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diff --git a/3989.txt b/3989.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e94bc8e --- /dev/null +++ b/3989.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2652 @@ +The Project Gutenberg Etext of Conscience by Hector Malot, v4 +#76 in our series The French Immortals Crowned by the French Academy +#4 in our series by Hector Malot + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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D.W.] + + + + +CONSCIENCE + +By HECTOR MALOT + + +BOOK 4. + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +CONSCIENCE ASSERTS ITSELF + +During the first years of his sojourn in Paris, Saniel had published in a +Latin Quarter review an article on the "Pharmacy of Shakespeare"--the +poison of Hamlet, and of Romeo and Juliet; and although since his choice +of medicine he read but little besides books of science, at that time he +was obliged to study the plays of his author. From this study there +lingered in his memory a phrase that for ten years had not risen to his +lips, and which all at once forced itself uppermost in his mind with +exasperating persistency. It was the words of Macbeth: + + "Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep; + Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, + The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, + Balm of hurt minds." + +He also had lost it, "the innocent sleep, sore labor's bath, balm of hurt +minds." He had never been a great sleeper; at least he had accustomed +himself to the habit, hard at first, of passing only a few hours in bed. +But he employed these few hours well, sleeping as the weary sleep, hands +clenched, without dreaming, waking, or moving; and the thought that +occupied his mind in the evening was with him on waking in the morning, +not having been put to flight by others, any more than by dreams. + +After Caffie's death this tranquil and refreshing sleep continued the +same; but suddenly, after Madame Dammauville's death, it became broken. + +At first it did not bother him. He did not sleep, so much the better! +He would work more. But one can no more work all the time than one can +live without eating. Saniel knew better than any one that the life of +every organ is composed of alternate periods of repose and activity, and +he did not suppose that he would be able to work indefinitely without +sleep. He only hoped that after some days of twenty hours of work daily, +overcome by fatigue, he would have, in spite of everything, four hours of +solid sleep, that Shakespeare called "sore labor's bath." + +He had not had these four hours, and the law that every state of +prolonged excitement brings exhaustion that should be refreshed by a +functional rest, was proved false in his case. After a hard day's work +he would go to bed at one o'clock in the morning and would go to sleep +immediately. But very soon he awoke with a start, suffocating, covered +with perspiration, in a state of extreme anxiety, his mind agitated by +hallucinations of which he could not rid himself all at once. If he did +not wake suddenly, he dreamed frightful dreams, always of Madame +Dammauville or Caffie. Was it not curious that Caffie, who until then +had been completely effaced from his memory, was resuscitated by Madame +Dammauville in the night, ghost of the darkness that the daylight +dissipated? + +Believing that one of the causes of these dreams was the excitement of +the brain, occasioned by excessive work at the hour when he should not +exercise it, but on the contrary should allow it to rest, he decided to +change a plan which produced so little success. Instead of intellectual +work he would engage in physical exercise, which, by exhausting his +muscular functions, would procure him the sleep of the laboring class; +and as he could not roll a wheelbarrow nor chop wood, every evening after +dinner he walked seven or eight miles rapidly. + +Physical work succeeded no better than intellectual; he endured the +fatigue of butchers and wood-choppers, but he did not obtain their sleep. +Decidedly, bodily fatigue was worth no more than that of the brain. +It was worth even less. At his table, plunged in his books, or in his +laboratory over his microscope, he absorbed himself in his work, and, +by the force of a will that had been long exercised and submissive to +obedience, he was able to keep his thoughts on the subject in hand, +without distraction as without dreams. Time passed. But when walking in +the streets of Paris, in the deserted roads on the outskirts, by the +Seine or Marne, his mind wandered where it would; it was the mistress, +and it always dwelt on Madame Dammauville, Caffie, and Florentin. It +seemed as if the heat of walking started his brain. When he returned in +this state, after many hours of cerebral excitability, how could he find +the tranquil and refreshing sleep, complete and profound, of the laboring +classes who work only with their muscles? + +Never having been ill, he had never examined nor treated himself: +medicine was good for others but useless for him. With a machine +organized like his he need fear only accidents, and until now he had been +spared them; a true son of peasants, he victoriously resisted Paris life +as the destroyer of the intellect. But the time had come to undertake an +examination and to try a treatment that would give him rest. He was not +a sceptical doctor, and he believed that what he ordered for others was +good for himself. + +The misfortune was that he could not find in himself any of the causes +which resolve into insomnia; he had neither meningitis nor brain fever, +nor anything that indicated a cerebral tumor; he was not anaemic; he ate +well; he did not suffer with neuralgia, nor with any acute or chronic +affection that generally accompanied the absence of sleep; he drank +neither tea nor alcohol; and without this state of over-excitement of the +encephalic centres, he might have said that he was in good health, a +little thin, but that was all. + +It was this excitement that he must cure, and as there are many remedies +for insomnia, he tried those which, it seemed to him, were suitable to +his case; but bromide of potassium, in spite of its hypnotic properties, +produced no more effect than the over-working of the brain and body. +When he realized this he replaced it with chloral; but chloral, which +should create a desire to sleep, after several days had no more effect +than the bromide. Then he tried injections of morphine. + +It was not without a certain uneasiness that he made this third trial, +the first two having met with so little success; and since it is +acknowledged that chloral produces a calmer sleep than morphine, it +seemed as if the latter would prove as useless as the former. However, +he slept without being tormented by dreams or wakings, and the next day +he still slept. + +But he knew too well the effects produced by a prolonged use of these +injections to continue them beyond what was strictly indispensable; he +therefore omitted them, and sleep left him. + +He tried them again; then, soon, as the small doses lost their efficacy, +he gradually increased them. At the end of a certain time what he feared +came to pass--his leanness increased; he lost his appetite, his muscular +force, and his moral energy; his pale face began to wear the +characteristic expression of the morphomaniac. + +Then he stopped, frightened. + +Should he continue, he would become a morphomaniac in a given time, and +the apathy into which he fell prevented him from resisting the desire to +absorb new doses of poison, a desire as imperious, as irresistible in +morphinism as that of alcohol for the alcoholic, and more terrible in its +effects--the perversion of the intellectual faculties, loss of will, of +memory, of judgment, paralysis, or the mania that leads to suicide. + +If he did not continue, and these sleepless nights or the agitated sleep +which maddened him should return, and following them, this over- +excitement of the brain in troubling the nutrition of the encephalic +mass, it might be the prelude of some grave cerebral affection. + +On one side the morphine habit; on the other, dementia from the constant +excitement and disorganization of the brain. + +Between a fatally certain result and one that was possible he did not +hesitate. He must give up morphine, and this choice forced itself upon +him with so much more strength, because if morphine assured him sleep at +night, it by no means gave him tranquil days--quite the contrary. + +He began to use this remedy at night when he fell under the influence of +certain ideas; during the day when applying himself to work, by an effort +of will he escaped from these ideas, and was the man he had always been, +master of his strength and mind. But the action of the morphine rapidly +weakened this all-powerful will, so much so, that when these ideas +crossed his mind during his working hours he had not the energy to drive +them away. He tried to shake them off, but in vain; they would not leave +his brain, to which they clung and encompassed it with increasing +strength. + +Truly, those two corpses troubled him horribly. Was it not exasperating +for a man who had seen and dissected so many, that there should be always +two before his eyes, even when they were closed--that of this old rascal +and of this unfortunate woman? In order not to complicate this +impression with another that humiliated him, he got rid of the packages +of bank bills taken from Caffie, by sending them "as restitution" to the +director of public charities. But this had no appreciable effect. + +The thought of Florentin troubled him also; and if he saw Caffie lying in +his chair, Madame Dammauville motionless and pink on her bed, to him it +was not less cruel to see Florentin between the decks of the vessel that +would soon carry him to New Caledonia. + +The ideas on conscience that he had expressed at Crozat's, and those that +he explained to Phillis about remorse, were still his; but he was not the +less certain that these two dead persons and the condemned one weighed +upon him with a terrible weight, frightful, suffocating, like a +nightmare. It was not in accordance with his education nor with his +environment to have these corpses behind him and this victim before him. + +But where his former ideas were overthrown, since these dead bodies +seized hold of his life, was in his confidence in his strength. + +The strong man that he believed himself, he who follows his ambition +regardless of things and of persons, looking only before him and never +behind, master of his mind as of his heart and of his arm, was not at all +the one that reality revealed. + +On the contrary, he had been weak in action and yet weaker afterward. + +And it was not only humiliation in the present that he felt in +acknowledging this weakness, it was also in uneasiness for the future; +for, if he lacked this strength that he attributed to himself before +having tested it, he should, if his beliefs were true, succumb some day. + +Evidently, if he were perfectly strong he would not have complicated his +life with love. The strong walk alone because they need no one. And he +needed a woman; and so great was the need that it was through her only, +near her, when he looked at her, when he listened to her, that he +experienced a little calm. + +Was he weak and cowardly on account of this? Perhaps not, but only +human. