? An outsider? She may hold him incontempt--her lover whom she loves? If so, it is her life that is inquestion, and she may not despise him. "

"Her only recourse is silence. "

"You are wrong; the lover who suspects her casts an aspersion on herentire life. I know it. Her plea is in her tears, her past life, herdevotion and her patience. What will happen if she remains silent? Herlover will lose her by her own act and time will justify her. Is notthat your thought?"

"Perhaps; silence before all. "

"Perhaps, you say? Assuredly I will lose you if you do not speak; myresolution is made: I am going away alone. "

"But, Octave--"

"But, " I cried, "time will justify you! Let us put an end to it; yes orno?"

"Yes, I hope so. "

"You hope so! Will you answer me definitely? This is doubtless the lasttime you will have the opportunity. You tell me that you love me, and Ibelieve it. I suspect you; is it your intention to allow me to go awayand rely on time to justify you?"

"Of what do you suspect me?"

"I do not choose to say, for I see that it would be useless. But, afterall, misery for misery, at your leisure; I am as well pleased. Youdeceive me, you love another; that is your secret and mine. "

"Who is it?" she asked. 

"Smith. "

She placed her hand on her lips and turned aside. I could say no more;we were both pensive, our eyes fixed on the floor. 

"Listen to me, " she began with an effort, "I have suffered much. I callheaven to bear me witness that I would give my life for you. So long asthe faintest gleam of hope remains, I am ready to suffer anything; but, although I may rouse your anger in saying to you that I am a woman, Iam nevertheless a woman, my friend. We can not go beyond the limitsof human endurance. Beyond a certain point I will not answer for theconsequences. All I can do at this moment is to get down on my kneesbefore you and beseech you not to go away. "

She knelt down as she spoke. I arose. 

"Fool that I am!" I muttered, bitterly; "fool, to try to get thetruth from a woman! He who undertakes such a task will earn naughtbut derision and will deserve it! Truth! Only he who consorts withchambermaids knows it, only he who steals to their pillow and listensto the unconscious utterance of a dream, hears it. He alone knows it whomakes a woman of himself, and initiates himself into the secrets of hercult of inconstancy! But man, who asks for it openly, he who opens aloyal hand to receive that frightful alms, he will never obtain it! Theyare on guard with him; for reply he receives a shrug of the shoulders, and, if he rouses himself in his impatience, they rise in righteousindignation like an outraged vestal, while there falls from their lipsthe great feminine oracle that suspicion destroys love, and they refuseto pardon an accusation which they are unable to meet. Ah! just God! Howweary I am! When will all this cease?"

"Whenever you please, " said she, coldly; "I am as tired of it as you. "

"At this very moment; I leave you forever, and may time justify you!Time! Time! Oh! what a cold lover! Remember this adieu. Time! and thybeauty, and thy love, and thy happiness, where will they be? Is it thus, without regret, you allow me to go? Ah! the day when the jealous loverwill know that he has been unjust, the day when he shall see proofs, he will understand what a heart he has wounded, is it not so? He willbewail his shame, he will know neither joy nor sleep; he will live onlyin the memory of the time when he might have been happy. But, on thatday, his proud mistress will turn pale as she sees herself avenged; shewill say to herself: 'If I had only done it sooner!' And believe me, ifshe loves him, pride will not console her. "

I tried to be calm, but I was no longer master of myself, and I began topace the floor as she had done. There are certain glances that resemblethe clashing of drawn swords; such glances Brigitte and I exchanged atthat moment. I looked at her as the prisoner looks on her at the door ofhis dungeon. In order to break her sealed lips and force her to speak Iwould give my life and hers. 

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you wish me to tell you?"

"What you have on your heart. Are you cruel enough to make me repeatit?"

"And you, you, " she cried, "are you not a hundred times more cruel? Ah!fool, as you say, who would know the truth! Fool that I should be if Iexpected you to believe it! You would know my secret, and my secret isthat I love you. Fool that I am! you will seek another. That pallor ofwhich you are the cause, you accuse it, you question it. Like a fool, Ihave tried to suffer in silence, to consecrate to you my resignation;I have tried to conceal my tears; you have played the spy, and you havecounted them as witnesses against me. Fool that I am! I have thought ofcrossing seas, of exiling myself from France with you, of dying far fromall who have loved me, leaning for sole support on a heart that doubtsme. Fool that I am! I thought that truth had a glance, an accent, thatcould not be mistaken, that would be respected! Ah! when I think of it, tears choke me. Why, if it must ever be thus, induce me to take a stepthat will forever destroy my peace? My head is confused, I do not knowwhere I am!"

She leaned on me weeping. "Fool! Fool!" she repeated, in a heartrendingvoice. 

"And what is it you ask?" she continued, "what can I do to meet thosesuspicions that are ever born anew, that alter with your moods? Imust justify myself, you say! For what? For loving, for dying, for despairing? And if I assume a forced cheerfulness, even thatcheerfulness offends you. I sacrifice everything to follow you andyou have not gone a league before you look back. Always, everywhere, whatever I may do, insults and anger!"

"Ah! dear child, if you knew what a mortal chill comes over me, whatsuffering I endure in seeing my simplest words this taken up and hurledback at me with suspicion and sarcasm! By that course you depriveyourself of the only happiness there is in the world--perfect love. Youkill all delicate and lofty sentiment in the hearts of those who loveyou; soon you will believe in nothing except the material and the gross;of love there will remain for you only that which is visible and canbe touched with the finger. You are young, Octave, and you have still along life before you; you will have other mistresses. Yes, as you say, pride is a little thing and it is not to it I look for consolation; butGod wills that your tears shall one day pay me for those which I nowshed for you!"

