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The Confession of a Child of The Century, a novel by Alfred de Musset |
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Part 3 - Chapter 8 |
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_ PART III CHAPTER VIII THAT evening I received a letter from Madame Pierson, addressed to M. R. D., at Strasburg. Three weeks later my mission had been accomplished and I returned. While absent, I had thought of nothing but her, and I despaired of ever forgetting her. Nevertheless, I determined to restrain my feelings in her presence; I had suffered too cruelly at the prospect of losing her, to run any further risks. My esteem for her rendered it impossible for me to suspect her sincerity, and I did not see, in her plan for getting me to leave the country, anything that resembled hypocrisy. In a word, I was firmly convinced that at the first word of love her door would be closed to me. Upon my return, I found her thin and changed. 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 to it. We resumed our old relations of neighbors; yet there was something of constraint between us, a sort of conventional familiarity. It was as though we had said: "It was thus before, let it still be thus." She granted me her confidence, a concession that was not without its charms for me; but our conversation was colder, for the reason that our eyes expressed as much as our tongues. In all that we said there was more to be surmised than was actually spoken. We no longer endeavored to fathom each other's mind; there was not the same interest attaching to each word, to each sentiment; that curious analysis that characterized our past intercourse; she treated me with kindness, but I distrusted even that kindness; I walked with her in the garden, but no longer accompanied her outside of the premises; we no longer wandered through the woods and valleys; she opened the piano when we were alone; the sound of her voice no longer awakened in my heart those transports of joy which are like sobs that are inspired by hope. When I took leave of her, she gave me her hand, but I was conscious of the fact that it was lifeless; there was much effort in our familiar ease, many reflections in our lightest remarks, much sadness at the bottom of it all. We felt that there was a third party between us: it was my love for her. My actions never betrayed it, but it appeared in my face: I lost my cheerfulness, my energy, and the color of health that once shone in my cheeks. At the end of one month, I no longer resembled my old self. And yet in all our conversations I insisted on my disgust with the world, on my aversion to returning to it. I tried to make Madame Pierson feel that she had no reason to reproach herself for allowing me to see her; I depicted my past life in the most somber colors and gave her to understand that if she should refuse to allow me to see her, she would condemn me to a loneliness worse than death; I told her that I held society in abhorrence and the story of my life, as I recited it, proved my 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 me from the most frightful misfortune; I thanked her, almost every time I went to see her that I might return in the evening or the following morning. "All my dreams of happiness," said I, "all my hopes, all my ambitions, are enclosed in the little corner of the earth where you dwell; 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 courage was pathetic, and her every word and gesture shed a sort of tender light over my devotion. She saw the struggle that was going on in me: my obedience flattered her pride, while my pallor awakened her charitable instinct. At times she appeared to be irritated, almost coquettish; she would say in a tone that was almost rebellious: "I shall not be here to-morrow, do not come on such and such a day." Then as I was going away 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 more friendly than usual, her glance more tender. "Rest assured that Providence has led me to you," I said. "If I had not met you, I might have relapsed into the irregular life I was leading before I knew you. God has sent you as an angel of light to draw me from the abyss. He has confided a sacred mission to you; who knows, if I should lose you, whither the sorrow that consumes me might lead me, the sad experience I have been through, the terrible combat between my youth and my ennui?" That thought, sincere enough on my part, had great weight with a woman of lofty devotion whose soul was as pious as it was ardent. It was probably the only consideration that induced Madame Pierson to permit me to see her. I was preparing to go to see her one day when some one knocked at my door and I saw Mercanson enter, that priest I had met in the garden on the occasion of my first visit. He began to make excuses that were as tiresome as himself for presuming to call on me without having made my acquaintance; I told him that I knew him very well as the nephew of our cure, and asked what I could do for him. He turned uneasily from one side to another with an air of constraint, searching for phrases and fingering everything on the table before him as though at a loss what to say. Finally, he informed me that Madame Pierson was ill and that she had sent word to me by him that she would not be able to see me that day. "Is she ill? Why, I left her late yesterday afternoon and she was very well at that time!" He bowed. "But," I continued, "if she is ill, why send word to me by a third party? She does not live so far away that a useless call would harm me." The same response from Mercanson. I could not understand what this peculiar manner signified, much less why she had entrusted her mission to him. "Very well," I said, "I shall see her to-morrow and she will explain what this means." His hesitation continued. "Madame Pierson has also told me--that I should inform you--in fact, I am 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 Madame Pierson did not wish to see me, and I could not explain why, _or_ Mercanson 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 and could not see me; she refused to accept the money I offered her, and would not answer my questions. As I was passing through the village on my return, I saw Mercanson; he was surrounded by a number of school children, his uncle's pupils. I stopped him in the midst of his harangue and asked if I could have a word with him. He followed me aside; but now it was my turn to hesitate, for I was at a loss how to proceed to draw his secret from him. "Sir," I finally said, "will you kindly inform me if what you told me yesterday 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 case of necessity, it is important that I should know whether her condition 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 had done. While talking, we had walked down the road some distance and had now reached a deserted spot. Seeing that neither strategy nor entreaty would serve my purpose, I suddenly turned and seized