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +ATTEMPTED REPARATION + +Because he felt calm when with Phillis, Saniel wished that she might +never leave him. + +But, as happy as she was in her sorrow to see that instead of avoiding +her--which a less generous man would have done, perhaps--he sought to +draw nearer each day, she could not give up her lessons and her work, +which was her daily bread, to give all her time to her love, any more +than she could leave her mother entirely alone, crushed with shame, who +had never needed so much as now to be cheered and sustained. + +She did not let a day pass without going to see Saniel; but in spite of +her desire she could not remain with him as long as she wished and he +asked. When she rose to go and he detained her, she remained, but it was +only for a few minutes; they were short, and the time soon came when, +after ten attempts, she was obliged to leave him. + +At all times these separations had been full of despair to her, the +apprehension of which, from the moment of her arrival, paralyzed her; +but now they were still more cruel. Formerly, on leaving him, she often +saw him deep in his work before she opened the door; now, on the +contrary, he conducted her to the vestibule, detained her, and only let +her leave him when she tore herself from his embrace, after promising and +repeating her promise to come early the next day and stay longer. +Formerly, also, she was calm when she left him, not thinking of his +health, nor asking herself how she would find him at their next meeting, +strong and powerful, as sound in body as in mind. On the contrary, now +she worried herself, wondering how she would find him on the occasion of +each visit. Would the sadness, melancholy, and dejection still remain? +Would he be thinner and paler? It was her care, her anguish, to try to +divine the causes of the change in him, which manifested itself as +strongly in his sentiments as in his person. Was it not truly +extraordinary that he was more grave and uneasy now that his life was +assured than during the hard times when he was so worried that he never +knew what the morrow would bring? He had obtained the position that his +ambition coveted; he had sufficient money for his wants; he admitted that +his experiments had succeeded beyond his expectations; the essays that he +published on his experiments were loudly discussed, praised by some, +contested by others; it seemed that he had attained his object; and he +was sad, discontented, unhappy, more tormented than when he exhausted +himself with efforts, without other support than his will. At last, when +frightened to see him thus, she questioned him as to how he felt, he +became angry, and answered brutally + +"Ill? Why do you think that I am--ill? Am I not better able than any +one to know how I am? I am overworked, that is all; and as my life of +privation does not permit me to repair my forces, I have become anaemic; +it is not serious. It is strange, truly, that you ask for explanations +of what is natural. Count the teeth of the polytechnicians and look at +their hair after their examinations, and tell me what you think of them. +Why do you think anything else is the matter with me? One cannot expend +one's self with impunity; that would be too good. Everything must be +paid for in this world." + +She was obliged to believe that he was right and understood his +condition; however, she could not help worrying. She knew nothing of +medicine; she did not know the meaning of the medical terms he used, +but she found that this was not sufficient to explain all--neither his +roughness of temper and excess of anger without reason, any more than his +sudden tenderness, his weakness and dejection, his preoccupation and +absence of mind. + +She discovered the effect she produced on him, and how, merely by her +presence, she cheered this gloomy fancy and raised this depression by not +asking him stupid questions on certain subjects which she had not yet +determined on, but which she hoped to avoid. Also, she did not wish to +leave him, and ingeniously invented excuses to go to see him twice a day; +in the morning on going to her lessons, and in the afternoon or evening. + +Late one evening she rang his bell with a hand made nervous with joy. + +"I have come to stay till to-morrow," she said, in triumphant tones. + +She expected that he would express his joy by an embrace, but he did +nothing. + +"Are you going out?" + +"Not at all; I am not thinking of myself, but of your mother." + +"Do you think that I would have left her alone in her weak and nervous +state? A cousin of ours arrived from the country, who will occupy my +bed, and I profited by it quick enough, saying that I would remain at the +school. And here I am." + +In spite of his desire for it, he had never dared ask her to pass the +night with him. During the day he would only betray himself by his sad +or fantastic temper; but at night, with such dreams as came to him, might +not some word escape that would betray him? + +However, since she was come it was impossible to send her away; he could +not do it for her nor for himself. What pretext could he find to say, +"Go! I do not want you?" He wanted her above all; he wanted to look at +her, to listen to her, to hear her voice that soothed and lulled his +anguish, to feel her near him--only to have her there, and not be face +to face with his thoughts. + +She examined him secretly, asking herself the cause of this singular +reception, standing at the entrance of the office, not daring to remove +her hat. How could her arrival produce an effect so different from what +she expected? + +"You do not take off your hat?" he said. + +"I was asking myself if you had to work." + +"Why do you ask yourself that?" + +"For fear of disturbing you." + +"What a madness you have for always asking something!" he exclaimed +violently. "What do you expect me to say? What astonishes you? Why +should you disturb me? In what? 'Voyons', speak, explain yourself!" + +The time was far distant when these explosions surprised her, though they +always pained her. + +"I speak stupidly," she said. "What will you? I am stupid; forgive me." + +These words, "forgive me," were more cruel than numberless reproaches, +for he well knew that he had nothing to forgive in her, since she was the +victim and he the criminal. Should he never be able to master these +explosions, as imprudent as they were unjust? + +He took her in his arms and made her sit by him. + +"It is for you to forgive," he said. + +And he was as tender and caressing as he had been brutal. He was a fool +to imagine that she could have suspicions, and the surest way to give +birth to them was to show fear that she had them. To betray himself by +such awkwardness was as serious as to let a cry escape him while +sleeping. + +But for this night he had a way which was in reality not difficult, that +would not expose him to the danger of talking in his sleep-he would not +sleep. After having passed so many nights without closing his eyes, +without doubt he could keep them open this entire night. + +But he deceived himself; when he heard the calm and regular respiration +of Phillis with her head on his shoulder, and felt the mild warmth of her +body penetrate his, in the quiet imposed upon him, without being +conscious of it, believing himself far from sleep, and convinced that he +required no effort to keep awake, he suddenly slept. When he awoke a ray +of pale sunlight filled the room, and leaning her elbow on the bolster, +Phillis was watching him. He made a brusque movement, throwing himself +backward. "What is the matter?" he cried. "What have I said?" +Instantly his face paled, his lips quivered; he felt his heart beat +tumultuously and his throat pressed by painful constriction. "But +nothing is the matter," she answered, looking at him tenderly. "You have +said nothing." To come to the point, why should he have spoken? During +his frightful dreams, his nights of disturbed sleep, he might have cried +out, but he did not know if he had ever done so. And besides, he had not +just waked from an agitated sleep. All this passed through his mind in +an instant, in spite of his alarm. "What time is it?" he asked. +"Nearly six o'clock." "Six o'clock!" "Do you not hear the vehicles in +the street? The street-venders are calling their wares." It must have +been about one o'clock when he closed his eyes; he had then slept five +hours, profoundly, and he felt calm, rested, refreshed, his body active +and his mind tranquil, the man of former times, in the days of his happy +youth, and not the half-insane man of these last frightful months. + +He breathed a sigh. + +"Ah, if I could have you always!" he murmured, as much to himself as to +her. + +And he gave her a long look mingled with a sad smile; then, placing his +arm around her shoulders, he pressed her to him. + +"Dear little wife!" + +She had never heard so profound, so vibrating, a tenderness in his voice; +never had she been able, until hearing these words, to measure the depth +of the love that she had inspired in him; and it even seemed that this +was the declaration of a new love. + +Pressing her passionately to him, he repeated: + +"Dear little wife!" + +Distracted, lost in her happiness, she did not reply. + +All at once he held her from him gently, and looking at her with the same +smile: + +"Does this word tell you nothing?" + +"It tells me that you love me." + +"And is that all?" + +"What more can I wish? You say it, I feel it. You give me the greatest +joy of which I can dream." + +"It is enough for you?" + +"It would be enough if it need never be interrupted. But it is the +misfortune of our life that we are obliged to separate at the time when +the ties that unite us are the most strongly bound." + +"Why should we separate?" + +"Alas! Mamma? And daily bread?" + +"If you did not leave your mother. If you need no longer worry about +your life?" + +She looked at him, not daring to question him, not betraying the +direction of her thoughts except by a trembling that she could not +control in spite of her efforts. + +"I mean if you become my wife." + +"Oh, my beloved!" + +"Will you not?" + +She threw herself in his arms, fainting; but after a moment she +recovered. + +"Alas! It is impossible," she murmured. + +"Why impossible?" + +"Do not ask me; do not oblige me to say it." + +"But, on the contrary, I wish you to tell me." + +She turned her head away, and in a voice that was scarcely perceptible, +in a stifled sigh: + +"My brother--" + +"It is greatly on account of your brother that I wish this marriage." + +Then, suddenly: "Do you think me the man to submit to prejudiced +blockheads?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +THE IMPORTANT QUESTION + +Saniel had not waited until this day to acknowledge the salutary +influence that Phillis's presence exercised over him, yet the idea of +making her his wife never occurred to him. He thought himself ill- +adapted to marriage, and but little desirous of being a husband. +Until lately he had had no desire for a home. + +This idea came to him suddenly and took strong hold of him; at least as +much on account of the calmness he felt in her presence, as by the charm +of her manner, her health, happiness, and gayety. + +It was not only physical calm that she gave him by a mysterious affinity +concerning which his studies told him nothing, but of which he did not +the less feel all the force; it was also a moral calm. + +There were duties he owed her, and terribly heavy were those he owed her +mother and Florentin. + +He did all he could for Florentin, but this was not all that he owed +them. Florentin was in prison; Madame Cormier fell into a mournful +despair, growing weaker each day; and Phillis, in spite of her elasticity +and courage, bent beneath the weight of injustice. + +How much the situation would be changed if he married her--for them, +and for him! + +When Phillis was a little recovered from her great surprise, she asked +him: + +"When did you decide on this marriage?" + +He did not wish to prevaricate, and he answered that it was at that +instant that the idea came to him, exact enough and strong enough to give +form to the ideas that had been floating in his brain for several months. + +"At least, have you considered it? Have you not yielded to an impulse of +love?" + +"Would it be better to yield to a long, rational calculation? I marry +you because I love you, and also because I am certain that without you +I cannot be happy. Frankly, I acknowledge that I need you, your +tenderness, your love, your strength of character, your equal temper, +your invincible faith in hope, which, for me as I am organized, is worth +the largest dot." + +"It is exactly because I have no dot to bring you. When you were at the +last extremity, desperate and crushed, I might ask to become the wife of +the poor village doctor that you were going to be; but to-day, in your +position, above all in the position that you will soon occupy, is poor +little Phillis worthy of you? You give me the greatest joy that I can +ever know, of which I have only dreamed in telling myself that it would +be folly to hope to have it realized. But just that gives me the +strength to beg you to reflect, and to consider whether you will ever +regret this moment of rapture that makes me so happy." + +"I have reflected, and what you say proves better than anything that I do +not deceive myself. I want a wife who loves me, and you are that wife." + +"More than I can tell you at this moment, wild with happiness, but not +more than I shall prove to you in the continuance of our love." + +"Besides, dearest, do not have any illusions on the splendors of this +position of which you speak; it is more than probable that they will +never be realized, for I am not a man of money, and will do nothing to +gain any. If it does not come by itself--" + +"It will come." + +"That is not the object for which I work. What I wish I have obtained +partly; if now I make money and obtain