She arose. 

"Must it be said? Must you know that for six months I have not soughtrepose without repeating to myself that it was all in vain, that youwould never be cured; that I have never risen in the morning withoutsaying that another effort must be made; that after every word you havespoken I have felt that I ought to leave you, and that you have notgiven me a caress that I would rather die than endure; that, day by day, minute by minute, hesitating between hope and fear, I have vainly triedto conquer either my love or my grief; that, when I opened my heart toyou, you pierced it with a mocking glance, and that, when I closed it, it seemed to me I felt within it a treasure that none but you coulddispense? Shall I speak of all the frailty and all the mysteries whichseem puerile to those who do not respect them? Shall I tell you thatwhen you left me in anger I shut myself up to read your first letters;that there is a favorite waltz that I never played in vain when I felttoo keenly the suffering caused by your presence? Ah! wretch that I am!How dearly all these unnumbered tears, all these follies, so sweet tothe feeble, are purchased! Weep now; not even this punishment, thissorrow, will avail you. "

I tried to interrupt her. 

"Allow me to continue, " she said; "the time has come when I must speak. Let us see, why do you doubt me? For six months, in thought, in body, and in soul, I have belonged to no one but you. Of what do you daresuspect me? Do you wish to set out for Switzerland? I am ready, as yousee. Do you think you have a rival? Send him a letter that I will signand you will direct. What are we doing? Where are we going? Let usdecide. Are we not always together? Very well then, why would you leaveme? I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment. Itis necessary to have confidence in those we love. Love is either good orbad: if good, we must believe in it; if evil, we must cure ourselves ofit. All this, you see, is a game we are playing; but our hearts and ourlives are the stakes, and it is horrible! Do you wish to die? That wouldperhaps be better. Who am I that you should doubt me?"

She stopped before the glass. 

"Who am I?" she repeated, "who am I? Think of it. Look at this face ofmine. "

"Doubt thee!" she cried, addressing her own image; "poor, pale face, thou art suspected! poor, thin cheeks, poor, tired eyes, thou and thytears are in disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering; letthose kisses that have wasted thee close thy lids! Descend into the coldearth, poor trembling body that can no longer support its own weight. When thou art there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believesin death. O sorrowful spectre! On the banks of what stream wilt thouwander and groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a longjourney and thou hast one foot in the grave!

"Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried to love. Ah! what wealthof love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what dreams thou hast had, what poisons thou hast drunk! What evil hast thou committed that thereshould be placed in thy breast a fever that consumes! What fury animatesthat blind creature who pushes thee into the grave with his foot, whilehis lips speak to thee of love? What will become of you if you live? Isit not time to end it all? Is it not enough? What proof canst thou givethat will satisfy when thou, poor, living proof, art not believed? Towhat torture canst thou submit that thou hast not already endured? Bywhat torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appease insatiable love? Thouwilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing to excite laughter; thouwilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the finger of scorn. Thouwilt lose all shame and even that appearance of virtue which has beenso dear to you; and the man for whom you have disgraced yourself will bethe first to punish you. He will reproach you for living for him alone, for braving the world for him, and while your friends are whisperingabout you, he will listen to assure himself that no word of pity isspoken; he will accuse you of deceiving him if another hand even thenpresses yours, and if, in the desert of life, you find some one who canspare you a word of pity in passing. 

"O God! dost thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed onmy head? Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand thathung it on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, to dust!Oh, my native valley! Oh, my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace! Oh, mylindens, my little white goat, my dear peasants who loved me so much!You remember when I was happy, proud, and respected? Who threw in mypath that stranger who took me away from all this? Who gave him theright to enter my life? Ah! wretch! why didst thou turn the first dayhe followed you? Why didst thou receive him as a brother? Why didst thouopen thy door, and why didst thou hold out thy hand? Octave, Octave, whyhave you loved me if all is to end thus?"

She was about to faint as I led her to a chair where she sank downand her head fell on my shoulder. The terrible effort she had made inspeaking to me so bitterly had broken her down. Instead of an outragedwoman I found now only a suffering child. Her eyes closed and she wasmotionless. 

When she regained consciousness she complained of extreme languor, andbegged to be left alone that she might rest. She could hardly walk; Icarried her gently to her room and placed her on the bed. There was nomark of suffering on her face: she was resting from her sorrow asfrom great fatigue, and seemed not even to remember it. Her feeble anddelicate body yielded without a struggle; the strain had been too great. She held my hand in hers; I kissed her; our lips met in loving union, and after the cruel scene through which she had passed, she sleptsmilingly on my heart as on the first day. 

CHAPTER VI. SELF-SACRIFICE THE SOLUTION

Brigitte slept. Silent, motionless, I sat near her. As a husbandman, when the storm has passed, counts the sheaves that remain in hisdevastated field, thus I began to estimate the evil I had done. 

The more I thought of it, the more irreparable I felt it to be. Certainsorrows, by their very excess, warn us of their limits, and the moreshame and remorse I experienced, the more I felt that after such ascene, nothing remained for us to do but to say adieu. Whatever courageBrigitte had shown, she had drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of her sadlove; unless I wished to see her die, I must give her repose. She hadoften addressed cruel reproaches to me, and had, perhaps, on certainother occasions shown more anger than in this scene; but what she hadsaid this time was not dictated by offended pride; it was the truth, which, hidden closely in her heart, had broken it in escaping. 