him by the arms. "What does this mean, sir? You intend to resort to violence?" he cried. "No, but I intend to make you tell me what you know." "Sir, I am afraid of no one, and I have told you what you ought to know." "You have told me what you think I ought to know, but not what you know. Madame Pierson is not sick, I am sure of it." "How do you know?" "The servant told me so. Why has she closed her door against me, and why did 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 speak with you." The peasant approached; that was all he wanted, thinking I would not dare use violence in the presence of a third party. I let go of him, but so roughly that he staggered back and fell against a tree. He clenched his fist and turned away without a word. For three weeks I suffered terribly. Three times a day I called at Madame Pierson's and was each time refused admittance. I received one letter from her; she said that my assiduity was causing talk in the village and begged me to call less frequently. Not a word about Mercanson or her illness. This precaution on her part was so unnatural and contrasted so strongly with her former proud indifference in matters of this kind, that at first I could hardly believe it. Not knowing what else to say, I replied that there was no desire in my heart but obedience to her wishes. But in spite 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, and no longer sent to inquire about her condition, as I wished to have her know that I did not believe in her illness. I did not know why she kept 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 become insupportable. I was accustomed to spend entire days in the woods, and one day I happened to encounter her there. I hardly had the courage to ask for an explanation; she did not reply frankly and I did not recur to the subject, I could only count the days I was obliged to pass without seeing her, and live in the hope of a visit. All the time I was strongly tempted to throw myself at her feet, and tell her of my despair. I knew that she would not be insensible to it, and that she would at least express her pity; but her severity and the abrupt manner of her departure recalled me to my senses; I trembled lest I should lose her, and I would rather die than expose myself to that danger. Thus, denied the solace of confession of my sorrow, my health began to give way. My feet lagged on the way to her house; I felt that I was exhausting the source of tears, and each visit cost me added sorrow; I was 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 her longing to get away, leaving me more dead than alive after her cruel words. If surprised by a natural impulse of sympathy, she immediately checked herself and relapsed into her accustomed coldness. Upon one occasion, I could not restrain my tears; I saw her turn pale. As I was going, she said to me at the door: "To-morrow, I am going to St. Luce, a neighboring village, and it is too far to go on foot. Be here with your horse early in the morning, if you have nothing to do, and go with me." I was on hand promptly, as may readily be imagined. I had slept over that word with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house, I experienced a feeling of deep dejection. In restoring me to the privilege I had formerly enjoyed of accompanying her on her missions about the country, she had clearly been guilty of a cruel caprice if she did not love me. She knew how I was suffering; why abuse my courage unless she had changed her mind? This reflection had a strange influence on me. When she mounted her horse my heart beat violently as I took her foot; I do not know whether it was desire or anger. "If she is touched," I said to myself, "why this 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 in me. I did not speak to her but kept to the other side of the road. When we reached the valley she appeared at ease and only turned her head from time to time to see if I was following her; but when we came to the forest and our horses' hoofs resounded against the rocks that lined the road, I saw that she was trembling. She stopped as though to wait for me, as I was some distance in the rear; when I had overtaken her, she set out on a gallop. We soon reached the foot of the mountain and were compelled to slacken our pace. I then made my way to her side; our heads were bowed; the time had come, I took her hand. "Brigitte," I said, "are you weary of my complaints? Since I have been reinstated in your favor, since I have been allowed to see you every day and every evening, I have asked myself if I have been importunate. During the last two months, while strength and hope have been failing me, have I said a word of that fatal love which is consuming me? Raise your head and answer me. Do you not see that I suffer and that my nights are given to weeping? Have you not met in the forest an unfortunate wretch, sitting in solitary dejection with his hands pressed to his forehead? Have you not seen tears on these bushes? Look at me, look at these mountains; do you realize that I love you? They know it, they are my witnesses; these rocks and these trees know my secret. Why lead me before them? Am I not wretched enough? Do I fail in courage? Have I obeyed you? To what tests, what tortures am I subjected, and for what crime? If you do not love me, what are you doing here?" "Let us return," she said, "let us retrace our steps." I seized her horse's bridle. "No," I replied, "for I have spoken. If we return, I lose you, I realize it; I know in advance what you will say. You have been pleased to try my patience, you have set my sorrow at defiance, perhaps that you might have the right to drive me from your presence; you have become tired of that sorrowful lover who suffered without complaint and who drank with resignation the bitter chalice of your disdain! You knew that, alone with you in the presence of these trees, in the midst of this solitude where my love had its birth, I could not be silent! You wish to be offended. Very well, madame, I lose you! I have wept and I have suffered, I have too long nourished in my heart a pitiless love that devours me. You have been cruel!" As she was about to leap from her saddle, I seized her in my arms and pressed my lips to hers. She turned pale, her eyes closed, her bridle slipped 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 the ground. 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, her hands twitching and trembling, her cheeks suffused with color, brilliant with purple and with pearls. "Do not come near me!" she cried, "not a step!" "Oh! my love," I said, "fear nothing; if I have offended you, you know how to punish me. I was angry and I gave way to my grief; treat me as you choose, you may go away now, you may send me away! I know that you love 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; I saw 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 can recall the words he uses when he confesses that love! _ |
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