a rich practice, the jealousy of +my confreres will make me lose, or wait too long, for what my ambition +prefers to a fortune. For the moment this position will be modest; my +four thousand francs of salary, that which I gain at the central bureau +while waiting to have the title of hospital physician, and five hundred +francs a month more that my editor offers me for work and a review of +bacteriology, will give us nearly twelve thousand francs, and we must +content ourselves with that for some time." + +"That is a fortune to me." + +"To me also; but I thought I ought to tell you." + +"And when do you wish our marriage to take place?" + +"Immediately after the necessary legal delay, and as soon as I am settled +in a new apartment; for you could not come here as my wife, where you +have been seen so often. It would not be pleasant for you or for me." + +"And we will not be so foolish as to put ourselves in the hands of an +upholsterer; the first one cost enough." + +He said these last words with fierce energy, but continued immediately: + +"What do we need? A parlor for the patients, if they come; an office for +me, which will do also as a laboratory; a bedroom for us, and one for +your mother." + +"You wish--" + +"But certainly. Do you think that I would ask you to separate from her?" + +She took his hand, and kissing it with a passionate impulse: "Oh, the +dearest, the most generous of men!" + +"Do not let us talk of that," he said with evident annoyance. "In your +mother's condition of mental prostration it would kill her to be left +alone; she needs you, and I promise to help you to soften her grief. +We will make her comfortable; and although my nature is not very tender, +I will try to replace him from whom she is separated. It will be a +happiness to her to see you happy." + +For a long time he enlarged upon what he wished, feeling a sentiment of +satisfaction in talking of what he would do for Madame Cormier, in whom +at this time he saw the mother of Florentin more than that of Phillis. + +"Do you think you can make her forget?" he asked from time to time. + +"Forget? No. Neither she nor I can ever forget; but it is certain our +sorrow will be drowned in our happiness, and this happiness we shall owe +to you. Oh, how you will be adored, respected, blessed!" + +Adored, respected! He repeated these words to himself. One could, then, +be happy by making others happy. He had had so little opportunity until +this time to do for others, that this was in some sort the revelation of +a sentiment that he was astonished to feel, but which, for being new, was +only the sweeter to him. + +He wished to give himself the satisfaction of tasting all the sweetness. + +"Where are you going this morning?" he asked. + +"I return to the school to help my pupils prepare their compositions for +the prize." + +"Very well; while you are at the school this morning, I will go to see +your mother. The process of asking in marriage that we make use of is +perhaps original, and conforms to the laws of nature, if nature admits +marriage, which I ignore; but it certainly is not the way of those of the +world. And now I must address this request to your mother." + +"What joy you will give her!" + +"I hope so." + +"I should like to be there to enjoy her happiness. Mamma has a mania for +marriage; she spends her time marrying the people she knows or those she +does not know. And she has felt convinced that I should die in the +yellow skin of an old maid. At last, this evening she will have the +happiness of announcing to me your visit and your request. But do not +make this visit until the afternoon, because then our cousin will be +gone." + +Saniel spent his morning in looking for apartments, and found one in a +quarter of the Invalides, which he engaged. + +It was nearly one o'clock when he reached Madame Cormier's. As usual, +when he called, she looked at him with anxious curiosity, thinking of +Florentin. + +"It is not of him that I wish to speak to you to-day," he said, without +pronouncing any name, which was unnecessary. "It is of Mademoiselle +Phillis--" + +"Do you find her ill?" Madame Cormier said, who thought only of +misfortune. + +"Not at all. It is of her and of myself that I wish to speak. Do not be +uneasy. I hope that what I am going to say will not be a cause of +sadness to you." + +"Pardon me if I always see something to fear. We have been so +frightfully tried, so unjustly!" + +He interrupted her, for these complaints did not please him. + +"For a long time," he said quickly, "Mademoiselle Phillis has inspired me +with a deep sentiment of esteem and tenderness; I have not been able to +see her so courageous, so brave in adversity, so decided in her +character, so good to you, so charming, without loving her, and I have +come to ask you to give her to me as my wife." + +At Saniel's words, Madame Cormier's hands began to tremble, and the +trembling increased. + +"Is it possible?" she murmured, beginning to cry. "So great a happiness +for my daughter! Such an honor for us, for us, for us!" + +"I love her." + +"Forgive me if happiness makes me forget the conventionalities, but I +lose my head. We are so unhappy that our souls are weak against joy. +Perhaps I should hide my daughter's sentiments; but I cannot help telling +you that this esteem, this tenderness of which you speak, is felt by her. +I discovered it long ago, although she did not tell me. Your request, +then, can only be received with joy by mother, as well as daughter." + +This was said brokenly, evidently from an overflowing heart. But all at +once her face saddened. + +"I must talk to you sincerely," she said. "You are young, I am not; +and my age makes it a duty for me not to yield to any impulse. We are +unfortunates, you are one of the happy; you will soon be rich and famous. +Is it wise to burden your life with a wife who is in my daughter's +position?" + +With the exception of a few words, this was Phillis's answer. He +answered the mother as he had answered the daughter. + +"It is not for you that I speak," said Madame Cormier. "I should not +permit myself to give you advice; it is in placing myself at the point of +view of my daughter that I, her mother, with the experience of my age, +should watch over her future. Is it certain that in the struggles of +life you will never suffer from this marriage, not because my daughter +will not make you happy--from this side I am easy--but because the +situation that fate has made for us will weigh on you and fetter you? +I know my daughter-her delicacy; her uneasy susceptibility, that of the +unfortunate; her pride, that of the irreproachable. It would be a wound +for her that would make happiness give way to unhappiness, for she could +not bear contempt." + +"If that is in human nature, it is not in mine; I give you my word." + +He explained how he meant to arrange their life, and when she understood +that she was to live with them, she clasped her hands and exclaimed + +"Oh, my God, who hast taken my son, how good thou art to give me +another!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +CONCESSION TO CONSCIENCE + +He asked nothing better than to be a son to this poor woman; in reality +he was worth much more than this unfortunate boy, effeminate and +incapable. What did this maternal hunger require? A son to love. She +would find one in her son-in-law. In seeing her daughter happy, how +could she help being happy herself? + +Evidently they would be happy, the mother and daughter; and whatever +Phillis might think, still under the influence of the shameful blow, +they would forget. They would owe him this. + +It was a long time since he had worked with so much serenity as on this +day; and when in the evening he went to bed, uneasy as usual about the +night, he slept as calmly as if Phillis were resting her charming head on +his shoulder and he breathed the perfume of it. + +Decidedly, to make others happy was the best thing in the world, and as +long as one could have this satisfaction there was no fear of being +unhappy. To create an atmosphere of happiness for others is to profit by +it at the same time. + +He waited for Phillis impatiently, for she would bring him an echo of her +mother's joy, and it was a recompense that she owed him. + +She arrived happy, smiling, penetrated with tenderness; but he observed +that she was keeping something from him, something that embarrassed her, +and yet she would not tell him what it was. + +He was not disposed to admit that she could conceal anything from him, +and he questioned her. + +"What are you keeping from me?" + +"How can you suppose that I should keep anything from you?" + +"Well, what is the matter? You know, do you not, that I read all your +thoughts in your eyes? Very well your eyes speak when your lips are +silent." + +"I have a request to make of you, a prayer." + +"Why do you not tell me?" + +"Because I do not dare." + +"Yet it does not seem to me that I show a disposition to make you believe +that I could refuse you anything." + +"It is just that which is the cause of my embarrassment and reserve; I +fear to pain you at the moment when I would show you all the gratitude +and love in my heart." + +"If you are going to give me pain, it is better not to make me wait." + +She hesitated; then, before an impatient gesture, she decided to speak. + +"I wish to ask you how you mean to be married?" + +He looked at her in surprise. + +"But, like every one else!" + +"Every one?" she asked, persistently. + +"Is there any other way of being married?" + +"Yes." + +"I do not in the least understand this manner of asking conundrums; if +you are alluding to a fashionable custom of which I know nothing, say so +frankly. That will not wound me, since I am the first to declare that I +know nothing of it. What do you wish?" + +She felt his irritation increase, and yet she could not decide to say +what she wished. + +"I have begun badly," she said. "I should have told you at first that +you will always find in me a wife who will respect your ideas and +beliefs, who will never permit herself to judge you, and still less to +seek to contend with them or to modify them. That you feel, do you not, +is neither a part of my nature nor of my love?" + +"Conclude!" he said impatiently. + +"I think, then," she said with timid hesitation, "that you will not say +that I fail in respect to your ideas in asking that our marriage take +place in church." + +"But that was my intention." + +"Truly!" she exclaimed. "O dearest! And I feared to offend you!" + +"Why should you think it would offend me?" he asked, smiling. + +"You consent to go to confession?" + +Instantly the smile in his eyes and on his lips was replaced by a gleam +of fury. + +"And why should I not go to confession?" he demanded. + +"But--" + +"Do you suppose that I can be afraid to confess? Why do you suppose +that? Tell me why?" + +He looked at her with eyes that pierced to her heart, as if they would +read her inmost thoughts. + +Stupefied by this access of fury, which burst forth without any warning, +since he had smilingly replied to her request for a religious marriage, +she could find nothing to say, not understanding how the simple word +"confess" could so exasperate him. And yet she could not deceive +herself: is was indeed this word and no other that put him in this state. + +He continued to look at her, and wishing to explain herself, she said: +"I supposed only one thing, and that is that I might offend you by asking +you to do what is contrary to your beliefs." + +The mad anger that carried him away so stupidly began to lose its first +violence; another word added to what had already escaped him would be an +avowal. + +"Do not let us talk of it anymore," he said. "Above all, do not let us +think of it." + +"Permit me to say one word," she replied. "Had I been situated like +other people I would have asked nothing; my will is yours. But for you, +for your future and your honor, you should not appear to marry in secret, +as if ashamed, with a pariah." + +"Be easy. I feel as you do, more than you, the necessity of consecrated +ceremonies for us." + +She understood that on this path he would go farther than she. + +To destroy the impression of this unfortunate word, he proposed that they +should visit the apartment he had engaged the previous day. + +For the first time they walked together boldly, with heads held high, +side by side in the streets of Paris, without fear of meeting others. +How proud she was! Her husband! It was on her husband's arm that she +leaned! When they crossed the Tuileries she was almost surprised that +people did not turn to see them pass. + +In her present state of mind she could not but find the house he chose +admirable; the street was admirable, the house