Our present relations, and the fact that I had refused to go away withher, destroyed all hope; she desired to pardon me, but she had not thepower. This slumber even, this deathlike sleep of one who could sufferno more, was conclusive evidence; this sudden silence, the tendernessshe had shown in the final moments, that pale face, and that kiss, confirmed me in the belief that all was over, and that I had brokenforever whatever bond had united us. As surely as she slept now, as soonas I gave her cause for further suffering she would sleep in eternalrest. The clock struck and I felt that the last hour had carried away mylife with hers. 

Unwilling to call any one, I lighted Brigitte's lamp; I watched itsfeeble flame and my thoughts seemed to flicker in the darkness like itsuncertain rays. 

Whatever I had said or done, the idea of losing Brigitte had neveroccurred to me up to this time. A hundred times I wished to leave her, but who has loved and is ready to say just what is in his heart? Thatwas in times of despair or of anger. So long as I knew that she lovedme, I was sure of loving her; stern necessity had just arisen between usfor the first time. I experienced a dull languor and could distinguishnothing clearly. What my mind understood, my soul recoiled fromaccepting. "Come, " I said to myself, "I have desired it and I have doneit; there is not the slightest hope that we can live together; I amunwilling to kill this woman, so I have no alternative but to leave her. It is all over; I shall go away tomorrow. "

And all the while I was thinking neither of my responsibility, nor ofthe past, nor future; I thought neither of Smith nor his connection withthe affair; I could not say who had led me there, or what I had doneduring the last hour. I looked at the walls of the room and thought thatall I had to do was to wait until to-morrow and decide what carriage Iwould take. 

I remained for a long time in this strange calm, just as the man whoreceives a thrust from a poignard feels at first only the cold steel andcan often travel some distance ere he becomes weak, and his eyes startfrom their sockets and he realizes what has happened. But drop by dropthe blood flows, the ground under his feet becomes red, death comes; theman, at its approach, shudders with horror and falls as though struckby a thunderbolt. Thus, apparently calm, I awaited the coming ofmisfortune; I repeated in a low voice what Brigitte had said, and Iplaced near her all that I supposed she would need for the night; thenI looked at her, then went to the window and pressed my forehead againstthe pane peering out at a sombre and lowering sky; then I returned tothe bedside. That I was going away tomorrow was the only thought in mymind, and little by little the word "depart" became intelligible to me. "Ah! God!" I suddenly cried, "my poor mistress, I am about to lose you, and I have not known how to love you!"

I trembled at these words as if it had been another who had pronouncedthem; they resounded through all my being as resounds the string of theharp that has been plucked to the point of breaking. In an instanttwo years of suffering again racked my breast, and after them as theirconsequence and as their last expression, the present seized me. Howshall I describe such woe? By a single word, perhaps, for those who haveloved. I had taken Brigitte's hand, and, in a dream, doubtless, she hadpronounced my name. 

I arose and went to my room; a torrent of tears flowed from my eyes. Iheld out my arms as if to seize the past which was escaping me. "Is itpossible, " I repeated, "that I am going to lose you? I can love no onebut you. What! you are going away? And forever? What! you, my life, myadored mistress, you flee me, I shall never see you more? Never! never!"I said aloud; and, addressing myself to the slumbering Brigitte as ifshe could hear me, I added: "Never, never; do not think of it; I willnever consent to it. And why so much pride? Are there no means ofatoning for the offense I have committed? I beg of you, let us seek someexpiation. Have you not pardoned me a thousand times? But you love me, you will not be able to go, for courage will fail you. What shall wedo?"

A horrible madness seized me; I began to run here and there in searchof some instrument of death. At last I fell on my knees and beat myhead against the bed. Brigitte stirred, and I remained quiet, fearing Ishould waken her. 

"Let her sleep until to-morrow, " I said to myself; "I have all night towatch her. "

I resumed my place; I was so frightened at the idea of waking Brigitte, that I scarcely dared breathe. Gradually I became more calm and lessbitter tears began to course gently down my cheeks. Tenderness succeededfury. I leaned over Brigitte and looked at her as if, for the last time, my better angel were urging me to grave on my soul the lines of thatdear face!

How pale she was! Her large eyes, surrounded by a bluish circle, weremoist with tears; her form, once so lithe, was bent as if beneath aburden; her cheek, wasted and leaden, rested on a hand that was spareand feeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thornswhich is the diadem of resignation. I thought of the cottage. How youngshe was six months ago! How cheerful, how free, how careless! What had Idone with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an oldromance that I had long since forgotten:

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

My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began towalk the floor. "Yes, " I continued, "look at her; think of those whoare consumed by a grief that is not shared with another. The evils youendure others have suffered, and nothing is singular or peculiar to you. Think of those who have no mother, no relatives, no friends; of thosewho seek and do not find, of those who love in vain, of those who dieand are forgotten. "

"Before thee, there on that bed, lies a being that nature, perchance, formed for thee. From the highest circles of intelligence to the deepestand most impenetrable mysteries of matter and of form, that soul andthat body are thy affinities; for six months thy mouth has not spoken, thy heart has not beat, without a responsive word and heart-beat fromher; and that woman, whom God has sent thee as He sends the rose to thefield, is about to glide from thy heart. While rejoicing in each other'spresence, while the angels of eternal love were singing before you, youwere farther apart than two exiles at the two ends of the earth. Look ather, but be silent. Thou hast still one night to see her, if thy sobs donot awaken her. "

Little by little, my thoughts mounted and became more sombre, until Irecoiled in terror. 

