The Confession of a Child of the Century Part 13

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

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

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

I returned home, closed my door and retired. There danced before my eyes a little white house; I saw myself walking through the village and knocking at the garden gate. "Oh! my poor heart!" I cried. "G.o.d be praised, you are still young, you are still capable of life and of love!"

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

I loved. During the three months we had taken many long walks; I was initiated into the mysteries of her modest charity; we pa.s.sed through dark streets, she on her little horse, I on foot, a small stick in my hand; thus, half conversing, half dreaming, we knocked at the doors of cottages. There was a little bench near the edge of the wood where I was accustomed to rest after dinner; we met here regularly as though by chance. In the morning, music, reading; in the evening, cards with the aunt as in the days of my father; and she, always there smiling, her presence filling my heart. By what road, O Providence! have you led me?

What irrevocable destiny am I to accomplish? What! a life so free, an intimacy so charming, so much repose, such buoyant hope! O G.o.d! Of what do men complain? What is there sweeter than love?

To live, yes, to feel intensely, profoundly, that one exists, that one is man, created by G.o.d, that is the first, the greatest gift of 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 as it is under a mountain of prejudices which distort and deprave it, in spite of all the ordure through which it has been dragged, love, eternal and fatal love, is none the less a celestial law as powerful and as incomprehensible as that which suspends the sun in the heavens. What is this mysterious bond, stronger and more durable than iron, that can neither be seen nor touched? What is there in meeting a woman, in looking at her, in speaking one word to her, and then never forgetting her? Why this one rather than that one? Invoke the aid of reason, or habit, of the senses, the head, the heart, and explain it if you can. You will find nothing but two bodies, one here, the other there, and between them, what? Air, s.p.a.ce, immensity. O fools! who fondly imagine yourselves men, and who reason of love! Have you talked with it? No, you have felt it. You have exchanged a glance with a pa.s.sing stranger, and suddenly there flies out from you something that can not be defined, that has no name known to man. You have taken root in the ground like the seed concealed in the blade of gra.s.s which feels the motion of life, and which is on its way to the harvest.

We were alone, the window was open, the murmur of a little fountain came to us from the garden. O G.o.d! would that I could count, drop by drop, all the water that fell while we were sitting there, while she was talking and I was responding. It was there that I became intoxicated with her to the point of madness.

It is said that there is nothing so rapid as a feeling of antipathy, but I believe that the road to love is more swiftly traversed. Of what avail are words spoken with the lips when hearts listen and respond? What sweetness in the glance of a woman who begins to attract you! At first it seems as though everything that pa.s.ses between you is timid and tentative, but soon there is born a strange joy, and echo answers the voice of love; the thrill of a dual life is felt. What a touch! What a strange attraction! And when love is sure of itself and recognizes fraternity in the object beloved, what serenity in the soul! Words die on the lips, for each one knows what the other is about to say before utterance 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 excess, the respect I felt for Madame Pierson sealed my lips. If she had been less frank in permitting me to become her friend, perhaps I would have been more bold, for she had made such a strong impression on me, that I never quitted her without transports of love. But there was something in her frankness 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. That consideration rendered me still more respectful and I resolved to prove worthy of that name.

To talk of love, they say, is to make love. We rarely spoke of it. Every time I happened to touch the subject Madame Pierson led the conversation to some other topic. I did not discern her motive, but it was not prudery; it seemed to me that at such times her face took on a stern aspect and a wave of feeling, even of suffering, pa.s.sed over it. As I had 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. On those occasions her toilet, although always simple, was more elegant than usual; there was a flower in her hair, a bright ribbon, or some such bagatelle; but there was something youthful and fresh about her. The dance, which she loved for itself as an amusing exercise, seemed to inspire her with a frolicsome gaiety. Once launched on the floor, it seemed to me she allowed herself more liberty than usual, that there was an unusual familiarity. I did not dance, being still in mourning, but I managed to keep near her, and, seeing her in such good humor, I was often tempted to confess my love.

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

That evening I dined with her, and looked about me at the many evidences of a tranquil life; I thought of the quiet life that I was leading, of my happiness since I had known her, and said to myself: "Why ask for more?

Does not this suffice? Who knows, perhaps G.o.d has nothing more for you?

If I should tell her that I love her, what would happen? Perhaps she would forbid me the pleasure of seeing her. Would I, in speaking the words, make her happier than she is to-day? Would I be happier myself?"

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

"What is the matter?" she asked.

I turned aside my head.

I sought an excuse, but could find none; I was afraid to meet her glance.

I arose and stepped to the window. The air was balmy, the moon was rising beyond those lindens where I had first met her. I fell into a profound reverie; I even forgot that she was present and, extending my arms 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, had recalled 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 of returning home, I began to wander about the woods like a fool. Whenever I found a bench I sat down and then jumped up precipitately. Toward midnight I approached Madame Pierson's house; she was at the window.

Seeing her there I began to tremble and tried to retrace my steps, but I was fascinated; 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 when I heard her sweet, fresh voice singing the refrain of a romance, and at the same instant a flower fell on my shoulder. It was a rose she had worn that evening on her bosom; I picked it up and bore it to my lips.

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

She called me by name. The gate leading into the garden was open; I arose without replying and entered it, I stopped before a plot of gra.s.s in the center of the garden; I was walking like a somnambulist, without knowing what I was doing.

Suddenly I saw her at the door opening into the garden; she seemed to be undecided and looked attentively at the rays of the moon. She made a few steps toward me and I advanced to meet her. I could not speak, I fell on my 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 always welcome, are you not? Is not that enough? What more can I do for you? My friendship you have won; I wish you had been able to keep yours a little longer."

CHAPTER VI

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

I remained kneeling on the gra.s.s. I had been expecting what she said; my resolution was soon taken, and I decided to go away. I arose, my heart bleeding but firm. I looked at the house, at her window; I opened the garden gate and placed my lips on the lock as I pa.s.sed out.

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

It was five o'clock in the morning and day was beginning to break, when I asked myself where I was going. At that thought, which had not occurred to me before, I experienced a profound feeling of discouragement. I cast my eyes over the country, scanning the horizon. A sense of weakness took possession of me; I was exhausted with fatigue. I sat down in a chair and my ideas became confused; I bore my hand to my forehead and found it bathed in sweat. A violent fever made my limbs tremble; I could hardly reach my bed with Larive's a.s.sistance. My thoughts were so confused that I had no recollection of what had happened. The day pa.s.sed; toward evening I heard the sound of instruments. It was the Sunday dance and I asked Larive to go and see if Madame Pierson was there. He did not find her; I sent him to her house. The blinds were closed, and a servant informed him that Madame Pierson and her aunt had gone to spend some days with a relative who lived at N-----, a small town some distance north. He handed me a letter that had been given him. It was conceived in the 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; but that vanity is a dangerous thing since I have done wrong in entertaining it with you.

"I am some years older than you and ask you not to try to see me again.

It would be vain for you to try to forget the weakness of a moment; but what has pa.s.sed 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 will appreciate your action as the final evidence of your friendship and esteem.

"BRIGITTE PIERSON."

CHAPTER VII

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

I arrived at ten in the night. As soon as I reached the inn I had a boy direct me to the house of her relatives, and, without reflecting what I was 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 that some one wished to speak to her on the part of M. Desprez. That was the name of our village cure.

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

"What do you wish of me?"

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

Nevertheless, she repeated her question in a firmer tone.

"You must permit me to see you once more," I replied. "I will go away, I will leave the country. You shall be obeyed, I swear it, and that beyond your real desire, for I will sell my father's house and go abroad; but that 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 on that."