was admirable, the +apartment was admirable. + +As it contained three bedrooms opening on a terrace, where he would keep +the animals for his experiments, Saniel wished to have her decide which +one she would choose; as she would share it with him she wished to take +the best, but he would not accept this arrangement. + +"I want you to choose between the two little ones," he said. "The +largest and best must be reserved for your mother, who, not being able to +go out, needs more space, air, and light than we do." + +She was transported with his kindness, delicacy, and generosity. Never +would she be able to love him enough to raise herself up to him. + +Fortunately the principal rooms, the parlor and the office, were about +the same size as those in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, so there need be but +little change in furnishing; and they would bring their furniture from +the Rue des Moines. + +This feminine talk, interrupted by passionate exclamations and glances, +charmed Saniel, who had forgotten the incident of the confession and his +anger, thinking only of Phillis, seeing only her, ravished by her gayety, +her vivacity, his whole being stirred by the tender caresses of her +beautiful dark eyes. + +How could he not be happy with this delicious woman who held such sway +over him, and who loved him so ardently? For him a single danger +henceforth--solitude. She would preserve him from it. With her gayety, +good temper, courage, and love, she would not leave him to his thoughts; +work would do the rest. + +After the question of furniture was decided, they settled that of the +marriage ceremony, and she was surprised to find that his ideas were the +same as hers. + +She decided upon her toilet, a silk gown as simple as possible, and she +would make it herself, as she made all her gowns. And then they +discussed the witnesses. "We have no friends," Phillis said. + +"You had some formerly; your father had friends and comrades." + +"I am no longer the daughter of my father, I am the sister of my brother; +I would not dare to ask them to witness my marriage." + +"It is just because you are the sister of your brother that they cannot +refuse you; it would be cruelty added to rudeness. Cruelty may be +overlooked, but rudeness! Among the men of talent, who was your father's +best friend?" + +"Cintrat." + +"Is he not a bohemian, a drunkard?" + +"My father regarded him as the greatest painter of our time, the most +original." + +"It is not a question of talent, but of name; I am sure that he is not +even decorated. Your father had other friends, more successful, more +commonplace, if you wish." + +"Glorient." + +"The member of the Institute?" + +"Casparis, the sculptor." + +"An academician, also; that is what we want, and both are 'archi-decore'. +You will write them, and tell them who I am, assistant professor of the +school of medicine, and doctor of the hospitals. I promise you they will +accept. I will ask my old master Carbonneau, president of the academy of +medicine; and Claudet, the ancient minister, who, in his quality of +deputy of my department, could not decline any more than the others. +And that will give us decorated witnesses, which will look well in the +newspapers." + +It was not only in the newspapers they looked well, but also in the +church of Sainte-Marie des Batignolles. + +"Glorient! Casparis! Carbonneau! Claudet! Art, science, and +politics." + +But the beauty and charm of the bride were not eclipsed by these glorious +witnesses. She entered on Glorient's arm, proud in her modesty, radiant +with grace. + +While the priest celebrated mass at the altar, outside, before the door, +a man dressed in a costume of chestnut velvet, and wearing a felt hat, +walked up and down, smoking a pipe. It was the Count de Brigard, whose +principles forbade him to enter a church for either a wedding or a +funeral, and who walked up and down on the sidewalk with his disciples, +waiting to congratulate Saniel. When he appeared the Count rushed up to +him, and taking his hand pressed it warmly on separating him from his +wife, and saying: + +"It is good, it is noble. Circumstances made this marriage; without them +it would not have taken place. I understand and I excuse it; I do more, +I applaud it. My dear friend, you are a man." + +And as it was Wednesday, in the evening at Crozat's, he publicly +expressed his approbation, which, in the conditions in which it had been +offered, did not satisfy his conscience. + +"Gentlemen, we have assisted to-day at a grand act of reparation, the +marriage of our friend Saniel to the sister of this poor boy, victim of +an injustice that cries for vengeance. One evening in this same room, +I spoke lightly of Saniel, some of you remember, perhaps, in spite of the +time that has passed. I wish to make this public reparation to him. To- +day he has shown himself a man of duty and of conscience, bravely putting +himself above social weaknesses." + +"Is it not a social weakness," asked Glady, "to have chosen as witnesses +of this act of reparation persons who seem to have been selected for the +decorative side of their official positions?" + +"Profound irony, on the contrary!" said Brigard. "It is a powerful and +fruitful lesson, which makes even those who are professional defenders +concur in the demolition of the prejudiced. Saniel is a man!" + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +PHILLIS IS SURPRISED + +The Sunday following her marriage, Phillis experienced a surprise on +which she reflected a long time without finding a satisfactory +explanation. + +As she was dressing, Saniel entered her room. + +"What are you going to do to-day?" he asked. + +"That which I do every day." + +"You are not going to mass?" + +She looked at him astonished, not being able to control her surprise, and +as usual, when she appeared to wish to read his thoughts, he showed +temper. + +"In what way is my question extraordinary?" + +"Mass is not exactly the usual subject of your thoughts, it seems to me." + +"It may become so, especially when I think of others, as is the case just +now. Do you not often go to mass?" + +"When I can." + +"Very well, you can go to-day if you wish. Listen to what I have to say +to you. I have not forgotten the promise you made to respect my ideas +and beliefs. I wish to make you the same; it is very simple." + +"All that is good and generous seems simple to you." + +"Well?" + +"I will go at once." + +"Now? At once? It is not eight o'clock. Go to high mass, it is more +fashionable." + +Fashionable! What a strange word in his mouth! It was not out of +respect to fashion that she went to church, but because there was in her +a depth of religious sentiment and of piety, a little vague perhaps, +which Florentin's misfortunes had revived. + +"I will go to high mass," she said, without letting it appear that this +word had suggested anything to her, and continuing her dressing. + +"Are you going to wear this frock?" he asked, pointing to one that lay +on a chair. + +"Yes; at least if it does not displease you." + +"I find it rather simple." + +In effect it was of extreme simplicity, made of some cheap stuff, its +only charm being an originality that Phillis gave it on making it +herself. + +"Do not forget," he continued, "that Saint-Francois-Xavier is not a +church for working people; when a woman is as charming as you are she is +always noticed. People will ask who you are." + +"You are right; I will wear the gown I wore at the distribution of the +prices." + +"That is it; and your bonnet, will you not, instead of the round hat? +The first impression should be the best." + +This mixture of religious and worldly things was surprising in him. Had +she not understood him, then, until now? After all, perhaps it was only +an exception. + +But these exactions regarding her dress were repeated. Although before +her marriage Phillis had only crossed Saniel's path, she knew him well +enough to know that he was entirely given up to work, without thought of +anything else, and she believed that after marriage he would continue to +work in the same way, not caring for amusements or society. She was +correct about his work, but not so regarding society. A short time after +their marriage the minister Claudet was cured opportunely of an attack of +facial neuralgia by Saniel, for whom he conceived a great friendship. He +invited Saniel and his wife to all his reunions and fetes, and Saniel +accepted all his invitations. + +At first her wedding gown answered very well, but it would not do always. +It had to be trimmed, modified, three or four toilets made of one gown; +but, however ingenious Phillis might be in arranging several yards of +tulle or gauze, she could not make combinations indefinitely. + +And besides, they did not please Saniel; they were too simple. He liked +lace, beads, flowers, something shining and glittering, such as he saw +other women wear. + +How could she please him with the small resources at her disposal? In +her household expenses she was as economical as possible; Joseph was +dismissed, and replaced by a maid who did all the work; the table was +extremely simple. But these little economies, saved on one side, were +quickly spent on the other in toilets and carriages. + +When she expressed a wish to work, to paint menus, he would not consent, +and when she insisted he became angry + +He only permitted her to paint pictures. As she had formerly painted for +amusement in her father's studio, she might do so now. If trade were a +disgrace, art might be honorable. If she had talent he would be glad of +it; and if she should sell her pictures it would be original enough to +cause her to be talked about. + +The salon was partly transformed into a studio, and Phillis painted +several little pictures, which, without having any pretensions to great +art, were pleasing and painted with a certain dash. Glorient admired +them, and made a picture-dealer buy two of them and order others, at a +small price it is true, but it was much more than she expected. + +With the courage and constancy that women put into work that pleases +them, she would willingly have painted from morning till night; but the +connections that Saniel had made did not leave her this liberty. Through +Claudet they made many acquaintances and accepted invitations that placed +her under social obligations, so that almost every day she had a visit to +pay, a funeral or a marriage to attend, besides an occasional charity +fair, and her own day at home, when she listened for three hours to +feminine gossip of no interest to her. + +As for him, what pleasure could he take in dressing after a hard day's +work to go to a reception? He, son of a peasant, and a peasant himself +in so many ways, who formerly understood nothing of fashionable life and +felt only contempt for it, finding it as dull as it was ridiculous. + +She tried to find a cause for this change, and when lightly, in a +roundabout way, she brought him to explain himself, she could only draw +one answer from him, which was no answer to her: + +"We must be of the world." + +Why did he care so much about society? Was it because she was the sister +of a criminal that he wished to take her everywhere and make people +receive her? She understood this up to a certain point, although the +part he made her play was the most cruel that he could give her, and +entirely contrary to what she would have chosen if she had been free. + +But this was all there was in his desire to be of the world. Because he +had married her he was not the brother of a criminal, and on close +observation it might be seen that all he desired of these persons in high +places whom he sought was their consideration, a part of their importance +and honor. But he did not need this; he was some one by himself. The +position that he had made was worthy of his merit. His name was honored. +His future was envied. + +And yet, as if he did not realize this, he sought small satisfactions, +unworthy of a serious ambition. One evening she was very much surprised +when he told her that the decoration of a Spanish republic was offered to +him, and although she had formed a habit of watching over her words she +could not help exclaiming: + +"What will you do with that?" + +"I could not refuse it." + +Not only had he not refused it, but he had accepted others, blue, green, +yellow, and tricolored; he wore them in his buttonhole, around his neck, +and on his breast. What good could those decorations do that belittled +him? And how could a man of his merit hasten to obtain the Legion of +Honor before it fell to him naturally? + +All this was astonishing, mysterious, and silly, and her mind dwelt upon +it when she was alone before her easel; while near her