"To do evil! Such was the role imposed upon me by Providence. I, to doevil! I, to whom my conscience, even in the midst of my wildest follies, said that I was good! I, whom a pitiless destiny was dragging swiftlytoward the abyss and whom a secret horror unceasingly warned of theawful fate to come! I, who, if I had shed blood with these hands, couldyet repeat that my heart was not guilty; that I was deceived, that itwas not I who did it, but my destiny, my evil genius, some unknown beingwho dwelt within me, but who was not born there!

"I do evil! For six months I had been engaged in that task, not a dayhad passed that I had not worked at that impious occupation, and I hadat that moment the proof before my eyes. The man who had loved Brigitte, who had offended her, then insulted her, then abandoned her only totake her back again, trembling with fear, beset with suspicion, finallythrown on that bed of sorrow, where she now lay extended, was I!"

I beat my breast, and, although looking at her, I could not believe it. I touched her as if to assure myself that it was not a dream. My face, as I saw it in the glass, regarded me with astonishment. Who was thatcreature who appeared before me bearing my features? Who was thatpitiless man who blasphemed with my mouth and tortured with my hands?Was it he whom my mother called Octave? Was it he who, at fifteen, leaning over the crystal waters of a fountain, had a heart not less purethan they? I closed my eyes and thought of my childhood days. As a rayof light pierces a cloud, a gleam from the past pierced my heart. 

"No, " I mused, "I did not do that. These things are but an absurddream. "

I recalled the time when I was ignorant of life, when I was taking myfirst steps in experience. I remembered an old beggar who used to siton a stone bench before the farm gate, to whom I was sometimes sent withthe remains of our morning meal. Holding out his feeble, wrinkled handshe would bless me as he smiled upon me. I felt the morning wind blowingon my brow and a freshness as of the rose descending from heaven intomy soul. Then I opened my eyes and, by the light of the lamp, saw thereality before me. 

"And you do not believe yourself guilty?" I demanded, with horror. "Onovice of yesterday, how corrupt art thou today! Because you weep, youfondly imagine yourself innocent? What you consider the evidence of yourconscience is only remorse; and what murderer does not experience it? Ifyour virtue cries out, is it not because it feels the approach of death?O wretch! those far-off voices that you hear groaning in your heart, doyou think they are sobs? They are perhaps only the cry of the sea-mew, that funereal bird of the tempest, whose presence portends shipwreck. Who has ever told the story of the childhood of those who have diedstained with human blood? They, also, have been good in their day; theysometimes bury their faces in their hands and think of those happydays. You do evil, and you repent? Nero did the same when he killed hismother. Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt?

"And even if it were true that a part of your soul is not devoted toevil forever, what will you do with the other part that is not yours?You will touch with your left hand the wounds that you inflict withyour right; you will make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury yourcrimes; you will strike, and like Brutus you will engrave on your swordthe prattle of Plato! Into the heart of the being who opens her armsto you, you will plunge that blood-stained but repentant arm; you willfollow to the cemetery the victim of your passion, and you will plant onher grave the sterile flower of your pity. You will say to those who seeyou 'What could you expect? I have learned how to kill, and observe thatI already, weep; learn that God made me better than you see me. ' Youwill speak of your youth, and you will persuade yourself that heavenought to pardon you, that your misfortunes are involuntary, and you willimplore sleepless nights to grant you a little repose. 

"But who knows? You are still young. The more you trust in your heart, the farther astray you will be led by your pride. To-day you standbefore the first ruin you are going to leave on your route. If Brigittedies to-morrow you will weep on her tomb; where will you go when youleave her? You will go away for three months perhaps, and you willtravel in Italy; you will wrap your cloak about you like a spleneticEnglishman, and you will say some beautiful morning, sitting in your innwith your glasses before you, that it is time to forget in order to liveagain. 

"You who weep too late, take care lest you weep more than one day. Whoknows? When the present which makes you shudder shall have become thepast, an old story, a confused memory, may it not happen some night ofdebauchery that you will overturn your chair and recount, with a smileon your lips, what you witnessed with tears in your eyes? It is thusthat one drinks away shame. You have begun by being good, you willbecome weak, and you will become a monster. 

"My poor friend, " said I, from the bottom of my heart, "I have a word ofadvice for you, and it is this: I believe that you must die. While thereis still some virtue left, profit by it in order that you may not becomealtogether bad; while a woman you love lies there dying on that bed, andwhile you have a horror of yourself, strike the decisive blow; she stilllives; that is enough; do not attend her funeral obsequies for fear thaton the morrow you will not be consoled; turn the poignard against yourown heart while that heart yet loves the God who made it. Is it youryouth that gives you pause? And would you spare those youthful locks?Never allow them to whiten if they are not white to-night. 

"And then what would you do in the world? If you go away, where will yougo? What can you hope for if you remain? Ah! in looking at that womanyou seem to have a treasure buried in your heart. It is not merely thatyou lose her; it is less what has been than what might have been. Whenthe hands of the clock indicated such and such an hour, you might havebeen happy. If you suffer why do you not open your heart? If you love, why do you not say so? Why do you die of hunger, clasping a pricelesstreasure in your hands? You have closed the door, you miser; you debatewith yourself behind locks and bolts. Shake them, for it was your handthat forged them. 

