The Confession of a Child of the Century Part 21

"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 the door. It was still raining when I entered the carriage. At the moment the carriage was starting, I felt two arms about my neck and a sob on my breast.

It was Brigitte. I did all I could to persuade her to remain; I ordered the driver to stop; I even told her that I would return to her when time should have effaced the memory of the wrongs I had done her. I forced myself to prove to her that yesterday was the same as to-day, to-day as yesterday; I repeated that I could only render her unhappy, that to attach herself to me was but to make an a.s.sa.s.sin of me. I resorted to prayers, to vows, to threats even; her only reply was, "You are going away, take me, let us take leave of the country, let us take leave of the past. We can not live here, let us go elsewhere, wherever you please, 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 pa.s.sion that I feared my heart would burst.

"Drive on," I cried to the coachman. We threw ourselves into each other's arms, and the horses set out at a gallop.

PART V

CHAPTER I

HAVING decided on a long tour, we went first to Paris; the necessary preparations required time and we took a furnished apartment for one month.

The decision to leave France had changed everything: joy, hope, confidence, all returned; no more sorrow, no more grief over approaching separation. It was now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows of eternal love; I wished, once for all, to make my dear mistress forget all the suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist such proofs of tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only did Brigitte pardon me, but she was willing to make a still greater sacrifice and leave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of the devotion she exhibited, I wished to requite her by my love; at last, my good angel had triumphed, and admiration and love resumed their sway in my heart.

Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should go to bury ourselves from the world; we had not yet decided and we found pleasure 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 upon her smiling face, a face that laughed at the future, although still pale from the sorrows of the past! Happy projects of future joy, you are, perhaps, the only true happiness known to man!

For eight days we spent our time making purchases and preparing for our departure; then a young man presented himself at our apartments: he brought letters to Brigitte. After their interview, I found her sad and distraught; but I could not guess the cause, unless the letters were from N-----, that village where I had confessed my love and where Brigitte's only relatives lived.

Nevertheless, our preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatient to get away; at the same time, I was so happy that I could hardly rest.

When I arose in the morning, and the sun was shining through our windows, I experienced such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated with happiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love for Brigitte, that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her dress. Her lightest words made me tremble as though her voice was strange to me; I alternated between tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except with horror and disgust.

Our room was full of our goods scattered about in disorder, alb.u.ms, pictures, books, and the dear map we loved so much. We were going and coming about the room; every few moments I 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 far away, but the winters are so delightful there! Genoa is very pretty with its painted houses, its green gardens and the Apennines in the background! But what noise! What crowds! Out of every three men on the street, one is a monk and another a soldier.

Florence is sad, it is the Middle Ages living in the midst of modern life. How can any one endure those grilled windows and that horrible brown color with which all the houses are soiled? What could we do at Rome? We are not traveling in order to forget ourselves, much less for the sake of instruction. To the Rhine? But the season is over, and although we do not care for the world of fashion, still it is sad to visit its haunts when it has fled them. But Spain? Too many restrictions there; one has to travel like an army on the march and may expect everything except repose. Let us go to Switzerland! Too many people go there, and most of them are deceived as to the nature of its attractions; but it is there, are unfolded the three most beautiful colors on G.o.d's earth: the azure of the sky, the verdure of the plains, and the whiteness 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 just met each other yesterday.

You met me at a ball, I pleased you and I love you; you tell me that some leagues distant, in a certain little town you loved a certain Madame Pierson; what pa.s.sed between you and her I do not know. You will not tell me the story of your love for another! And I will whisper to you that not long since, I loved a terrible fellow who made me very unhappy; you will reprove me and close my mouth, and we will agree never to speak of such things."

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

"O G.o.d! 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 of the past, die, all cares and regrets! O my good, brave mistress! You have made a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I will never love again.

Perhaps, before I knew you, another woman might have cured me; but now you, alone, of all the world, have power to destroy me or to save me, for I bear on my heart the wound of all the evil I have done you. I have been an ingrate, blind and cruel. G.o.d be praised! You love me still. If you ever return to that home under whose lindens, where I first met you, look carefully about that deserted house; you will find a fantom there, for the man who left it, and went away with you, is not the man who entered it."

"Is it true?" said Brigitte, and her head, all radiant with love, was raised to heaven; "is it true that I am yours? Yes, far from this odious world in which you have grown old before your time--yes, my child, you are going to love. I will have you, such as you are, and wherever we go you will forget the day when you will no longer love me. My mission will have been accomplished, and I shall always be thankful for it."