in his laboratory, +he continued his experiments, or wrote an article in his office for the +Review. + +But it was not without a struggle that she permitted herself to judge him +in this way. One does not judge those whom one loves, and she loved him. +Was it not failing in respect to her love that she did not admire him in +every way? When these ideas oppressed her she left her easel and went to +him. Close to him they disappeared. At first, in order not to disturb +him, she entered on tiptoe, walking softly and leaning over his shoulder, +embraced him before he saw or heard her; but he betrayed such horror, +such fear, that she gave up this way of greeting him. + +She continued to go to his room, but in a different way. Instead of +surprising him she announced her presence by rattling the handle of the +door, and walking noisily, and instead of receiving her with uneasy +manner he welcomed her joyfully. + +"You have finished painting?" + +"I have come to see you for a little while." + +"Very well, stay with me, do not go away immediately; I am never so +happy, I never work so well, as when I have you near me." + +She felt that this was true. When she was with him, whether she spoke or +not, her presence made him happy. + +And still she must appear not to look at him too attentively, as if with +the manifest intention of studying him; for she did this during the first +days of their marriage, and angered him so much that he exclaimed: + +"Why do you examine me thus? What do you look for in me?" + +She learned to watch herself carefully, and when with him to preserve a +discreet attitude that should not offend him. No curious looks, and no +questions. But this was not always easy, so she asked leave to assist +him in his work, and sometimes drew in larger size the designs that he +made for his microscopical studies. In this way the time passed rapidly. +If he were but willing to pass the evening hours in this sweet intimacy, +without a word about going out, how happy she would be! But he never +forgot the hour. + +"Allons," he said, interrupting himself, "we must go." + +She had never dared to ask the true reason for this "must." + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +A TROUBLED SOUL + +If she dared not frankly ask him this question: Why must we go out? any +more than the others: Why is it proper that I should go to mass to be +seen? Why should I wear gowns that ruin us? Why do you accept +decorations that are valueless in your eyes? Why do you seek the society +of men who have no merit but what they derive from their official +position or from their fortune? Why do we take upon ourselves social +duties that weary both of us, instead of remaining together in a tender +and intelligent intimacy that is sweet to us both? she could not ask +herself. + +They all appertained to this order of ideas, that she, without doubt, +found explained them: disposition of character; the exactions of an +ambition in haste to realize its desires; susceptibility or overshadowing +pride; but there were others founded on observation or memory, having no +connection with those, or so it seemed to her. + +She began to know her husband the day following their marriage, having +believed that he was always such as he revealed himself to her; but this +was not the case, and the man she had loved was so unlike the man whose +wife she had become, that it might almost be thought there were two. + +To tell the truth, it was not marriage that made the change in his temper +that distressed her; but it was not less characteristic by that, that it +dated back to a period anterior to this marriage. + +She remembered the commencement with a clearness that left no place for +doubt or hesitation; it was at the time when pursued by creditors he +entered into relations with Caffie. For the first time he, always so +strong that she believed him above weakness, had had a moment of +discouragement on announcing that he would probably be obliged to leave +Paris; but this depression had neither the anger nor weakness that he had +since shown. It was the natural sadness of a man who saw his future +destroyed, nothing more. The only surprise that she then felt was caused +by the idea of strangling Caffie and taking enough money from his safe to +clear himself from debt, and also because he said--as a consequence of +this act--speaking of the remorse of an intelligent man, that his +conscience would not reproach him, since for him conscience did not +exist. But this was evidently a simple philosophical theory, not a trait +of character; a jest or an argument for the sake of discussion. + +Relieved from his creditors with the money won at Monaco, he returned to +his usual calm, working harder than ever, passing his 'concours', and +when it seemed excusable that he might be nervous, violent, unjust, he +remained the man that he had been ever since she knew him. Then, all at +once, a short time before Florlentin went to the assizes, occurred these +strange explosions of temper, spasms of anger, and restlessness that she +could not explain, manifesting themselves exactly at the time when, by +Madame Dammauville's intervention, she hoped Florentin would be saved. +She had not forgotten the furious anger, that was inexplicable and +unjustifiable, with which he refused her request to see Madame +Dammauville. He had thrust her away, wishing to break with her, and +until she was a witness of this scene she never imagined that any one +could put such violence into exasperation. Then to this scene succeeded +another, totally opposed, which had not less impressed her, when, at +their little dinner by the fire, he showed such profound desolation on +telling her to keep the memory of this evening when she should judge him, +and announcing to her, in a prophetic sort of way, that the hour would +come when she would know him whom she loved. + +And now this hour, the thought of which she had thrown far from her, had +sounded; she sought to combine the elements of this judgment which then +appeared criminal to her, and now forced itself upon her, whatever she +might do to repel it. + +How many times this memory returned to her! It could almost be said that +it had never left her, sweet and sad at the same time, less sweet and +more sad, according as new subjects for uneasiness were added to the +others, in deepening the mysterious and troublous impression that it left +with her. + +To judge him! Why did he wish that she should judge him? And on what? + +And yet with him it was not an insignificant word, but the evidence of a +particular state of conscience, which many times since asserted itself. +Was it not, in effect, to this order of ideas that the cry belonged that +escaped him in the night when, waking suddenly, he asked with emotion, +with fright: "What have I said?" And also to the same appertained the +anger that carried him away when, 'a propos' of their religious marriage, +she spoke of confession: "Why do you think that I should be afraid to go +to confession?" + +How could he imagine that she could admit the idea of fear in connection +with him? The idea never occurred to her mind until this moment; and if +now the memory of her astonishment came to her, it was because of other +little things added to those of the past that evoked it. + +How numerous and significant they were, these things: his constant +uneasiness on seeing himself watched by her; his invitation when he +thought she was going to question him; his access of passion when, +through heedlessness or forgetfulness, or simply by chance, she asked him +a question on certain subjects, and immediately the tenderness that +followed, so sudden that they appeared rather planned in view of a +determined end than natural or spontaneous. + +It was a long time before she admitted the calculation under the sweet +words that made her so happy; but in the end it was well that she should +open her eyes to the evidence, and see that they were with him the +consequences of the same and constant preoccupation, that of not +committing himself. + +It was only one step from this to ask him what he did not wish to yield +up. + +Yet, as short as it was, she resisted for a long time the curiosity that +possessed her. It was her duty as a loving and devoted wife not to seek +beyond what he showed her, and this duty was in perfect accord with the +dispositions of her love; but the power of things seen carried her beyond +will and reason. She could not apply her mind to search for that which +agonized her, and she could not close her eyes and ears to what she saw +and heard. + +And what struck them were the same observations, turning always in the +same circle, applied to the same subjects and persons: + +Caffie's name irritated him; Madame Dammauville's angered him; +Florentin's made him positively unhappy. + +As for the two former, she might have prevented the pronunciation of them +when she saw the effect they infallibly produced on him. + +But she could not prevent the utterance of Florentin's name, even had she +wished it. How could she tell her mother never to speak the name of him +who was constantly in their thoughts? + +In spite of Saniel's efforts and solicitations, supported by Nougarede's, +Florentin had embarked for New Caledonia, whence he wrote as often as he +could. His letters related all his sufferings in the terrible galleys, +where he was confined during the voyage, and since his arrival they were +a series of long complaints, continued from one to the other, like a +story without end, turning always on the same subject, his physical +sufferings, his humiliation, his discouragement, and his disgust in the +midst of the unfortunates whose companion he was. + +The arrival of these letters filled the mother and sister with anguish +that lasted for several days; and this anguish, that neither of them +could dissimulate, angered Saniel. + +"What would you do if he were dead?" he asked Phillis. + +"Would it not be better for him?" + +"But he will return." + +"In what condition?" + +"Are we the masters of fate?" + +"We weep, we do not complain." + +But he complained of the weeping faces that surrounded him, the tears +they concealed from him, the sighs they stifled. Ordinarily he was +tender and affectionate to his mother-in-law, with attention and +deference which in some ways seemed affected, as if he were so by will +rather than by natural sentiment; but at these times he forgot this +tenderness, and treated her with hardness so unjust, that more than once +Madame Cormier spoke of it to her daughter. + +"How can your husband, who is so good to me, be so merciless regarding +Florentin? One would say that our sadness produces on him the effect of +a reproach that we would address to him." + +One day when things had gone farther than usual, she had the courage to +speak to him plainly: "Forgive me for burdening you with the weariness of +our disgrace," she said to him. "When I complain of everything, of men +and things, you should remember that you are the exception, you who have +done everything to save him." + +But these few words which she believed would calm the irritation of her +son-in-law, had on the contrary exasperated him; he left her, furious. + +"I do not understand your husband at all," she said to her daughter. +"Will you not explain to me what the matter is with him?" + +How could she give her mother the explanation that she could not give +herself? Having reached an unfathomable abyss, she dared not even lean +over to look into its depths; and instead of going on in the path where +she was pledged in spite of herself, she made every effort to return, or +at least to stop. + +What good would it do to find out why he was so peculiar, and what it was +that he took so much pains to conceal? This could only be idle curiosity +on her part, for which she would be punished sooner or later. + +Turning these thoughts over continually in her mind she lost her gayety, +her power to resist blows of fate, such as the small trials of life, +which formerly made her courageous; her vigorous elasticity sunk under +the heavy weight with which it was charged, and her smiling eyes now more +often expressed anxiety than happiness and confidence. + +In spite of her watchfulness over herself she was not able to hide the +change from Saniel, for it manifested itself in everything--in her face +formerly so open, but which now bore the imprint of a secret sadness; in +her concentrated manner, in her silence and abstraction. + +What was the matter with her? He questioned her, and she replied with +the prudence that she used in all her conversation with him. He examined +her medically, but found nothing to indicate a sickly condition which +would justify the change in her. + +If she did not wish to answer his questions, and he had the proof that +she did not wish to; if, on the other hand, she was not ill, and he was +convinced that she was not--there must be something serious the matter to +make the woman whom but lately he read so easily become an enigma that +made him uneasy. + +And this thing--if it were that whose crushing weight he himself carried +on his bent shoulders? She divined, she understood, if not all, at least +a part of the truth. + +What an extraordinary situation was hers, and one which might truly +destroy her reason. + +Nothing to fear from others, everything from himself. Justice, law, the +world--on all sides he was let alone; nothing was asked of him; that +which was owed was paid; but he by a sickly aberration was going to awake +the dead who slept in their tomb, from which no one thought of taking +them, and to make spectres of them which he alone saw and heard. + +And he believed himself strong. Fool that he was, and still more foolish +to have taken such a charge when by the exercise of his will he did not +place himself in a condition to carry it! To will! But he had not +learned how to will. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +THE POWER OF HYPNOTISM + +The relative calm that Saniel had felt since his marriage he owed to +Phillis; to the strength, the confidence, the peace that he drew from +her. Phillis without strength, without confidence, without interior +peace, such as she was now, could not give him what she no longer had +herself, and he returned to the distracted condition that preceded his +marriage, and felt the same anguish, the same agitation, the same +madness. The beautiful relations, worldly consideration, success, +decorations, honors, were good for others; but for his happiness he +required the tranquillity and serenity of his wife, and her good moral +health which passed into him when she slept on his shoulder. In that +case there were no sudden awakenings, no sleeplessness; at the sound of +her gentle respiration he was reassured, and the spectres remained in +their tomb. + +But now that this respiration was agitated, and he no longer felt in her +this tranquillity and serenity, he was no longer calm; she was weak and +uneasy, and she communicated her fever to him, not her sleep. + +"You do not sleep. Why do you not sleep?" + +"And you?" + +He must know. + +He persisted in his questions, but she was always on her guard, so that +he was unable to draw anything from her, checked as he was by the fear of +betraying himself, which seemed easy at the point he believed she had +reached. An awkward word, too much persistence, would let a flood of +light into her mind. + +He also affected to speak as a physician when questioning her, and to +look for medical explanations of her condition. + +"If you do not sleep it is because you suffer. What is this suffering? +From what does it proceed?" + +Having no reasons to give to justify it, since she did not even dare to +speak of her brother, she denied it obstinately. + +"But nothing is the matter with me, I assure you," she repeated. "What +do you think is the matter?" + +"That is what I ask you." + +"Then I ask you: What do you think I conceal from you?" + +He could not say that he suspected her of concealing anything from him. + +"You do not watch yourself properly." + +"I can do nothing." + +"I will force you to watch yourself and to speak." + +"How?" + +"By putting you to sleep." + +The threat was so terrible that she was beside herself. + +"Do not do that!" she cried. + +They looked at each other for a few moments in silence, both equally +frightened, she at the threat, he at what he would learn from her. But +to show this fright was on his side to let loose another proof even more +grave. + +"Why should I not seek to discover in every way the cause of this +uneasiness which escapes my examination as well as yours? For that +somnambulism offers us an excellent way." + +"But since I am not ill, what more could I tell you when I am asleep than +when I am awake?" + +"We shall see." + +"It is an experiment that I ask you not to attempt. Would you try a +poison on me?" + +"Somnambulism is not a poison." + +"Who knows?" + +"Those who have made use of it." + +"But you have not." + +"Still I know enough to know that you will run no danger in my hands." + +She believed that he opened a door of escape to her. + +"Never mind, I am too much afraid. If you ever want to make me talk in a +state of forced somnambulism, ask one of your 'confreres' in whom you +have confidence to put me to sleep." + +Before a 'confrere' she was certain he would not ask her dangerous +questions. + +He understood that she wished to escape him. + +"Afraid of what?" he asked. "That I shall ask you questions about the +past, concerning your life before we knew each other, and demand a +confession that would wound my love?" + +"O Victor!" she cried, distracted. "What more cruel wound could you +give me than these words? My confession! It comprises three words: I +love you; I have never loved any one but you; I shall never love any one +but you. I have no past; my life began with my love." + +He could not press it without showing the importance that he attached to +it. + +"I do not insist," he said; "it is a way like any other, but better. +You do not wish it, and we will not talk of it." + +But he yielded too quickly for her to hope that he renounced his project, +and she remained under the influence of a stupefying terror. What would +she say if he made her talk? Everything, possibly. She did not even +know what thoughts were hidden in the depths of her brain, and she knew +absolutely nothing of this forced somnambulism with which she was +threatened. + +At this time the works of the school of Nancy on sleep, hypnotism, and +suggestion, had not yet been published, or at least the book which served +as their starting-point was not known, and she knew nothing of processes +that were employed to provoke the hypnotic sleep. As soon as her husband +left the house she looked for some book in the library that would +enlighten her. But the dictionary that she found gave only obscure or +confused instructions in which she floundered. The only exact point that +struck her was the method employed to produce sleep; to make the subject +look at a brilliant object placed from fifteen to twenty centimetres in +front of the eyes. If this were true she had no fear of ever being put +to sleep. + +However, she was not reassured; and when a few days later at a dinner she +found herself seated next to one of her husband's 'confreres', who she +knew interested himself in somnambulism, she had the courage to conquer +her usual timidity concerning medicine, and questioned him. + +"Are there not persons with certain diseases who can be put into a state +of somnambulism?" + +"It was formerly believed by the public and by many physicians that only +persons afflicted with hysteria and nervous troubles could be put to +sleep in this way, but it was a mistake; artificial somnambulism may be +produced on many subjects who are perfectly healthy." + +"Is the will preserved in sleep?" + +"The subject only preserves the spontaneity and will that his hypnotizer +leaves him, who at his pleasure makes him sad, gay, angry, or tender, and +plays with his soul as with an instrument." + +"But that is frightful." + +"Curious, at least. It is certain that there is a local paralysis of +such or such a cell, the study of which is the starting-point of many +interesting discoveries." + +"When he wakes, does the subject remember what he has said?" + +"There is a difference of opinion on this point. Some say yes, and +others no. As for me, I believe the memory depends upon the degree of +sleep: with a light sleep there is remembrance, but with a profound sleep +the subject does not remember what he has said or heard or done." + +She would have liked to continue, and her companion, glad to talk of what +interested him, would willingly have said more, but she saw her husband +at the other end of the table watching them by fits and starts, and +fearing that he would suspect the subject of their conversation she +remained silent. + +What she had just learned seemed to her frightful. But, at least, as she +would not let herself be hypnotized she had nothing to fear; and +remembering what she had read, she promised herself that she would never +let him place her in a position where he could put her to sleep. It was +during the sleep that the will of the hypnotizer controlled that of the +subject, not before. + +Resting on this belief, and also on his not having again spoken of +sending her to sleep, she was reassured. Was not this a sign that he +accepted her opposition and renounced his idea of provoked somnambulism? + +But she deceived herself. + +One night when she had gone to bed at her usual hour while he remained at +his work, she awoke suddenly and saw him standing near her, looking at +her with eyes whose fixed stare frightened her. + +"What is the matter? What do you want?" + +"Nothing, I want nothing; I am going to bed." + +In spite of the strangeness of his glance she did not persist; questions +would have taught her nothing. And besides, now that he no longer went +to bed at the same time as she did, there was nothing extraordinary in +his attitude. + +But a few days from that she woke again in the night with a feeling of +distress, and saw him leaning over her as if he would envelop her in his +arms. + +This time, frightened as she was, she had the strength to say nothing, +but her anguish was the more intense. Did he then wish to hypnotize her +while she slept? Was it possible? Then the dictionary had deceived her? + +In truth it was while she slept that Saniel tried to transform her +natural into an artificial sleep. Would he succeed? He knew nothing +about it, for the experience was new. But he risked it. + +The first time, instead of putting her into a state of somnambulism, he +awoke her; the second, he succeeded no better; the third, when he saw +that after a certain time she did not open her eyes, he supposed that she +was asleep. To assure himself, he raised her arm, which remained in the +air until he placed it on the bed. Then taking her two hands, he turned +them backward, and withdrawing his own, the impulsion which he gave +lasted until he checked it. Her face had an expression of calmness and +tranquillity that it had not had for a long time; she was the pretty +Phillis of other days, with the sprightly glance. + +"To-morrow I will make you sleep at the same time," he said, "and you +will talk." + +The next night he put her to sleep even more easily, but when he +questioned her she resisted. + +"No," she said, "I will not speak; it is horrible. I will not, I +cannot." + +He insisted, but she would not. + +"Very well, so be it," he said; "not to-day, to-morrow. But to-morrow I +wish you to speak, and you shall not resist me; I will it!" + +If he did not insist it was not only because he knew that habit was +necessary to make her submit to his will without being able to defend +herself, but because he was ignorant whether, when she awoke, she had any +memory of what happened in her sleep, which was an important point. + +The next night she was the same as she had been the previous evening, and +nothing indicated that she was conscious of her provoked sleep, any more +than what she said in this sleep. He could then continue. + +This time she went to sleep sooner and more easily than usual, and her +face took the expression of tranquillity and repose he had seen the night +before. Would she answer? And if she consented, would she speak +sincerely, without attempting to weaken or falsify the truth? Emotion +made his voice tremble when he put the first question; it was his life, +his peace, the happiness of both which decided him. + +"Where do you suffer?" he asked. + +"I do not suffer." + +"Yet you are agitated, often melancholy or uneasy; you do not sleep well. +What troubles you?" + +"I am afraid." + +"Afraid of what? Of whom?" + +"Of you!" + +He trembled. + +"Afraid of me! Do you think that I could hurt you?" + +"No." + +His tightened heart relaxed. + +"Then why are you afraid?" + +"Because there are things in you that frighten me." + +"What things? Be exact." + +"The change that has taken place in your temper, your character, and your +habits." + +"And how do these changes make you uneasy?" + +"They indicate a serious situation." + +"What situation?" + +"I do not know; I have never stated exactly." + +"Why not?" + +"Because I was afraid; and I closed my eyes so that I might not see." + +"See what?" + +"The explanation of all that is mysterious in your life." + +"When did you notice the mystery in my life?" + +"At the time of Caffie's death; and