"O fool! who desired and have possessed your desire, you have notthought of God! You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle, and you do not reflect how rare and fragile a thing you hold in yourhands; you treat it with disdain, you smile at it and you continue toamuse yourself with it, forgetting how many prayers it has cost yourgood angel to preserve for you that shadow of daylight! Ah! if there isin heaven one who watches over you, what is he doing at this moment? Heis seated before an organ; his wings are half-folded, his hands extendedover the ivory keys; he begins an eternal hymn; the hymn of love andimmortal rest, but his wings droop, his head falls over the keys; theangel of death has touched him on the shoulder, he disappears into theNirvana. 

"And you, at the age of twenty-two, when a noble and exalted passion, when the strength of youth might perhaps have made something of you whenafter so many sorrows and bitter disappointments, a youth so dissipated, you saw a better time shining in the future; when your life, consecratedto the object of your adoration, gave promise of new strength, atthat moment the abyss yawns before you! You no longer experience vaguedesires, but real regrets; your heart is no longer hungry, it is broken!And you hesitate? What do you expect? Since she no longer cares for yourlife, it counts for nothing! Since she abandons you, abandon yourself!

"Let those who have loved you in your youth weep for you! They are notmany. If you would live, you must not only forget love, but you mustdeny that it exists; not only deny what there has been of good in you, but kill all that may be good in the future; for what will you do if youremember? Life for you would be one ceaseless regret. No, no, you mustchoose between your soul and your body; you must kill one or the other. The memory of the good drives you to the evil, make a corpse of yourselfunless you wish to become your own spectre. O child, child! die whileyou can! May tears be shed over your grave!"

I threw myself on the foot of the bed in such a frightful state ofdespair that my reason fled and I no longer knew where I was or what Iwas doing. Brigitte sighed. 

My senses stirred within me. Was it grief or despair? I do not know. Suddenly a horrible idea occurred to me. 

"What!" I muttered, "leave that for another! Die, descend into theground, while that bosom heaves with the air of heaven? Just God!another hand than mine on that fine, transparent skin! Another mouth onthose lips, another love in that heart! Brigitte happy, loving, adored, and I in a corner of the cemetery, crumbling into dust in a ditch! Howlong will it take her to forget me if I cease to exist to-morrow? Howmany tears will she shed? None, perhaps! Not a friend who speaks toher but will say that my death was a good thing, who will not hasten toconsole her, who will not urge her to forget me! If she weeps, they willseek to distract her attention from her loss; if memory haunts her, theywill take her away; if her love for me survives me, they will seek tocure her as if she had been poisoned; and she herself, who will perhapsat first say that she desires to follow me, will a month later turnaside to avoid the weeping-willow planted over my grave!

"How could it be otherwise? Who, as beautiful as she, wastes life inidle regrets? If she should think of dying of grief, that beautifulbosom would urge her to live, and her mirror would persuade her; and theday when her exhausted tears give place to the first smile, who will notcongratulate her on her recovery? When, after eight days of silence, sheconsents to hear my name pronounced in her presence, then she will speakof it herself as if to say: 'Console me;' then little by little she willno longer refuse to think of the past but will speak of it, and she willopen her window some beautiful spring morning when the birds are singingin the garden; she will become pensive and say: 'I have loved!' Who willbe there at her side? Who will dare to tell her that she must continueto love?

"Ah! then I shall be no more! You will listen to him, faithless one! Youwill blush as does the budding rose, and the blood of youth will mountto your face. While saying that your heart is sealed, you will allowit to escape through that fresh aureole of beauty, each ray of whichallures a kiss. How much they desire to be loved who say they love nomore! And why should that astonish you? You are a woman; that body, that spotless bosom, you know what they are worth; when you conceal themunder your dress you do not believe, as do the virgins, that all arealike, and you know the price of your modesty. How can a woman who hasbeen praised resolve to be praised no more? Does she think she is livingwhen she remains in the shadow and there is silence round about herbeauty? Her beauty itself is the admiring glance of her lover. No, no, there can be no doubt of it; she who has loved, can not live withoutlove; she who has seen death clings to life. Brigitte loves me and willperhaps die of love; I will kill myself and another will have her. 

"Another, another!" I repeated, bending over her until my head touchedher shoulder. "Is she not a widow? Has she not already seen death? Havenot these little hands prepared the dead for burial? Her tears forthe second will not flow as long as those shed for the first. Ah! Godforgive me! While she sleeps why should I not kill her? If I shouldawaken her now and tell her that her hour had come, and that we weregoing to die with a last kiss, she would consent. What does it matter?Is it certain that all does not end with that?"

I found a knife on the table and I picked it up. 

"Fear, cowardice, superstition! What do they know about it who talkof something else beyond? It is for the ignorant common people thata future life has been invented, but who really believes in it?What watcher in the cemetery has seen Death leave his tomb and holdconsultation with a priest? In olden times there were phantoms; theyare interdicted by the police in civilized cities, and no cries are nowheard issuing from the earth except from those buried in haste. Who hassilenced death, if it has ever spoken? Because funeral processions areno longer permitted to encumber our streets, does the celestial spiritlanguish?

"To die, that is the final purpose, the end. God has established it, mandiscusses it; but over every door is written: 'Do what thou wilt, thoushalt die. ' What will be said if I kill Brigitte? Neither of us willhear. In to-morrow's journal would appear the intelligence that Octavede T-----had killed his mistress, and the day after no one would speakof it. Who would follow us to the grave? No one who, upon returning tohis home, could not enjoy a hearty dinner; and when we were extendedside by side in our narrow, bed, the world could walk over our graveswithout disturbing us. 

