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The Confession of a Child of The Century, a novel by Alfred de Musset |
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Part 5 - Chapter 3 |
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_ PART V CHAPTER III BRIGITTE was better. She had informed me that she wished to go away as soon as she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to rest at least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey. Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured me that the letter was the only cause of her melancholy and begged me to say nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was passing in her heart. We went to the theater every night in order to avoid embarrassing tete-a-tetes. There, we sometimes pressed each other's hands at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, or exchanged, perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we were mute, absorbed in our thoughts. Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house had been the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had left singular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and his simplicity reassured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he had brought, and he did not appear offended, but saddened. He was ignorant of the contents and his friendship for Brigitte led him to censure them severely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, if he knew what they contained. On account of Brigitte's tone of reserve in his presence, I did not think he was in her confidence. I therefore welcomed him with pleasure, although there was always a sort of awkward embarrassment in our meeting. He was asked to act as intermediary between Brigitte and her relatives after our departure. When we three were together, he noticed a certain coldness and restraint which he endeavored to banish by cheerful good humor. If he spoke of our liaison, it was with respect and as a man who looks upon love as a sacred bond; in fact, he was a kind friend, and he inspired me with full confidence. But despite all that, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I could not obliterate strange thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I had seen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time as Brigitte's, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discovered between them, troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago, I would have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect Brigitte? Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not going away with me? Even if it were possible that Smith could be in some secret of which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of that 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, just as she was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate situation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding to her sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful glances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and regrets? Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long journey, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions? I felt that this must be the explanation and that it was my duty to assure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers, and of requiting the other for the services he had rendered. And yet, a deadly sense of coldness oppressed me and I could not determine what course to pursue. When Smith left us in the evening, we either kept silence or talked of him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him continually. She, however, told me just what I have told the reader; his life had never been other than it was at this time, poor, obscure and honest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times, without knowing why I took such an interest in it. There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not confess. If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest happiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he pressed her hand while assisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the least attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had he not, had he shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it matter so long as I was happy? But, while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte's sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to do with her present state. If I had been what I ought 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 simple and modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eye seized at the first glance; one became acquainted with him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspired confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinking that if he were Brigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the 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 we wait?" she asked. "Here I am recovered and everything is ready." Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know. Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from Smith to my mistress. I saw that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why they were thus, and I could not help repeating that there was but one cause, but one secret to learn; but that was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such as had formerly tormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. What strange creatures we! It pleased me to leave them alone before the fire and to go out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet and looking at the water. When they spoke of their life at N-----, and when Brigitte, almost cheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall some incident of their childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, and yet took pleasure in it. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of his mother, of his plans and his prospects. I gave him an opportunity to show himself in a favorable light and forced his modesty to reveal his merit. "You love your sister very much, do you not?" I asked. "When do you expect her to marry?" He blushed and replied that his expenses were rather heavy but that it would probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health would permit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provide her dowry; that there was a family in the country, whose eldest son was her friend; that they were almost agreed on it, and that fortune would one day come, like rest, without thinking of it; that he had set aside for his sister, a part of the money left by their father; that their mother was opposed to it but that he would insist on it; that a young man may live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of a young 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 to him. Then, when he arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door and stood there; pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. Upon examining our trunks, we found that there were still a few things needed before we could start; Smith was asked to purchase them. He was remarkably active and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When I returned 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. She was 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 reached my ear distinctly; never had she sung so sadly, so divinely. Smith was listening with pleasure; he was on his knees holding the buckle of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about the room 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 the second time, I saw tears fall from the young man's eyes; I was ready to shed tears myself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out my hand 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 hear your sweet voice." She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well as Smith's; her voice faltered. With the last notes, she arose and came to me and kissed me. On another occasion, I had bought an album containing views of Switzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigitte found a site that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There was one view that seemed to please her more than all the others; it was a certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues; some trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance, a village consisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In the foreground, a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, and a farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directing her attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them were the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits. Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The valley resembled a lake of verdure and the eye followed its contour with delight. "Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced some figures on the picture. "What are you doing?" she asked. "I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it resemble yours. The pretty hat would become you and can I not, if I am skilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?" The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the two faces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. The faces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that the likenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door opened and I was called away by the servant. When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the picture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound reverie and was not aware of my presence; I sat down near the fire and it was not until I 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 him strike his forehead with his hand. When I discovered 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 my good angel, perhaps my evil destiny. _ |
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