before, when you told me that you +could kill him without any remorse." + +"Do you know who killed Caffie?" + +"No." + +His relief was so great that for several moments he forgot to continue +his interrogations. Then he went on: "And after?" + +"A little before Madame Dammauville's death, when you became irritable +and furious without cause; when you told me to go because you did not +wish to see Madame Dammauville; when, the night before her death, you +were so tender, and asked me not to judge you without recalling that +hour." + +"Yet you have judged me." + +"Never. When worry urged me, my love checked me." + +"What provoked this uneasiness outside of these facts?" + +"Your manner of living since our marriage; your accesses of anger and of +tenderness; your fear of being observed; your agitation at night; your +complaints--" + +"I talked?" he cried. + +"Never distinctly; you groan often, and moan, pronouncing broken words +without sense, unintelligible--" + +His anguish was violent; when he recovered he continued: + +"What is it in this way of living that has made you uneasy?" + +"Your constant care not to commit yourself--" + +"Commit myself how?" + +"I do not know--" + +"What else?" + +"The anger that you show, or the embarrassment, when the name of Caffie +is pronounced, Madame Dammauville's, and Florentin's--" + +"And you conclude that my anger on hearing these three names--" + +"Nothing--I am afraid--" + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +THE TERRIBLE REVELATION + +This confession threw him into a state of confusion and agitation, for if +it did not go beyond what he feared, yet it revealed a terrible +situation. + +Clearly, as in an open book, he read her; if she did not know all, she +was but one step from the truth, and if she had not taken this step, it +was because her love restrained her. If her love had been less strong, +less powerful, she certainly would not have withstood the proofs that +pressed on her from all sides. + +But because she had held back so long, he must not conclude that the +struggle would be continued in this way, and that a more violent blow, +a stronger proof than the others, would not open her eyes in spite of +herself. + +It only needed an imprudence, a carelessness on his part, and unluckily +he could no longer be relied on. + +From what he had just learned it would be easy to watch himself closely, +and to avoid dangerous subjects, those that she described to him; but if +he could guard his words and looks during the day, neither saying nor +letting anything appear that was an accusation, not confirming the +suspicions against which she struggled, he could not do it at night. + +He had not talked, and when she answered negatively to his question, she +lifted a terribly heavy weight from his heart. But he had groaned and +moaned, he had pronounced broken words without sense and unintelligible, +and there was the danger. + +What was necessary to make these sighs, these groans, these broken and +unintelligible words become distinct and take a meaning? A nothing, an +accident, since his real cerebral tendency placed him up to a certain +point in a somnambulistic state. Was this tendency congenital with him +or acquired? He did not know. Before the agitated nights after Madame +Dammauville's death and Florentin's condemnation, the idea had never +occurred to him that he might talk in his sleep. But now he had the +proof that the vague fears which had tormented him on this subject were +only too well founded; he had talked, and if the words that escaped were +not now comprehensible, they might become so. + +Without having made a special study of sleep, natural or induced, he knew +that in the case of natural somnambulists a hypnotic sleep is easily +produced, and that while holding a conversation with a subject who talks +in his sleep one may readily hypnotize him. Without doubt he need not +fear this from Phillis; but it was possible that some night when +incoherent words escaped him she would not be able to resist the +temptation to enter into a conversation with him, and to lead him to +confess what she wished to know--what the love that she felt for her +brother would drive her to wish to learn. + +If this opportunity presented itself, would the love for her brother or +for her husband carry her away? If she questioned him, what would he not +say? + +For the first time he asked himself if he had done right to marry, and +if, on the contrary, he had not committed a mad imprudence in introducing +a woman into a life so tormented as his. He had asked calmness from this +woman, and now she brought him terror. + +To tell the truth, she was dangerous only at night; and if he found a way +to occupy another room he would have nothing to fear from her during the +day, on condition that he held himself rigorously on the defensive. +Loving him as she did, she would resist the curiosity that drew her; if +uneasiness drove her, her love would restrain her, as she herself had +said; little by little this uneasiness and curiosity, being no longer +excited, would die out, and they would again enjoy the sweet days that +followed their marriage. + +But in the present circumstances this way was difficult to find, for to +propose another room to Phillis would be equal to telling her that he was +afraid of her, and consequently it would give her a new mystery to study. +He reflected, and starting with the idea that the proposition of two +rooms must come from Phillis, he arranged a plan which, it seemed to him, +would accomplish what he wished. + +Ignorant of the fact that she had been hypnotized, and not remembering +that she had talked, without doubt Phillis still feared that he would +hypnotize her; he would threaten it again, and surely she would find a +way to defend herself and escape from him. + +This is what happened. The next day, when he told her decidedly that he +wished to put her to sleep in order that he might learn what troubled +her, she showed the same fright as on the first time. + +"All that you have asked of me, everything that you have desired, I have +wished as you and with you; but I will never consent to this." + +"Your resistance is absurd; I will not yield to it." + +"You shall not put me to sleep against my will." + +"Easily." + +"It is not possible." + +Without replying, he took a book from the library, and turning over the +leaves, he read: "Is it possible to make a sleeping person, without +awaking him, pass from the natural to the hypnotic sleep? The thing is +possible, at least with certain subjects." + +Then handing her the book: + +"You see that to put you to sleep artificially I need only the +opportunity of finding you sleeping naturally. It is very simple." + +"That would be odious." + +"Those are merely words." + +He threw her into such a state of terror that she kept awake all night, +and as he would not sleep for fear of talking, he felt that she exerted +every faculty to keep awake. But had he not gone too far? And by this +threat would he not drive her to some desperate act? If she should +escape, if she deserted him--what would become of him without her? Was +she not his whole life? But he reassured himself by saying that she +loved him too much ever to consent to a separation. Without doubt, she +herself would come to think as he wished her to think. + +And yet when he returned home in the evening she told him that her mother +was not well, and begged him to examine her. This examination proved +that Madame Cormier was in her usual health; but she complained that her +breath failed her--during the day she had feared syncope. + +"If you are willing," Phillis said, "I will sleep near mamma. I am +afraid of not hearing her at night, and she is suffering." + +He began by refusing, then he consented to this arrangement; and to thank +him for it she stayed with him in his office, affectionate, full of +tenderness and caresses, until he went to his room. + +He was then free to sleep or not; whether he groaned or talked she could +not hear him, since there was no communicating door between his room and +that of his mother-in-law; his voice certainly would not penetrate the +partition. + +Who could have told him on the night that he decided to marry, that he +would come to such a pass--to be afraid, to hide himself from her who +brought him the calmness of sleep; and that by his fault, by a chain of +imprudences and stupidities, as if it were written that in everything he +would owe his sufferings to himself, and that if he ever succumbed to the +whirlwind that swept him along, it would be by his own deed, by his own +hand? At last he had assured the tranquillity of his nights, and as a +further precaution, although he did not fear that Phillis would enter his +room while he slept, to surprise him--she who dared not look in the face +what suspicion showed her--he locked his door. Naturally, Phillis could +not always sleep with her mother; but he would find a way to suggest +frankly their sleeping apart, and surely he could find one in the +storehouse of medicine. + +These cares and similar fears were not of a nature to dispose him to +sleep, and besides for a long time he had suffered from an exasperating +nervous insomnia. As the night was warm he thought a little fresh air +would calm him, and he opened the window; if this freshness did not calm +him, at least it would make him sleep. + +Obliged to improvise a bed in her mother's room, Phillis placed it +against the partition that separated her from her husband, but without +preconcerted intention, simply by accident, because it was the only place +where she could put the bed. A little after midnight an unusual noise +awoke her; she sat up to listen and to recover herself. It seemed as if +this noise came from her husband's room. Alarmed, she placed her ear +against the partition. She was not deceived; they were stifled groans, +moans that were repeated at short intervals. + +Carefully yet quickly she left her bed, and as the dawn was already +shining in the windows, she was able to leave the room without making any +noise. Reaching the door of her husband's room she listened; she was not +deceived; they were indeed groans, but louder and sadder than those she +had so often heard during the night. She tried the door, but it was +evidently locked on the inside. What was the matter with him? She must +know, must go to him, and give him relief. She thought of knocking, of +shaking the door; but as he did not reply when she tried to open it, it +was because he did not hear or did not wish to hear. Then she thought of +the terrace; from there she could see what happened, and if it were +necessary she would break a pane to enter. + +She found the window open and saw her husband on the bed, sleeping, his +head turned toward her; she stopped and asked herself if she should cross +the threshold and wake him. + +At this moment, with closed lips, he pronounced several words more +distinctly than those that had so many times escaped him: "Phillis-- +forgive." + +He dreamed of her. Poor, dear Victor! for what did he wish her to +pardon him? Doubtless for having threatened to hypnotize her: + +Overcome by this proof of love she put her head through the opening of +the window to give him a look before returning to her mother, but on +seeing his face in the full white light of the morning, she was +frightened; it expressed the most violent sorrow, the features convulsed +with anguish and horror at the same time. Surely he was ill. She must +wake him. just as she took a step toward him he began to speak: "Your +brother--or me?" + +She stopped as if thunderstruck, then instinctively she drew back and +clung to the window in the vestibule to keep herself from falling, +repeating those two words that she had just heard, not understanding, not +wishing to understand. + +Instead of returning to her mother, trembling and holding on to the wall +she entered the parlor and let herself fall into a chair, prostrated, +crushed. + +"Your brother--or me?" + +This was, then, the truth, the frightful truth that she had never wished +to see. + +She stayed there until the noises in the street warned her that it was +getting late, and she might be surprised. Then she returned to her +mother. + +"I am going out," she said; "I will return at half-past eight or nine +o'clock." + +"But your husband will not see you before going to the hospital." + +"You will tell him that I have gone out." + +She returned at half-past nine. Madame Cormier had finished dressing. + +"At last you have come," she said. + +But at sight of her daughter's face she saw that something had happened. +"My God! What is the matter?" she asked, trembling. + +"Something serious--very serious, but unfortunately it is irreparable. +We