"Is it not true, my well-beloved, is it not true that it would be wellwith us? It is a soft bed, that bed of earth; no suffering can reach usthere; the occupants of the neighboring tombs will not gossip about us;our bones will embrace in peace and without pride, for death is solace, and that which binds does not also separate. Why should annihilationfrighten thee, poor body, destined to corruption? Every hour thatstrikes drags thee on to thy doom, every step breaks the round on whichthou hast just rested; thou art nourished by the dead; the air of heavenweighs upon and crushes thee, the earth on which thou treadest attractsthee by the soles of thy feet. 

"Down with thee! Why art thou affrighted? Dost thou tremble at a word?Merely say: 'We will not live. ' Is not life a burden that we long to laydown? Why hesitate when it is merely a question of a little sooner or alittle later? Matter is indestructible, and the physicists, we aretold, grind to infinity the smallest speck of dust without being able toannihilate it. If matter is the property of chance, what harm can it doto change its form since it can not cease to be matter? Why should Godcare what form I have received and with what livery I invest my grief?Suffering lives in my brain; it belongs to me, I kill it; but my bonesdo not belong to me and I return them to Him who lent them to me: maysome poet make a cup of my skull from which to drink his new wine!

"What reproach can I incur and what harm can that reproach do me? Whatstern judge will tell me that I have done wrong? What does he know aboutit?

"Was he such as I? If every creature has his task to perform, and ifit is a crime to shirk it, what culprits are the babes who die on thenurse's breast! Why should they be spared? Who will be instructed by thelessons which are taught after death? Must heaven be a desert in orderthat man may be punished for having lived? Is it not enough to havelived? I do not know who asked that question, unless it were Voltaireon his death-bed; it is a cry of despair worthy of the helpless oldatheist. 

"But to what purpose? Why so many struggles? Who is there above us whodelights in so much agony? Who amuses himself and wiles away an idlehour watching this spectacle of creation, always renewed and alwaysdying, seeing the work of man's hands rising, the grass growing; lookingupon the planting of the seed and the fall of the thunderbolt; beholdingman walking about upon his earth until he meets the beckoning fingerof death; counting tears and watching them dry upon the cheek of pain;noting the pure profile of love and the wrinkled face of age; seeinghands stretched up to him in supplication, bodies prostrate before him, and not a blade of wheat more in the harvest!

"Who is it, then, that has made so much for the pleasure of knowing thatit all amounts to nothing! The earth is dying--Herschel says it is ofcold; who holds in his hand the drop of condensed vapor and watches itas it dries up, as a fisher watches a grain of sand in his hand? Thatmighty law of attraction that suspends the world in space, tormentsit--and consumes it in endless desire--every planet that carries itsload of misery and groans on its axle--calls to each other across theabyss, and each wonders which will stop first. God controls them; theyaccomplish assiduously and eternally their appointed and useless task;they whirl about, they suffer, they burn, they become extinct and theylight up with new flame; they descend and they reascend, they followand yet they avoid one another, they interlace like rings; they carryon their surface thousands of beings who are ceaselessly renewed; thebeings move about, cross one another's paths, clasp one another for anhour, and then fall, and others rise in their place. 

"Where life fails, life hastens to the spot; where air is wanting, airrushes; no disorder, everything is regulated, marked out, written downin lines of gold and parables of fire; everything keeps step with thecelestial music along the pitiless paths of life; and all for nothing!And we, poor nameless dreams, pale and sorrowful apparitions, helplessephemera, we who are animated by the breath of a second in order thatdeath may exist, we exhaust ourselves with fatigue in order to provethat we are living for a purpose, and that something indefinable isstirring within us. 

"We hesitate to turn against our breasts a little piece of steel, or toblow out our brains with a little instrument no larger than our hands;it seems to us that chaos would return again; we have written andrevised the laws both human and divine, and we are afraid of ourcatechisms; we suffer thirty years without murmuring and imagine that weare struggling; finally suffering becomes the stronger, we send a pinchof powder into the sanctuary of intelligence, and a flower pierces thesoil above our grave. "

As I finished these words I directed the knife I held in my hand againstBrigitte's bosom. I was no longer master of myself, and in my deliriouscondition I know not what might have happened; I threw back thebed-clothing to uncover the heart, when I discovered on her white bosoma little ebony crucifix. 

I recoiled, seized with sudden fear; my hand relaxed, my weapon fell tothe floor. It was Brigitte's aunt who had given her that littlecrucifix on her deathbed. I did not remember ever having seen it before;doubtless, at the moment of setting out, she had suspended it about herneck as a preserving charm against the dangers of the journey. SuddenlyI joined my hands and knelt on the floor. 

"O Lord, my God, " I said, in trembling tones, "Lord, my God, thou artthere!"

Let those who do not believe in Christ read this page; I no longerbelieved in Him. Neither as a child, nor at school, nor as a man, haveI frequented churches; my religion, if I had any, had neither ritenor symbol, and I believed in a God without form, without a cult, andwithout revelation. Poisoned, from youth, by all the writings of thelast century, I had sucked, at an early hour, the sterile milk ofimpiety. Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed my mouth againstprayer, while my affrighted soul took refuge in the hope of nothingness. I was as if drunken or insensate when I saw that effigy of Christ onBrigitte's bosom; while not believing in Him myself, I recoiled, knowingthat she believed in Him. 