Finally, we decided to go to Geneva and then choose some resting-place in the Alps. Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought I could already breathe the air which floats over its surface and the odor of the verdure-clad valley; already Lausanne, Vevay, Oberland and beyond the summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of Lombardy; already, oblivion, repose, flight, all the delights of happy solitude, invited us; already, when in the evening with joined hands, we looked at one another in silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment of strange grandeur which takes possession of the heart on the eve of a long journey, mysterious and indescribable vertigo, which has in it something of the terrors of exile and the hopes of a pilgrimage. Are there not in the human mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords that vibrate? How shall I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in the simple words: "All is ready, we are about to go"?

Suddenly, Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head and was silent.

When I asked her if she was in pain, she said no, in a voice that was scarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold and resigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that she was going to be happy and that I would consecrate my life to her, she shut 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 that nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our plans, she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to me and I told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw her arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as though involuntarily. Finally, I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on which our places were marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approached her and placed it in her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed and fell unconscious at my feet.

CHAPTER II

ALL my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were as vain as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill and obstinately remained silent. After an entire day pa.s.sed in supplication and conjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Pa.s.sing the Opera, I entered it from force of habit.

I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theater. I was so overwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak, except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses.

All my powers were centered on a single thought, and the more I turned it over in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning. What obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and the realization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event, or even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or loss of some friend, why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done, when our dreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature of a secret that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me? What! she conceals it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart to suspect her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me with horror.

On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or of caprice in that woman such as I knew her? I was lost in the abyss of doubt and I could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point on which to base conjecture.

In front of me in the gallery, sat a young man whose face was not unknown to me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him without thinking of him as a personal ident.i.ty or trying to fit a name on him.

Suddenly, I recognized him: it was he, who had brought letters to Brigitte from N-----. I arose and started to accost him without thinking what I was doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without disturbing a 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 this young man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson the last few days, and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressed after his visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was taken ill. The letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possible that he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he did not know all the circ.u.mstances, but he could, doubtless, enlighten me as to the contents of those letters, and there was no reason why I should hesitate about questioning him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to the foyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away and entered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stood looking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last, he appeared. I bowed and approached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared down a stairway.

My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any other explanation than deliberate intention to avoid me on his part. He surely knew my face, and whether he knew it or not, a man who sees another approaching him, ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the only ones in the corridor at the time and there could be no doubt he did not wish to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatment from a man, whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why should he insult me?

He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid an awkward interview, during which questions might be asked, which he did not care to answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost as much 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 connection with Brigitte's obstinate silence.

Uncertainty is of all torments, the most difficult to endure, and during my life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not wait patiently. When I returned to my apartments, I found Brigitte reading those same fateful letters from N-----. I told her that I could not remain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it at any cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden, change which had taken place in her, and that if she refused to speak I would look upon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an order for me to leave her forever.

She reluctantly handed me the letters she was reading. Her relatives had written her that her departure had disgraced them, that every one knew the circ.u.mstances, and that they felt it their duty to warn her of the 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 think of the name she bore; that neither they nor her old friends would ever see her again if she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts of threats and entreaties, they urged her to return.

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

"And that young man who brings you these remonstrances," I cried, "doubtless has orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail to do 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 rests with you, you have been for a long time my master. Avenge as you please the last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to the world that I formerly respected, to the honor that I have lost. I have not a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply, I will obey you."

"I care to know nothing," I replied, "but your intentions; it is for me to comply with your wishes, and I a.s.sure you I am ready to do it. Tell me, 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 my mind? I am unwell and can not travel in my present condition, but when I recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned."

We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she had expressed her resolution saddened me more than a refusal. It was not the first time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up to this time, whatever letters Brigitte, had received she had never taken so much to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigitte had been so affected by protests which, in less happy moments, had had no effect on her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoils from an act of final significance? I will do as you please, she had said. No, it does not please me to demand patience, and rather than look at that sorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks, I will set out alone.

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

As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that I felt under obligations to call on him after all the visits he had 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 she held out her hand, and said:

"What do you wish?"

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

The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was living near by. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensation of uneasiness; I was dazed, as though by a sudden flash of light. His first gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accent Brigitte had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held out his hand and said:

"What do you wish?"