must leave here, never to return." + +"Your husband--" + +"You must never speak to me of him. This the only thing I ask of you." + +"Alas! I understand. It is what I foresaw, what I said would happen. +You cannot bear the contempt that he shows us on account of your +brother." + +"We must hereafter be strangers to each other, and this is why we leave +this house." + +"My God! At my age, to drag my bones--" + +"I have engaged a lodging at the Ternes; a wagon will come to take the +furniture that belongs to us, what we brought here, only that. We will +tell the concierge that we are going to the country. As for Josephine, +you need not fear indiscreet questions, for I have given her a day off." + +"But the money?" + +"I have two hundred francs from the sale of my last picture; that is +enough for the present. Before they are gone I shall have painted and +sold another; do not worry, we shall have all we need." + +All this was said in a hard but resolute tone. + +A ring of the bell interrupted them. It was the express wagon. + +"See that they do not take what does not belong to us," Phillis said. +"While they fill their wagon I will write in the parlor." + +At the end of an hour the wagon was ready. Madame Cormier entered the +parlor to tell her daughter. + +"I have finished," Phillis said. + +Having placed her letter in an envelope, she laid it in full view on +Saniel's desk. + +"Now let us go," she said. + +And as her mother sighed, while walking with difficulty + +"Lean on me, dear mamma, you know I am strong." + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +AFTER LONG YEARS + +Saniel did not return until quite late in the afternoon. When he opened +the door with his key he was surprised at not seeing his wife run to him +and kiss him. + +"She is painting," he said to himself, "she did not hear me." + +He passed into the parlor, convinced that he would find her at her easel; +but he did not see her, and the easel was not in its usual place, there +nor anywhere else. + +He knocked at the door of Madame Cormier's room; there was no reply; he +knocked louder a second time, and after waiting a moment he entered. The +room was empty; there was no bed, no furniture, no one. + +Stupefied, he looked around him, then returning to the vestibule he +called: "Phillis! Phillis!" + +There was no reply. He ran to the kitchen, no one was there; he went +into his office, no one there. But as he looked about him, he saw +Phillis's letter on his desk, and his heart leaped; he grasped it +eagerly, and opened it with a trembling hand. It was as follows: + + "I have gone, never to return. My despair and disgust of life are + such, that without my mother and the poor being who is so far away, + I should kill myself; but in spite of the horror of my position I + was obliged to reflect, and I do not wish to aggravate by folly the + wickedness that is going on about me. My mother is no longer young; + she is ill and has suffered cruelly. Not only do I owe it to her to + brighten her old age by my presence, by the material and moral + support that I can give her, but she must have faith that I am there + to replace her, and to open my arms to her son, to my brother. The + least that I can do for them is to wait courageously for him; and, + however weary, terrible, or frightful my life may be hereafter, I + shall bear it so that the unfortunate, the pariah, whom a pitiless + fate has pursued, will find on his return a hearth, a home, a + friend. This will be my only object, my reason for living; and in + order to save myself from sluggishness and weariness, my thoughts + will always be on the time when he will return, he whom I will call + my child, and whom my love must save and cure. I know that long + years separate me from that day, and that until it comes my broken + heart will never have a moment of repose; but I shall employ this + time in working for him, for the brother, for the child, for the + cherished being who will come to me aged and desperate; and I wish + that he may yet believe in something good, that he will not imagine + everything in this world is unjust and infamous, for he will return + to me weighed down by twenty years of shame, of degrading and + undeserved shame. How will he bear these twenty years? What + efforts must I not make to prove to him that he should not abandon + himself to despair, and that life often offers the remedy, + compassion to the most profound, to the most unjust human sorrows? + How can I make him believe that? How lead his poor heart, closed to + confidence, to feeling, to the tears that alone can relieve it? God + who has so sorely tried me, without doubt will come to my aid, and + will inspire me with words of consolation, will show me the path to + follow, and give me the strength to persevere. Have I not already + to thank Him for being alone in the world, outside of a mother and + brother who will not betray me? I have no children, and I am spared + the terror of seeing a soul growing in evil, an intelligence + escaping from me to follow the path of infamy or dishonor. I leave, + then, as I came. I was a poor girl, I go away a poor woman. I have + taken the clothing and personal effects that I brought into our + common home, nothing that was bought with your money; and I forbid + you to interfere with my wish in this question of material things, + as well as in my resolution to fly from you. Nothing can ever + reunite us; nothing shall reunite us, no consideration, no + necessity. I reject the past, this guilty past, the responsibility + of which weighs so heavily on my conscience, and I should like to + lose the memory of the detested time. It would be impossible for me + to accept the struggle, or supplications, if you think it expedient + to make any. I have cut our bonds, and hereafter we shall be as far + apart as if one of us were dead, or even farther. Have no scruples, + then, in leaving me alone to face a new life, a beginning that may + appear difficult to one not situated as I am. The trials of former + times were good for me, since they accustomed me to the difficulties + of work. The desolation of to-day will sustain me, in the sense + that having suffered all I can suffer, I no longer fear some + discouraging catastrophe that will check me in my resolutions. In + order not to compromise you, and more fully to become myself again, + I shall take my family name--a dishonored name--but I shall bear it + without shame. I shall live obscurely, absorbed in work and in + trying to forget your existence; do the same yourself. If you think + of the past, you will find, perhaps, that I am hard; yet this + departure is not an egotistic desertion. I am no good to you, and + the repose that you want would shun you hereafter in my presence. + On the contrary, strive for forgetfulness, as I shall. If you + contrive to wipe out of your life the part that is associated with + me, perhaps you will be able to banish the remainder, and to recover + some of the calm of other days. I can no longer remember that I + have loved you, for my position is such that I have not the refuge + of memory; at my age I must remain without a past as without a + future; the consolation of the unfortunate is lost to me with + everything else. I cannot rise out of my sorrow to try to find one + hour when life was sweet to me; those hours, on the contrary, make + me tremble, and I reproach myself for them as if they were a crime. + Thus, whichever way I turn, I find only sadness and sharp regrets; + everything is blighted, dishonored for me." + + +Standing in the middle of his office he read this hastily written letter +breathlessly. Arrived at the end he looked about him vaguely. His chair +was near his desk; he let himself fall into it and remained there +prostrated, holding the letter in his shaking hand. + +"Alone!" + +It was an October afternoon, dark and muddy; in the Rue des Saints-Peres, +in front of the houses that hide the Charity Hospital, coupes were +standing, and their long line extended to the Boulevard Saint-Germain, +where the coachmen, having left their seats, talked together like persons +who were accustomed to meet each other. At half-past four o'clock, in +the deepening twilight, men with grave looks and dark clothes--members of +the Academy of Medicine--the Tuesday sitting over, issued from the porch, +and entered their carriages. Some of them walked alone, briskly, in a +great hurry; others demonstrated a skilful tardiness, stopping to talk +politely to a journalist, and to give him notes of the day's meeting, +or continuing, with a 'confrere' who was not an Academician, the +conversation begun in the room of the 'pas-perdus'; it was the Bourse of +consultations that was just closed. Not all the members of the Academy +have, in truth, a long list of patients to visit; but each one has a vote +to give, and they are those whom the candidates surround, trying to win +them. + +One of the Academicians who appeared the last at the top of the steps was +a man of great height but bent figure, with hollow cheeks and pale face +lighted by pale blue eyes with a strange expression, both hard and +desolate at the same time. He advanced alone, and his heavy gait and +dragging step gave him the appearance of a man sixty years of age, while +in other ways he retained a certain youthfulness. It was Saniel, twenty +years older. + +Without exchanging a bow or a hand-shake with any one, he descended to +the pavement and walked to the boulevard, where he opened the door of a +coups whose interior showed a complete ambulant library--a writing table +with paper, ink, and lamp, pockets full of books and pamphlets. + +Just as he was about to enter, a voice stopped him. + +He turned; it was one of his old pupils, who had recently become a +physician in the suburb of Gentilly. + +"What is it?" asked Saniel. + +"I want to ask you to come and assist me in a curious case of spasms, +where your intervention may be decisive." + +"Where?" + +"At the Maison-Blanche, a poor woman. What day could you give me?" + +"Is it urgent?" + +"Yes." + +"In that case I will go at once. Give the address to my coachman, and +get in with me." + +But at this moment a white-haired man dressed in chestnut velvet, wearing +a felt hat and sabots, came toward them, accompanied by two young men +with whom he discoursed in a loud tone while gesticulating. People +turned to look at them, so original was the appearance of old Brigard, +the same man from head to foot that he had always been. + +He came to Saniel with outstretched hands, and Saniel, taking off his +hat, received him with marked respect. + +"Enchanted to meet you," Brigard said, "for I went to your office +yesterday and did not find you." + +"Why did you not send me word beforehand? If you need me I am at your +disposal." + +"Thanks, but happily I do not need your advice, neither for myself nor my +family; it was simply that I wished to see you. Arriving at your house +before your office hours, I waited in your reception-room and several +patients came after me--a young woman who appeared to suffer cruelly, an +old lady who was extremely anxious, and lastly a man who had some nervous +disease that would not permit him to sit still. And, looking at them, I +said to myself that as I was only making a friendly visit I would not +remain and prolong the waiting of these unfortunates who counted the +minutes, so I came away." + +"May I ask to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" + +The two young men who accompanied Brigard, and Saniel's old pupil +discreetly withdrew. + +"The desire to present you my congratulations. When I learned of your +candidature to the Academy of Medicine I said to myself: Here is one who +has no chance; friend Saniel has originality and force; he has succeeded +brilliantly; but these qualities are not exactly academic. I was +deceived. You have broken open the doors, which is the only way that I +understand of entering these places. That is why I congratulate you. +And, besides, I did you wrong formerly--" + +"Wrong? You?" + +"I accused you of believing yourself stronger than life; in truth you +were. My compliments!" + +After warmly pressing Saniel's hands, he went on his way with his two +disciples, preaching to them. + +The young doctor approached Saniel. + +"He is an original," he said. + +"A happy man!" was the only reply. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +He did not sleep, so much the better! He would work more +One does not judge those whom one loves +She could not bear contempt +The strong walk alone because they need no one +We are so unhappy that our souls are weak against joy +We weep, we do not complain + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Conscience, v4 +by Hector Malot + |