It was not vain terror that arrested my hand. Who saw me? I was aloneand it was night. Was it prejudice? What prevented me from hurling outof my sight that little piece of black wood? I could have thrown it intothe fire, but it was my weapon I threw there. Ah! what an experiencethat was and still is for my soul! What miserable wretches are men whomock at that which can save a human being! What matters the name, theform, the belief? Is not all that is good sacred? How dare any one touchGod?

As at a glance from the sun the snows descend the mountains, and theglaciers that threatened heaven melt into streams in the valley, sothere descended into my heart a stream that overflowed its banks. Repentance is a pure incense; it exhaled from all my suffering. AlthoughI had almost committed a crime when my hand was arrested, I felt thatmy heart was innocent. In an instant, calm, self-possession, reasonreturned; I again approached the bed; I leaned over my idol and kissedthe crucifix. 

"Sleep in peace, " I said to her, "God watches over you! While your lipswere parting in a smile, you were in greater danger than you have everknown before. But the hand that threatened you will harm no one; I swearby the faith you profess I will not kill either you or myself! I am afool, a madman, a child who thinks himself a man. God be praised! Youare young and beautiful. You live and you will forget me. You willrecover from the evil I have done you, if you can forgive me. Sleepin peace until day, Brigitte, and then decide our fate; to whateversentence you pronounce I will submit without complaint. 

"And thou, Lord, who hast saved me, grant me pardon. I was born in animpious century, and I have many crimes to expiate. Thou Son of God, whom men forget, I have not been taught to love Thee. I have neverworshipped in Thy temples, but I thank heaven that where I find Thee, I tremble and bow in reverence. I have at least kissed with my lips aheart that is full of Thee. Protect that heart so long as life lasts;dwell within it, Thou Holy One; a poor unfortunate has been braveenough to defy death at the sight of Thy suffering and Thy death; thoughimpious, Thou hast saved him from evil; if he had believed, Thou wouldsthave consoled him. 

"Pardon those who have made him incredulous since Thou hast made himrepentant; pardon those who blaspheme! When they were in despair theydid not see Thee! Human joys are a mockery; they are scornful andpitiless; O Lord! the happy of this world think they have no need ofThee! Pardon them. Although their pride may outrage Thee, they will be, sooner or later, baptized in tears; grant that they may cease to believein any other shelter from the tempest than Thy love, and spare themthe severe lessons of unhappiness. Our wisdom and scepticism are inour hands but children's toys; forgive us for dreaming that we can defyThee, Thou who smilest at Golgotha. The worst result of all our vainmisery is that it tempts us to forget Thee. 

"But Thou knowest that it is all but a shadow which a glance from Theecan dissipate. Hast not Thou Thyself been a man? It was sorrow that madeThee God; sorrow is an instrument of torture by which Thou hast mountedto the very throne of God, Thy Father, and it is sorrow that leads us toThee with our crown of thorns to kneel before Thy mercy-seat; we touchThy bleeding feet with our bloodstained hands, for Thou hast sufferedmartyrdom to be loved by the unfortunate. "

The first rays of dawn began to appear: man and nature were rousingthemselves from sleep and the air was filled with the confusion ofdistant sounds. Weak and exhausted, I was about to leave Brigitte, andseek a little repose. As I was passing out of the room, a dress thrownon a chair slipped to the floor near me, and in its folds I spieda piece of paper. I picked it up; it was a letter, and I recognizedBrigitte's hand. The envelope was not sealed. I opened it and read asfollows:

 23 December, 18--

 "When you receive this letter I shall be far away from you, and shall perhaps never see you again. My destiny is bound up with that of a man for whom I have sacrificed everything; he can not live without me, and I am going to try to die for him. I love you; adieu, and pity us. "

I turned the letter over when I had read it, and saw that it wasaddressed to "M. Henri Smith, N------, poste restante. "

On the morrow, a clear December day, a young man and a woman who restedon his arm, passed through the garden of the Palais-Royal. Theyentered a jeweler's store where they chose two similar rings whichthey smilingly exchanged. After a short walk they took breakfast at theFreres-Provencaux, in one of those little rooms which are, all thingsconsidered, the most beautiful spots in the world. There, when thegarcon had left them, they sat near the windows hand in hand. 

The young man was in travelling dress; to see the joy which shone onhis face, one would have taken him for a young husband showing his youngwife the beauties and pleasures of Parisian life. His happiness was calmand subdued, as true happiness always is. The experienced would haverecognized in him the youth who merges into manhood. From time to timehe looked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered inhis eyes, but he heeded them not, but smiled as he wept. The woman waspale and thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man. On her face weretraces of sorrow which she could not conceal, although evidently touchedby the exalted joy of her companion. 

When he smiled, she smiled too, but never alone; when he spoke, shereplied, and she ate what he served her; but there was about her asilence which was only broken at his instance. In her languor couldbe clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, that lethargy of theweaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only in the other andresponds to him as does the echo. The young man was conscious of it, andseemed proud of it and grateful for it; but it could be seen even by hispride that his happiness was new to him. 

When the woman became sad and her eyes fell, he cheered her with hisglance; but he could not always succeed, and seemed troubled himself. That mingling of strength and weakness, of joy and sorrow, of anxietyand serenity, could not have been understood by an indifferentspectator; at times they appeared the most happy of living creatures, and the next moment the most unhappy; but, although ignorant of theirsecret, one would have felt that they were suffering together, and, whatever their mysterious trouble, it could be seen that they had placedon their sorrow a seal more powerful than love itself-friendship. Whiletheir hands were clasped their glances were chaste; although they werealone they spoke in low tones. As if overcome by their feelings, theysat face to face, although their lips did not touch. They looked at eachother tenderly and solemnly. When the clock struck one, the woman heaveda sigh and said:

"Octave, are you sure of yourself?"

"Yes, my friend, I am resolved. I shall suffer much, a long time, perhaps forever; but we will cure ourselves, you with time, I with God. "

"Octave, Octave, " repeated the woman, "are you sure you are notdeceiving yourself?"

"I do not believe we can forget each other; but I believe that we canforgive, and that is what I desire even at the price of separation. "

"Why could we not meet again? Why not some day--you are so young!"

Then she added, with a smile:

"We could see each other without danger. "

"No, my friend, for you must know that I could never see you againwithout loving you. May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of you!Smith is brave, good, and honest, but however much you may love him, yousee very well that you still love me, for if I should decide to remain, or to take you away with me, you would consent. "

"It is true, " replied the woman. 

"True! true!" repeated the young man, looking into her eyes with all hissoul. "Is it true that if I wished it you would go with me?"

Then he continued, softly:

"That is the reason why I must never see you again. There are certainloves in life that overturn the head, the senses, the mind, the heart;there is among them all but one that does not disturb, that penetrates, and that dies only with the being in which it has taken root. "

"But you will write to me?"

"Yes, at first, for what I have to suffer is so keen that the absence ofthe habitual object of my love would kill me. When I was unknown to you, I gradually approached closer and closer to you, until--but let us notgo into the past. Little by little my letters will become less frequentuntil they cease altogether. I shall thus descend the hill that I havebeen climbing for the past year. When one stands before a freshgrave, over which are engraved two cherished names, one experiencesa mysterious sense of grief, which causes tears to trickle down one'scheeks; it is thus that I wish to remember having once lived. "

At these words the woman threw herself on the couch and burst intotears. The young man wept with her, but he did not move and seemedanxious to appear unconscious of her emotion. When her tears ceased toflow, he approached her, took her hand in his and kissed it. 

"Believe me, " said he, "to be loved by you, whatever the name of theplace I occupy in your heart, will give me strength and courage. Restassured, Brigitte, no one will ever understand you better than I;another will love you more worthily, no one will love you more truly. Another will be considerate of those feelings that I offend, he willsurround you with his love; you will have a better lover, you will nothave a better brother. Give me your hand and let the world laugh ata sentence that it does not understand: Let us be friends, and partforever. Before we became such intimate friends there was somethingwithin that told us we were destined to mingle our lives. Let our soulsnever know that we have parted upon earth; let not the paltry chance ofa moment undo our eternal happiness!"

He held the woman's hand; she arose, tears streaming from her eyes, and, stepping up to the mirror with a strange smile on her face, she cutfrom her head a long tress of hair; then she looked at herself thusdisfigured and deprived of a part of her beautiful crown, and gave it toher lover. 

The clock struck again; it was time to go; when they passed out theyseemed as joyful as when they entered. 

"What a beautiful sun!" said the young man. 

"And a beautiful day, " said Brigitte, "the memory of which shall neverfade. "

They hastened away and disappeared in the crowd. 

Some time later a carriage passed over a little hill behindFontainebleau. The young man was the only occupant; he looked for thelast time upon his native town as it disappeared in the distance, andthanked God that, of the three beings who had suffered through hisfault, there remained but one of them still unhappy. 

 ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

 A terrible danger lurks in the knowledge of what is possible Accustomed to call its disguise virtue Adieu, my son, I love you and I die All philosophy is akin to atheism All that is not life, it is the noise of life And when love is sure of itself and knows response Because you weep, you fondly imagine yourself innocent Become corrupt, and you will cease to suffer Began to forget my own sorrow in my sympathy for her Beware of disgust, it is an incurable evil Can any one prevent a gossip Cold silence, that negative force Contrive to use proud disdain as a shield Death is more to be desired than a living distaste for life Despair of a man sick of life, or the whim of a spoiled child Do they think they have invented what they see Each one knows what the other is about to say Fool who destroys his own happiness Force itself, that mistress of the world Funeral processions are no longer permitted Galileo struck the earth, crying: "Nevertheless it moves!" Good and bad days succeeded each other almost regularly Great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--they listen Grief itself was for her but a means of seducing Happiness of being pursued He who is loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow He lives only in the body How much they desire to be loved who say they love no more Human weakness seeks association I can not be near you and separated from you at the same moment I can not love her, I can not love another I boasted of being worse than I really was I neither love nor esteem sadness I do not intend either to boast or abase myself Ignorance into which the Greek clergy plunged the laity In what do you believe? Indignation can solace grief and restore happiness Is he a dwarf or a giant Is it not enough to have lived? It is a pity that you must seek pastimes Make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer Men doubted everything: the young men denied everything No longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity Perfection does not exist Pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation Reading the Memoirs of Constant Resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original Sceptic regrets the faith he has lost the power to regain Seven who are always the same: the first is called hope She pretended to hope for the best Sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness Speak to me of your love, she said, "not of your grief" St. Augustine Suffered, and yet took pleasure in it Suspicions that are ever born anew Terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me There are two different men in you Ticking of which (our arteries) can be heard only at night "Unhappy man!" she cried, "you will never know how to love" We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum What you take for love is nothing more than desire What human word will ever express thy slightest caress When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame appearing there You believe in what is said here below and not in what is done You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle You turn the leaves of dead books Your great weapon is silence Youth is to judge of the world from first impressions